lumosflairr

[lumosflairr]

guys i start classes tmr☹️ I’m going to try and stay active as much as i can i promise!! :)

[lumosflairr]

𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 - 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑

summary: Ned surprises you and peter by signing you two up for a couples costume competition.

warnings: use of y/n [like 3-4 times]

word count: 3.5k

“I just thought it would be something cute and romantic for you two to do!”

Peter stared blankly across the cafeteria table, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, juice box clutched in a death grip.

“Couples costumes, Ned? Are you kidding me?”

Ned crossed his arms with a shrug, looking completely unbothered by Peter’s slow descent into panic. “It’s Halloween. You’re dating. There’s a contest. You’re welcome.”

Peter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face like he was trying to disappear. “You signed us up without asking.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind!” Ned defended, pushing his tray across the cafeteria table. “Y/N won’t. She’ll love it. And you—” he pointed a finger dramatically, “are whipped.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, closed it, then muttered, “That’s not the point…”

“Oh my God,” MJ deadpanned from across the table, not even looking up from her book. “You’ve been carrying her books to chemistry for two weeks straight, and you flinch when she looks at you like she might ask for a favor. You’re so whipped.”

“I—” Peter blinked. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Exactly,” Ned said proudly. “So just let her pick the costume, show up, and win the contest. Easy.”

Peter groaned and let his head fall to the table with a thud. “She’s gonna pick something ridiculous. I can feel it. I’m gonna end up in glitter tights or a corset or something.”

“Y’know,” MJ added with zero emotion, “the drama club has a full Shakespearean outfit that would fit you. Codpiece and all.”

Peter gave her an amused look and groaned. His hands ran down his face when suddenly his eyes met yours. You weaved through scattered tables as you made your way to his. You were wearing his favorite top of yours- a nice red long sleve and a pair of light washed jeans.

You plopped your tray down beside MJ, sitting directly in-front of peter and sat.

“Hey guys.” You greeted the three of them cheerfully, adjusting yourself in your seat. You looked at peter again, his face resting on his hands with his cheeks a lighter shade than usual.

You furrowed your brows at him. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“He’s being dramatic.” MJ spoke, her tone flat and honest.

“I am not—” Peter started, but Ned cut in with a grin way too smug for comfort.

“I may have… sort of… signed you guys up for the Halloween couples costume contest,” Ned blurted, clearly proud of himself.

Peter let out another loud groan, slumping further in his seat.

Your eyes widened. “Wait, you what?”

Ned raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, but hear me out! There’s a prize, and you two are literally the perfect couple for it. Everyone’s gonna vote for you anyway.”

You blinked, absorbing the news—and then your face lit up. “That’s actually so cute! I love that idea!”

“I knew you would! At least someone appreciates my favor.” Ned targetted his tone towards Peter as he raised his eyebrows at Peter and shot him a glare.

“Favor? Ned, I’m going to become a walking target at school!” Peter chimed in, his face full of embarrassment as he spiraled.

“I’m gonna end up looking like a total idiot. I’m gonna walk in and everyone’s gonna laugh and take pictures and it’s gonna end up on Flash’s story—”

“You’re already on his story like once a week, Penis Parker.” MJ muttered, not helping.

You laughed and grabbed peter’s hand, squeezing it in your own. “Pete, it’s gonna adorable. Come on, we’ve never done anything cheesy together like this and now we get to dress up and totally dominate the competition. Plus, you’ll have me with you. Flash can’t clown you when he doesn’t have a girlfriend of his own to do things like this with anyways.”

Peter sighed and squeezed your hand in return.. “Please please please dont put me in something glittery or anything that involves spandex. Or a tail. Or ears.”

You smirked at him. “No promises.”

“Y/N, I mean it!” Peter begged, eyes wide as he gave you a dramatic pout.

You let out a small chuckle at his reaction. “I’m joking, Pete. I already have a few ideas that dont involve glitter or spandex.”

Peter sighed at your comment, smiling at you. Suddenly, he then shot you another look.

“Or ears? Or tails?”

You smirked at him. “wellll….”

“Y/N!!”

The house was quieter than usual. Your parents were out for the evening, and your aunt—who had stayed for a while to help with your sewing—had just left after giving you a proud hug and reminding you to “press the seams before he tries it on.”

Your room was warm with golden light, the late afternoon sun spilling in through the window. The final touches of the costumes were hanging behind your closet door in a long black garment bag. You kept glancing at it, nerves and excitement mixing in your chest.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Peter.

“I’m Outside ❤️”

You smiled at the message and ran downstairs, making your way to the front door to open it. When you opened the front door, Peter was standing there in his hoodie and jeans, hands in his pockets, biting back a nervous smile.

“Hey,” he said softly, looking at you like you were the only person on the planet.

“Hi,” you replied, stepping aside. “Come in, skywalker.”

Peter gave a mock salute and walked inside, pulling off his hoodie as he shut the door. You both made your way upstairs as he glanced around. “It’s weird seeing your house this quiet.”

“They cleared out for us,” you joked, nudging him with your shoulder as you both made your way to your room.

The moment your door closed behind him, Peter turned to face you—and you barely had time to say anything before he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into a kiss.

It was soft at first, slow and familiar, his lips brushing yours like he wasn’t in any hurry to let go. His hands settled lightly at your sides, and he tilted his head slightly as he deepened it, smiling just a little against your mouth.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed. “Hi again.”

You laughed, brushing your nose against his. “You’re such a sap.”

“Can you blame me?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours like he was already head-over-heels and still falling. “You kiss like you’re trying to kill me.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, and stepped back toward your desk. “Alright, Romeo. Ready to see what we’re wearing?”

Peter blinked and let out and audible gulp, which you laughed at.

“It’s not even bad, Pete. You’ll love it I promise.”

“I hope so..” He mumbled under his breathe as you went to grab the bag.

“Sit down and close your eyes.”

Peter raised both eyebrows. “You’re not even going to warn me first?”

You gave him a look.

With an exaggerated groan, he flopped onto the edge of your bed. “Fine. But if this ends with me in anything with ears, we’re breaking up.”

“You love me to much and you know it. Now hush.”

Peter huffed but obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut.

You grabbed the hangers from the closet, carefully sliding the bag off, your heart fluttering a little as you walked back over.

“Okay,” you said, smile tugging at your lips. “Open.”

Peter cracked one eye open, then both—and his mouth slowly dropped open.

Hanging in front of him were two perfectly handmade Star Wars costumes: one, a detailed Jedi tunic complete with wraps, a faux leather belt, dark robe, and boots. The other, a dreamy and beautifully made version of Padmé Amidala’s outfit—white and silver with flowing fabric and subtle shimmer.

Peter stared in stunned silence. “Is that - Anakin and Padmé?”

You nodded. “Told you no glitter.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between the costumes and you, his heart beating out of his chest. “You made these?”

“Well… not all on my own. My aunt helped sew everything together, but I did the design. I found the belt pieces online, did the stitching for the wraps, and made a lightsaber clip for your belt. I figured you’d like it more than something generic.”

Peter blinked, still looking completely awe-struck. “You made me a Jedi. You made us Anakin and Padmé.”

You smiled. “I know how much you love Star Wars. Thought I’d give you a reason to show it off in public without being embarrassed.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Then finally stepped forward, gently set the costume down on your desk… and kissed you.

It was less soft this time—more full of feeling, like he was trying to say thank you without words. When he pulled back, he just looked at you, eyes full of warmth.

“I love it,” he said softly. “I love you.”

You smiled up at him, heart full. “Even without glitter?”

“Especially without glitter,” he teased, pressing his forehead against yours. “Though… I’d wear anything if you made it for me.”

You smirked. “Even ears and a tail?”

Peter playfully rolled his eyes. “You had to ruin the moment.”

You laughed at his comment as he held his Anakin costume in front of himself and faced towards the mirror. “I’m gonna look so cool,” he muttered, grinning.

You walked behind him and wrapped your arms around his torso, standing on your tip toes to press a kiss to his neck as you let out a whisper. “You always do.”

The gym at Midtown was barely recognizable.

Orange and purple string lights draped the ceiling, fake cobwebs clung to the corners, and jack-o’-lanterns with glowing LED eyes lined the stage. The school had actually tried this year—there was a fog machine going wild in the corner, a photo booth decorated like a graveyard, and the DJ was mixing in spooky sound effects with throwback hits that somehow made it all work.

You and Peter hovered just outside the gym doors, each holding your costume bags, dressed head to toe but waiting for your moment to step in. Your heart thumped with anticipation, but Peter looked like he was about to short-circuit from nerves.

“You ready?” you asked, adjusting your belt and brushing invisible lint from your Padmé costume.

Peter glanced at your outfit—then did a double take. “You look… amazing,” he mumbled, a little breathless.

You smiled. “Thanks, Skywalker.”

Peter peered into the gym, already overwhelmed by the flashing lights and fog machine going full throttle. “Okay, is the fog supposed to smell like feet?”

You snorted. “That’s just the football team.”

Peter grimaced. “Truly terrifying. Happy Halloween to me.”

The second you stepped through the gym doors, it was like the volume doubled. Heads turned immediately—some students actually stopped dancing to watch you walk in. One of the juniors by the snack table straight up pointed and shouted:

“Yo! That’s Anakin and Padmé! That’s so sick!”

A ripple of chatter followed. People pulled out their phones, snapping pics, complimenting your detail work, and asking if you had your costumes commissioned.

You and Peter exchanged a look, eyes wide, but you both smiled—because yeah, this was a moment.

Ned jogged over, practically bouncing in his homemade elf costume (complete with a duct-tape sword), and MJ followed behind in a black hoodie that said “this is my costume” in plain white letters.

“I told you guys,” Ned said, eyes wide as he looked you both over. “You look insane. This is, like, fan film level.”

MJ gave a small nod. “Okay, I’ll admit it. You don’t look completely ridiculous.”

Peter turned to you, smiling like he was just now letting himself enjoy the attention. “This is actually kinda awesome.”

“Told you,” you said, nudging him.

“Wow. Someone clearly had way too much free time.”

Peter rolled his eyes and turned around to see Flash. He swaggered over in a half-baked pirate costume—plastic sword, fake gold chain, and eyeliner that looked like he gave up halfway through. His shirt was untucked, and his bandana was slipping off his head like even it didn’t want to be part of this look.

You shot him a dirty look. “Good evening to you too, Captain Crunch.”

Flash scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying, everyone’s acting like you two walked off a movie set. It’s not that impressive.”

Peter poked his tongue in the side of his cheek, a smirk growing on his face with his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know, Flash,” he said coolly, adjusting the belt on his tunic with just enough flair to make it look better than it had any right to. “I don’t see your girlfriend making you a custom costume to match yours…”

He paused, let it hang in the air—just long enough to sting.

“…Oh wait. You don’t have one.”

Ned made a quiet explosion sound with his mouth. “Boom.”

MJ raised her cup and raised her eyebrows while you tried not to burst into laughter at Peter’s comment and sudden boldness.

Flash opened his mouth, clearly scrambling for something to say—then closed it again. His jaw flexed, but he just sniffed and muttered, “Whatever,” before turning on his heel and disappearing into the fog machine haze.

Peter turned back to you like nothing had happened. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grinned. “Dangerously polite Peter might be my favorite version.”

He smirked. “Use your powers for good, not petty.”

“Can’t relate.”

The rest of the night passed in a flurry of dancing, compliments, and awkward slow songs. You and Peter took a few photos in the graveyard-themed photo booth—one serious, one funny, and one where Peter kissed your cheek and you were definitely blushing.

At one point, Peter leaned in and said softly, “I don’t know how you pulled this off, but this is hands-down my favorite Halloween ever.”

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment. “That was the plan.”

The DJ paused the music and tapped the microphone, his voice cutting through the chatter and dim lighting. “Alright, everyone! It’s time to find out who’s taking home the prize for Midtown’s 2025 Halloween Costume Contest!”

A drumroll began to play over the speakers, building tension as eyes turned toward the stage and whispers filled the room.

After what felt like forever, the DJ grinned and announced clearly, “And the winners, by unanimous vote… Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala!”

Cheers erupted instantly as you and Peter shared a stunned look.

Peter looked at you, wide-eyed. “Wait—we won?!”

“Obviously,” you laughed, dragging him toward the stage by the hand. You were handed a hilariously cheap trophy, a pair of $25 gift cards, and—maybe best of all—eternal bragging rights.

Off to the side, you caught a glimpse of Flash near the punch table. He watched you both with an unreadable expression, then muttered something to the guy next to him. You couldn’t hear it clearly, but it sounded like:

“…Okay. It was kinda cool.”

The party came to an end after what felt like only seconds. The gym had finally emptied out, the music cut off mid–Monster Mash, and the fog machine was put out of its misery. You and Peter stepped outside into the cool night air, the soft buzz of leftover laughter and costume rustling fading behind you.

Ned and MJ trailed close behind. “Well,” MJ said flatly, arms crossed over her hoodie, “that was loud, overcrowded, and mildly tolerable.”

“I had a great time,” Ned beamed, adjusting his cape. “I mean, we witnessed history. You guys crushed it. Flash is probably still crying into his pirate wig.”

You laughed. Peter grinned.

“You guys heading out?” you asked.

MJ nodded. “Ned’s mom’s picking us up. She made apple cider and, quote, ‘wants the full gossip.’ So that should be a ride.”

“Tell her we say hi,” Peter said.

“And thank her for raising a man brave enough to wear elf ears in public,” you added.

Ned held up two fingers in a peace sign. “Would wear them again.”

After a round of quick hugs, MJ and Ned waved and crossed the lot, disappearing into the glow of approaching headlights. You and Peter were left standing near the curb, bathed in the soft orange halo of a streetlamp, the air quiet and cool now that the crowd had gone.

Peter shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robe and let out a breath, the kind that meant he didn’t want the night to end yet.

“So…” you said, rocking slightly on your heels. “Did we win Halloween?”

Peter looked at you for a long moment. “Yeah. But not because of the costume.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

He took a small step closer, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It was you. You made it the best night. I mean, the lightsaber helps—but still.”

You felt your cheeks flush under the glow of the streetlight. “You’re just saying that because I kissed you in front of the entire junior and senior class.”

“I’m saying that because you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said without hesitation, then immediately looked down like the words had slipped out faster than intended. “And also the coolest. And weirdest. In a good way. Obviously.”

Your breath caught in your throat, smile threatening to break out fully.

Before you could say anything, Peter leaned forward and kissed you. It wasn’t rushed, or showy, or dipped in leftover party adrenaline—it was warm and soft, sweet and sure. The kind of kiss that said thank you for tonight, and I like you more than I know how to say, and maybe even this could be it. This could be everything.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling like he couldn’t help it.

“I love you, like… way more than I should be allowed to.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “That’s okay. I think you’ve earned it.”

A car horn gave a soft beep beep nearby, and you both turned to see Aunt May pulling up to the curb, waving from behind the wheel.

Peter groaned under his breath. “Timing, as always.”

You both grabbed your bags and costume pieces, heading toward the car.

As Peter opened the door for you, he leaned in close and whispered, “Next year, I’m picking the costumes. Just so you know.”

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. “That’ll be the day.”

May raised an eyebrow as you both climbed in. “So… who’s ready to tell me why my nephew looks like an Obi-Wan?”

Peter grinned. “Long story. But we won.”

May smiled. “That’s my boy.”

As the car pulled away from the curb, Peter’s hand found yours again, quiet and steady, and you leaned your head on his shoulder, both of you still glowing with the kind of magic only a perfect night can leave behind.

[lumosflairr]

Coffee Stains & Camera Lenses

summary: You’re a barista at a local coffee shop with college dreams—until Peter Parker and his daily coffee order become the best part of your shift. But when Spider-Man saves your life one night, you start to realize the boy you’ve been falling for might be hiding more than just a secret crush.

word count: 4.6k words

warnings: none!

taglist: @shadesofcoolxo @plumbum4 @iluvhrj @canz4dayz @imnotgabrielle

The coffee shop wasn’t glamorous—just a tucked-away corner place on 15th and Delancey with chipped brick walls and an awning that never quite stayed straight when it rained. But it was comfortable. Warm. Familiar in the way only a local shop can be. It smelled like roasted espresso beans and old books, with a record player that clicked to life on slow mornings and a radio that always played just a little too loud during the afternoon rush.

You hadn’t meant to fall into the job, not really. But college savings didn’t build themselves, and while your parents swore up and down that they’d help where they could, you could see the tiredness in their eyes every time tuition got brought up. So when you spotted the faded Help Wanted sign in the shop window one afternoon—half-curled at the corners and nearly hidden behind a row of hanging succulents—you stepped inside and filled out an application without overthinking it.

Now, six months in, you knew how to twist the grinder without jamming it, how to steam milk just enough without burning your hand, and which regulars hated foam. Your apron had a permanent smudge near the waist where you wiped your fingers, and your sneakers always smelled faintly of vanilla syrup. It wasn’t a glamorous gig, but it was yours—and it grounded you in a way that nothing else had lately.

He came in every weekday at 3:47 PM.

You started noticing the time after the third or fourth day. It was always the same rhythm—the clang of the bell above the door, the slight hesitation in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he belonged there, and then the quiet shuffle to the counter. Peter Parker. You didn’t know his name at first, of course. He was just the camera boy—tall and scruffy, with messy brown curls that always looked a little windswept and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. The strap was worn thin at the edges. Sometimes, you’d catch him adjusting it like it was digging into his ribs, wincing slightly like it hurt more than it should’ve.

He always ordered the same thing. Medium hazelnut latte, no whipped cream. Extra napkins.

The first few times he came in, you thought he was just shy. He barely spoke, just mumbled his order and fished out a few crumpled bills from his jacket pocket. But the more he returned, the more you started to notice the little things. His fingers, for one. Always ink-stained or dusted faintly with charcoal. His hands moved like someone used to fiddling with things—tapping against his thigh, adjusting his camera strap, thumbing the lid of his cup without drinking from it.

And the camera—it was always there. Old, vintage. Probably film, judging by the way he handled it so carefully, like it might fall apart if jostled too hard. He never let anyone else near it. It hung off his shoulder like a second limb, the lens always capped, tucked against his side like a secret.

What really caught your attention, though, were the bruises.

Not the obvious kind—nothing that screamed fight club or back alley brawl. No, Peter’s bruises were quieter. A faint smudge of blue on the edge of his jaw one week. A bandaid stretched across two knuckles the next. Once, you swore he flinched when you handed him his drink and your fingers brushed, like his wrist hurt beneath the sleeve of his hoodie.

It wasn’t any of your business. You told yourself that a lot.

Still, it didn’t stop you from looking up when the door chimed. From watching him out of the corner of your eye as he sat in the back corner, sometimes flipping through a notebook with loose sketches and formulas scribbled in the margins, sometimes just… staring out the window. Always alone.

After a couple of weeks—and several cups of hazelnut latte later—you realized you couldn’t just watch anymore. The little rituals, the quiet hesitations, the way he seemed both so present and miles away at the same time—it pulled at something inside you. So one slow afternoon, when the lull settled in and the usual afternoon rush hadn’t yet arrived, you wiped your hands on your apron, took a steadying breath, and crossed the shop to where he sat.

His gaze lifted in surprise as you slid into the seat opposite him before he could protest or shy away. You caught the brief flicker of confusion in his eyes, and it made you smile. “Hey,” you said, voice light, trying to sound casual but secretly hoping it wasn’t as awkward as it felt. “You do realize you order the exact same thing every single day, right? I was seriously considering going to the manager and asking if we could name the drink after you. ‘The Parker Special.’ Sounds kind of fancy, don’t you think?”

Peter blinked, a little stunned, and then a soft chuckle escaped him. It was the kind of laugh that was shy but genuine, like a secret he wanted to share but wasn’t quite ready to. “I guess I’m kind of predictable,” he admitted, brushing a curl away from his forehead in that nervous way he had.

You leaned back, crossing your arms on the table, letting your smile deepen. “Hey, predictable’s not the worst thing in the world. Beats the guy in the corner who orders a triple espresso with no sugar every day and then acts like he’s about to collapse any second now.” You nodded toward the man, who was frantically tapping on his phone, looking far too stressed for a mid-afternoon caffeine fix.

Peter’s eyes followed your glance, and you noticed the way his lips curled up just a little more, a hint of amusement sparking behind his usual reserve. It felt like a small bridge had been built between you—unexpected and fragile but real.

“So,” you said, biting your lip to hide your nerves, “what’s with the camera? You’re always so careful with it. Like it’s the most valuable thing in the world.”

He glanced down at the battered leather strap wrapped around his shoulder, fingers unconsciously adjusting it. “It’s… important,” he said softly, eyes flickering up to meet yours before darting away. “I like to capture things. Moments that don’t last. It’s kind of how I make sense of the world.”

You nodded, feeling that quiet intensity from him—the weight of something unspoken. “I get that. I love taking pictures too. Not with fancy cameras, just… whatever I can get my hands on. It’s like freezing time. Holding on to the small stuff.”

For the first time, you saw Peter’s eyes soften, the walls around him crack just a little.

He looked at you, eyes searching, and then shrugged with a small, shy smile. “I guess that’s why I get a little obsessed with it. Especially when everything else feels… messy.”

You hesitated, then decided to be a little braver. “Messy how?”

Peter glanced away, voice dropping a bit. “You ever have days where everything you try just falls apart? Like no matter what you do, it’s never quite right?”

You nodded. “More times than I can count. Especially with school, or… life stuff.”

He gave a tired laugh. “Yeah. Sometimes I forget to eat or even clean because I’m so caught up in trying to fix everything.”

“That sounds rough.” You reached out, fingers lightly brushing the edge of his cup. “You should remind yourself to take breaks. To breathe.”

Peter glanced down at his latte and half-smiled. “Maybe you should start leaving notes on my cups,” he said quietly, a flicker of hope hiding beneath the words. “Like reminders.”

Your heart thudded—loud enough, you were sure, that he could hear it. You reached into the pocket of your apron without hesitation, pulling out a sharpie you always kept tucked away for moments just like this. Your fingers moved almost of their own accord as you doodled gently on the cup, writing “Keep going, you’re doing great” with a small, crooked heart underneath.

You set the cup back down in front of him, the smile on your lips warm and genuine. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Peter’s cheeks flushed a rich shade of red, and for a moment, he looked like he might forget how to speak entirely. Then, in a rush of words and nervous laughter, he said, “Yeah… yeah, yeah. See you.”

You watched him gather his things, his smile lingering just a little longer than it should’ve. And just like that, the quiet boy with the camera who had always seemed so far away started to feel a little less alone—and maybe, just maybe, a little more like someone you wanted to know.

From that day on, something shifted.

Peter started showing up earlier, lingering longer. Sometimes he’d pretend to be editing photos, other times he’d sit with his fingers curled around his warm paper cup, just talking to you whenever you had a spare second. The banter came easy—light teasing about how you made his drink better than anyone else, or how you always had a sharpie ready in your apron like you were planning your next attack.

You teased him back just as easily, rolling your eyes when he claimed you must be psychic for always remembering his order, or joking that you should start charging him extra for all the emotional support.

The flirtation hung in the air like steam off a freshly brewed latte. Soft, steady, and undeniably there.

You hadn’t meant to get attached—he was just a customer, a quiet boy with a camera and too much weight behind his eyes—but there was something about the way he listened. The way he always noticed when you looked tired. The way he smiled when you laughed, like he wanted to bottle the sound and keep it.

So when the schedule came out and you noticed you had a Friday night closing shift all to yourself, you didn’t really mind. You’d picked up the extra hours voluntarily, hoping to add a little more to your savings. The store had long emptied out, the last customer having left nearly half an hour ago. You swept the floor in peaceful silence, soft indie music still humming through the speaker overhead, the coffee machines cleaned and quiet behind the counter.

By the time you locked the front door and tugged your coat tighter around yourself, the streets were nearly empty—just the occasional flicker of a car’s headlights and the distant blare of a horn. The streetlights cast warm pools of light on the wet pavement, each step echoing slightly louder than the last.

You cut through the alley beside the shop—an old shortcut you'd taken a hundred times before. The narrow space was damp with city residue and lit only faintly by the glow bleeding in from the street. You’d barely reached the halfway point when that feeling settled in.

Heavy. Icy. Prickling across the back of your neck.

Like you were being watched.

You slowed, boots scraping the pavement. You turned slightly—nothing. Just shadows and the hum of a flickering lamp overhead. Still, your grip on your bag tightened instinctively. You picked up your pace.

Then—

A sharp tug.

Your body jolted sideways as someone yanked hard on your bag. Your feet slipped slightly on the damp concrete, breath catching in your throat as you twisted around to see a man—hood up, face half-shadowed—trying to rip your purse free from your hands.

“Let go!” he barked, voice low and angry, fingers like iron on the strap.

“No!” you shouted, struggling, your voice bouncing harshly off the brick walls. You gritted your teeth, yanking back hard, but the adrenaline wasn’t enough. He was stronger. He was winning.

Then—fwip.

A sharp noise, like a cable snapping through the air.

The mugger’s hands suddenly jerked upward, glued to the wall behind him by thick white webbing. He let out a stunned curse as he thrashed, now helplessly tangled.

You stumbled back, breathing hard, as a new figure dropped down between you and the wall with a heavy thud.

Red and blue.

The lenses on the mask flicked as he turned toward you. Spider-Man straightened up slowly, one hand still raised, web-shooter ready in case the guy tried something.

You blinked, heart racing, chest heaving. “I—he—thank you.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just turned slightly and picked up your bag from where it had fallen, brushing it off before offering it back to you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low. Soft. Careful.

And familiar.

Your fingers closed around the strap, but you didn’t let go of his arm just yet. You’d reached out instinctively, steadying yourself as the adrenaline caught up with your limbs, and your hand now rested against the firm line of his suit. Your breath hitched.

That voice.

The way he tilted his head when he spoke.

The hesitation in his tone, like he was debating saying more but thinking better of it.

It sounded like Peter.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just swallowed hard, gave a small nod, and whispered, “Thank you.”

He lingered for half a second longer—like he wanted to make sure you were really okay—then gave a small nod.

“Be safe,” he said gently.

And just like that, he shot upward into the night, vanishing into the rooftops above with the flick of a web.

You stood there in the quiet alley, heart pounding, bag clutched tightly against your chest. For a long time, you didn’t move. The faint sound of traffic hummed in the distance, and the wind had picked up just enough to make the loose streetlamp wires overhead whistle softly. But all you could hear was his voice.

“Be safe.”

That voice. It didn’t just echo—it looped, over and over, each time triggering a deeper ache in your chest. You closed your eyes, trying to shake the surreal feeling crawling beneath your skin. But the moment kept playing itself again and again.

The way he looked at you. The way his body shifted slightly when you touched his arm. The hesitation in his response. The fact that he didn’t just vanish like some mysterious superhero in the night—he lingered. Like he wanted to say more. Like he knew you.

And God, his voice…

You’d heard it before. Not from behind a mask, not wrapped in adrenaline and moonlight, but across the café counter with a shy smile and soft jokes. You’d heard it every time Peter Parker came in after school, dragging his feet, dark circles under his eyes, but still managing to ask how you were doing before placing his order.

That soft-spoken warmth.

That little nervous lilt when he wasn’t sure if he was saying the right thing.

The gentle way he always said goodbye—“See you tomorrow,” like he meant it.

Your brain couldn’t stop circling around it. The voice. The way he held himself. The slight limp in his left leg when he turned to go. All of it—all of it—was Peter.

You weren’t sure when you made it home. The night blurred after that. You barely remembered locking the door behind you or tugging your coat off, fingers still trembling. You tried sleeping, but your body wouldn’t let you. You just laid in bed with your thoughts clawing at your ribs, every part of you buzzing with something restless and loud.

By morning, you were running on autopilot.

The coffee shop smelled like hazelnut and dark roast, just like always. The faint sound of grinding beans and indie folk music played softly from the speakers as the city came back to life just outside the windows. You moved on muscle memory alone—checking filters, refilling syrups, wiping down the counter—every task a distraction you welcomed.

But your eyes kept flicking to the door.

He always came in around 8:30. Sometimes a little earlier if the trains were good. You told yourself you weren’t waiting. That you were just observing the pattern.

Still… your breath caught when the bell above the door finally chimed.

Peter stepped inside with his usual camera bag slung across one shoulder and his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered, and the collar of his sweatshirt was pulled a little higher than normal.

He looked tired.

More than tired. He looked worn.

There was a strange stiffness in the way he moved, like he was trying to hide it. He held himself like he’d slept on concrete—or hadn’t slept at all. And when he finally stepped up to the counter and lifted his head to greet you, you saw it.

A bruise.

Deep purple and blue, stretching just beneath his jawline and fading into his neck.

Your stomach twisted.

“Morning,” Peter said, voice just a little hoarse.

You raised a brow, already pouring his drink without asking. “You look like you got into a fight with a truck.”

He huffed out a breath, trying to play it off with a crooked grin. “Skateboard.”

Your brow furrowed. “A skateboard?”

Peter nodded quickly, shifting on his feet. “Yeah. Took a turn too fast. Hit a curb. Then a pole.” He gestured vaguely with his hand, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Or maybe it was a trash can. Honestly, it’s all a blur.”

You stared at him.

Then glanced at the bruise again. It was the kind of mark that looked like it hurt—not a scrape or a scuff from falling off a skateboard, but a blow from something solid, something sharp.

“I assumed that kind of impact would leave a scar,” you said slowly, tilting your head just enough to make your suspicion clear. “Not just a bruise.”

Peter blinked.

Froze.

And then—he started stammering. “Oh—I mean, yeah. But it’s not that deep. Just looks bad. I bounced, you know? Rolled. Classic cartoon fall.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

He laughed nervously. “I’m basically indestructible.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed him his drink slowly, your fingers brushing his. “If you say so.”

Peter cleared his throat and mumbled a thanks, then shuffled off to his usual seat by the window. You watched him go, watched the way his steps were careful, like he was nursing more injuries than he was letting on.

He sat down and opened his laptop like always, but his leg was bouncing under the table—fast, uneven. Nervous energy.

You tapped your fingers against the counter thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Then you pulled the sharpie from your apron pocket.

"Try not to fall off your skateboard again, hero.” You added a little heart next to the word hero, then drew a tiny stick figure falling dramatically off a board—complete with motion lines and a comically oversized bruise on the stickman’s neck.

Walking over, you placed the cup gently on his table.

Peter looked up, startled. He hadn’t even noticed you approaching. His eyes darted from your face to the cup—and then to the note.

His cheeks flushed instantly, and he pulled the cup closer like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

You smiled softly, head tilted.

“I mean, someone’s gotta keep you in check,” you said casually. “Might as well be me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “Thanks.”

You turned to leave, but paused just before walking away. Over your shoulder, you added, “Maybe next time, don’t go flying off rooftops—or curbs. Your choice.”

You didn’t look back to see his reaction, but you heard the quiet cough he tried to disguise as a laugh.

And you couldn’t help but smile.

Because you were almost sure now.

And maybe he knew that too.

The rest of your shift passed in a quiet blur. The usual afternoon rush faded into a soft lull, the kind that always settled around golden hour. Long shadows stretched across the floor as the sun dipped between buildings outside, staining the windows in hues of amber and rose. You wiped down the counter for what had to be the third time just to keep your hands busy, eyes flicking occasionally toward the clock, then the door.

You weren’t expecting him back so soon.

Peter stepped in with his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair messily windblown, and a look on his face that could only be described as hopeful. He hadn’t bothered with his camera bag this time — just his backpack, slung carelessly over one shoulder. His eyes scanned the room like he was searching for something, and when he found you behind the counter, that soft smile spread across his face like instinct.

You leaned forward against the bar, smirking.

“Back so soon?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d risk another tragic skateboard accident.”

Peter laughed, walking up to the counter. “Figured I’d tempt fate. See how many bruises I can collect before someone stages an intervention.”

You gave him a slow once-over, playful. “Well, I’m happy to report no new injuries. No black eyes, no limping, and your head’s still attached, so I’d say you’re winning.”

He grinned. “Small victories.”

“Mm,” you hummed, leaning on your elbows. “I was starting to think I’d have to bubble-wrap you.”

Peter tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Kinda sounds like you care.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as your fingers toyed with the edge of your apron. “Maybe I just don’t want to have to learn how to spell your last name for the obituary.”

He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “Ouch.”

You grinned.

The air between you was easy—effortless. Teasing had become your shared language, a rhythm you both seemed to fall into without trying. And yet, tonight, there was something underneath it. Something softer. Slower. Like the kind of tension that settles in the space between two people who are almost something.

“So,” you said, straightening slightly, “since you survived your death-defying trick of the day, can I tempt you with a reward? On the house.”

Peter blinked. “Wait—really?”

You nodded. “Anything you want. Just don’t say green tea. I might judge you a little.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As much as I’d love to bankrupt your place one free drink at a time, I’m good. I appreciate it, though.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “What, afraid of charity?”

“Afraid of becoming dependent,” he said, with that lopsided smile of his. “One free cup, and next thing you know I’m showing up every hour like a caffeine-hungry stray.”

You leaned closer. “Who says I’d mind?”

That shut him up for a beat.

Peter’s ears turned pink—noticeably so—and he looked down at the counter like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in New York.

You tried not to smile too smugly.

“Tell you what,” he said after a second, clearing his throat. “You can keep the free drink offer in your back pocket. I’ll cash it in when you least expect it.”

You rested your chin on your hand, playful. “I’m holding you to that.”

Peter looked around, then back at you. “Place’s kinda empty.”

You nodded. “Slower evenings are common during the week. Not a lot of business after six unless there’s rain or people who forgot to eat lunch.”

He hesitated, shifting on his feet. “You uh… mind if I stick around? I mean—I don’t wanna bother you, but—”

“Peter,” you interrupted with a soft smile, “you never bother me.”

He blinked at you like he was still learning how to process kindness when it came in your voice.

You motioned toward the stools on the other side of the counter. “C’mon. Sit. Keep me company.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

Peter slid onto the stool across from you, resting his arms on the polished wood. His sleeves were rolled just enough to reveal the fading outlines of bruises along his forearm—more proof he definitely hadn’t wiped out on a skateboard. You caught the detail, but said nothing. Not tonight.

“So,” he said, voice lighter now, “what’s your policy on telling regular customers your deepest, darkest secrets?”

You grinned. “Pretty lax, as long as you promise to keep mine too.”

“Deal.”

And so you talked.

About nothing and everything.

Classes. Bad professors. Terrible coffee customers. Your favorite movies growing up. Peter admitted, with a sheepish grin, that he once cried at Finding Nemo, and you told him about your childhood obsession with cameras, which led to a deeper conversation about photography and how he got into it because “sometimes you see things other people don’t, and you just wanna capture that before it disappears.”

And with every word, every laugh, every quiet glance across the countertop, that invisible thread between you pulled tighter.

He smiled at you like you were a warm patch of sunlight in the middle of his storm. And you looked at him like he was a puzzle you were dying to solve.

There was something in the way he tilted his head when he listened to you, the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of his cup when you spoke, that made it hard not to stare. His eyes were so expressive. Big, brown, thoughtful. Always watching. Always seeing.

At one point, you reached over without thinking and gently tugged a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve. Your fingertips brushed his wrist for just a second—soft and accidental.

But he felt it.

You both did.

Peter froze, breath hitching slightly, gaze flicking from your hand to your eyes. And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Just silence.

And electricity.

“I should probably… uh,” he gestured vaguely toward the door, voice a little rough, “head out. School night.”

You nodded slowly, still watching him. “Don’t forget to look both ways when you cross the street. I hear skateboards are vicious.”

He snorted. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

Peter stood, still smiling, still flushed. He pulled his backpack over one shoulder, then paused.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, um…”

You tilted your head, curious.

Peter looked down for a second, like his next words needed rehearsing. His brows furrowed slightly. “Okay, so—this might sound… I don’t know, totally out of nowhere, but I’ve kind of been thinking about it for a while now, and I figured—well, maybe—I mean, if you’re not busy—”

You blinked, smile slowly tugging at your lips. “Peter.”

He froze. “Yeah?”

You gave him a gentle nudge with your voice. “Breathe.”

He huffed out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Right. Sorry. Just—okay.” He glanced back up at you, sincerity written all over his face. “There’s this little Italian place a few blocks from here. Kind of hidden. Not fancy or anything, but it’s cozy. I was wondering if maybe… you’d want to go with me? For dinner. Like a… date.”

Your heart fluttered, warmth blooming behind your ribs at the way he looked at you—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hope.

You didn’t make him wait long.

“I’d love to.”

His whole face lit up, relief crashing into surprise like a sunbeam cracking through clouds.

“Wait, really?” he said, smiling so wide it made you smile wider. “Like—you would? With me?”

You leaned on the counter a little, pretending to think. “Well… I do have a thing for guys who nearly get run over by their own skateboards.”

He laughed, cheeks rosy. “Okay, that’s fair. I earned that one.”

“I’m free Friday,” you offered. “That work?”

He nodded immediately. “Friday’s perfect.”

You watched him fumble for his phone, clearly buzzing with nerves and excitement as he opened his notes app and typed something quickly—probably a reminder for himself so he wouldn’t explode with anticipation and forget.

“Looking forward to it,” you said, voice a little softer now.

Peter’s eyes met yours again—earnest, golden brown, and lit up with something that felt like the beginning of everything.

“Yeah,” he said, clutching his cup a little tighter. “Me too.”

He turned and headed for the door, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before slipping out into the night, your name practically written in the way he smiled.

And you stood there for a moment longer than usual, just watching the door.

Still smiling.

hat smile stayed with you all week.

It clung to the corners of your lips in the quiet moments—folding napkins at work, brushing your teeth, falling asleep with your phone tucked under your pillow like you were seventeen again.

By Friday, you were practically humming with nerves.

You started getting ready around five, heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. Peter had texted you earlier that afternoon, a sweet little message confirming, “6:30? I’ll swing by. You send me the address?” And you had. With a heart emoji you debated for a solid minute before sending.

The outfit was simple, but you felt good in it—confident. A fitted red long-sleeve top that made your skin glow, a sleek black skirt that hit just right, and your favorite pair of Mary Janes to finish it off. You even spent a little extra time on your makeup, just enough to bring out your eyes and brush some color onto your cheeks. Your hair was straightened, tucked behind your ears, falling neatly across your shoulders the way you liked.

At 6:25, you were sitting on the edge of your bed, smoothing the fabric of your skirt and checking the mirror one last time. At 6:28, you were pacing the hallway just a bit. At 6:30, you stood by the door, phone in hand, waiting for the knock that you were sure was seconds away.

And then… nothing.

You glanced at the clock again.

6:34.

Still nothing.

Your fingers tapped against your phone. No new texts. No missed calls. You double-checked the address you sent him, just in case you somehow messed it up.

6:40.

Maybe he got stuck in traffic. Maybe he forgot to hit send on a message. Maybe he was—

7:00.

Your stomach dropped.

You sat down on the couch, still dressed up, still waiting. You opened your phone and stared at your messages. Nothing new. You tapped out a quick text:

“Everything okay?”… “Are you still coming?”… “Peter?”… “I’m getting kind of worried.”

Read none. Delivered, all of them. Dozens of blue-bubbled silence.

At 7:30, you finally exhaled the breath you’d been holding for an hour and a half. The disappointment sank in quietly at first, like water leaking beneath a door. You slipped off your shoes with a sigh, the evening air still clinging to your skin and your makeup now feeling heavier than it had earlier. Your skirt, once fun and flirty, now felt constricting.

You stood in your room for a moment, still hoping maybe the doorbell would ring—that he’d show up breathless with an apology, some crazy story, and that bashful grin that always made you forgive him before he even spoke.

But nothing.

You peeled off your red top and skirt, tossing them over the back of your desk chair, and pulled on your softest old t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts instead. You didn’t even bother wiping off all your makeup—just rubbed at your eyes until the mascara blurred.

You sat on the edge of your bed again, the same spot you’d been in hours ago, but now everything felt smaller.

Your phone buzzed once.

You snatched it up instantly.

Spam.

Of course.

You tossed it face down onto the bed and sighed.

You weren’t just mad. You were hurt.

The kind of hurt that wrapped itself in quiet, in stillness. The kind that made everything a little heavier—the air, your limbs, the silence in your room. You stared at the phone beside you like it owed you something. Like maybe, if you waited just a little longer, the texts would come flooding in. The explanation, the apology, the anything.

But they didn’t.

And the longer you sat there, the more foolish you felt. You’d done everything right. You got ready early. You wore your favorite top. You gave him your time, your effort, your excitement. You let yourself hope—and that was the worst part. Because it wasn’t just a date. It was the idea that maybe, finally, someone saw you the way you’d always wanted to be seen. That Peter’s warm smile and quiet charm and flustered compliments weren’t just passing moments, but something real.

Now, all of it felt like a trick your heart had played on you.

You blinked hard, trying to swallow the burning behind your eyes. You weren’t going to cry. You wouldn’t give him that. But the ache in your chest kept pulling your breath tighter.

It felt like rejection before it was even said aloud.

And still… you kept checking your phone.

You curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the soft hum of the TV playing some mindless sitcom you weren’t even watching. Every few minutes, you’d glance at the door. Just in case.

Maybe he was just nice. Maybe the smiles, the notes on the cups, the way he always lingered a little too long when your fingers brushed — maybe all of that was just… nothing.

But then why did it feel like something?

Why did it hurt like this?

Just before 10 p.m., a knock echoed through the apartment.

It was too late for visitors. Too late for anything. The knock came again — not urgent, but consistent. One. Two. Three taps.

Your pulse picked up.

You stood carefully, each step cautious as you approached the door. A flicker of something darkened your stomach — anxiety? Unease? You weren’t sure. Your breath hitched as you slowly leaned toward the peephole and looked out.

Peter Parker.

You stared for a moment, stunned. He stood there looking… awful, honestly. Hoodie zipped all the way up, hair a disheveled mess, a faint bruise blooming along his jaw. His posture was off too — tense and apologetic. Like he’d been pacing your building before knocking.

You opened the door halfway, just enough for him to see your face — and the stormy look written across it.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I know it’s late, I just—”

“Kind of missed your time slot,” you said coldly.

He winced. “I deserve that.”

You didn’t say anything.

He shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking to your bare feet, then back to your face. “Can I come in?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Depends. You going to vanish halfway through your apology this time?”

There it was — the bite you’d been holding in all night. And even though it came out sharper than you meant, you didn’t regret it. Not when Peter looked visibly ashamed, eyes dropping to the floor.

You exhaled and pulled the door open all the way. “Fine. Five minutes.”

He stepped inside quietly, like someone afraid to disturb a sleeping beast. The silence between you was thick — not angry, not even cold anymore — just… heavy. Tired.

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but you were already moving across the room, arms crossed tightly.

“You know what? No,” you said sharply, voice trembling despite how steady you tried to keep it. “Don’t say anything yet.”

Peter froze, lips parted.

You turned to face him fully. “No. You don’t get to walk in here and fix it with a sorry, you don’t get to leave me standing there like an idiot and then finally show up hours later looking like you just rolled out of a street brawl.”

“I—”

“No.” Your voice cracked. “You don’t understand. I was excited. I let myself get excited. And I wanted to be mad at you—I still kind of am—but mostly I just…” You swallowed. “It hurt. You left me hanging like I didn’t matter.”

Peter stepped forward. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” you cut in, voice quieter now. “But you did.”

Silence settled between you, thick and full of everything unspoken.

You turned your back on him, shoulders heaving as you walked away toward the hallway.

And then — thwip.

You froze.

A thin, warm thread of webbing had gently wrapped around your wrist.

“What the—?”

Before you could fully react, it tugged you back—not roughly, but firmly—and spun you around, back toward him. He stepped forward quickly, catching your arm with one hand, the other pulling down the zipper of his hoodie.

Your breath left you all at once.

Beneath it, clinging to his body like a second skin, was the unmistakable red and blue suit.

Spider-Man.

You blinked, mouth parted, eyes wide.

The bruises.

The alley.

The voice.

“I was right?” you whispered, voice nearly cracking under the weight of everything that suddenly made sense.

Peter looked at you — really looked — his brown eyes soft and shimmering. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You were.”

The tension in the room shifted.

You weren’t just looking at Peter now. You were seeing him.

He exhaled slowly. “Please… can I explain now?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded.

“I didn’t forget. I was on my way. I even had flowers. But I was walking past a pawn shop—half a block from your place—and this guy was robbing it. He had this… weird kind of tech. Homemade, but dangerous. Looked like some kind of electrified gauntlet or something — probably pieced together from Oscorp scraps or black market junk. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t just ignore it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I figured I could handle it quick. But he hit harder than I expected. There was a family inside. I had to get them out before I could even think of leaving.” He paused, eyes falling. “By the time it was over, I’d been hit twice, cracked a rib, and I lost my phone somewhere during the fight. I didn’t even realize how late it was until I got home.”

He looked up, eyes glassy. “I didn’t want to lie to you. But I didn’t want to scare you either. I was going to come clean. I just… didn’t know how.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Your heart was racing. Your pulse fluttered beneath your skin. Every ounce of frustration, confusion, and hurt from earlier was now tangled in awe, disbelief, and something else.

Relief.

Because he cared.

Because he hadn’t meant to hurt you.

Because he’d shown up.

And because—somehow—Spider-Man was standing in your living room, looking like the boy you had been falling for long before the suit ever came into play.

You were silent for a long beat.

Finally, you whispered, “You’re such an idiot.”

Peter gave a tired, lopsided smile. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot, if you’ll still have me.”

And that was it.

All the pain, the frustration, the hours spent waiting in silence — it didn’t disappear, but it melted, slowly, under the weight of the boy in front of you. The same boy who’d walked into your life carrying a camera bag and ordering the same coffee every day, who left Sharpie hearts on empty cups and made you feel like you were worth noticing.

And maybe you should’ve said something back.

Maybe you should’ve waited.

But instead—you stepped forward.

You closed the gap between you and Peter, your hands finding his hoodie, clutching the fabric as you leaned in. And without another word, you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t messy.

It was slow — gentle at first, like you were both testing the waters. But the second his lips moved against yours, the second his breath stuttered in surprise and his hands found your waist, it deepened.

His palms were warm and careful as they slid up and down your sides, pulling you closer without hesitation. You slung your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft, wavy hair at the nape of his neck, brushing over the edge of his curls.

Peter kissed like he was afraid to let go. Like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. His fingers flexed slightly on your hips, his nose brushing yours between shallow breaths. Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs.

When you finally pulled back, both of you slightly breathless, Peter didn’t let go. He rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close. His voice was soft, hoarse.

“I thought about you the whole time,” he murmured. “When I was out there. I kept thinking I’d ruin everything if I missed this. If I missed you.”

You blinked, heart tightening in your chest. “You didn’t ruin anything. Not really.”

“I wanted tonight to be perfect,” he whispered. “You looked so beautiful… and I missed it.”

Your fingers toyed with a strand of hair at the back of his neck. “Peter… you showed up. Maybe not when you planned, but you came. You tried. That’s more than most people ever do.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m still mad,” you teased, brushing your nose against his. “But… mostly, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I really wanted to impress you.”

You smiled. “You kind of did. Y’know, saving my life in an alley and showing up as Spider-Man and all.”

He let out a breathy laugh, leaning in for another kiss—this one shorter, more delicate, like he couldn’t help himself. When he pulled back, he was grinning, cheeks pink.

“I’m just saying,” you added, “next time, maybe skip the rooftop brawls before our dates.”

“Noted,” he said seriously, raising his hand in mock solemnity. “Promise. No more last-minute heroics unless it’s really necessary.”

“And if you’re gonna be late—”

“Text you. Or call. Or leave a web-written note in the sky. Got it.”

You giggled, resting your head against his shoulder, the tension finally draining from your chest.

Peter’s arms stayed around you as he murmured, “So… do I still get a shot at a date? A real one this time?”

You looked up at him, that soft, sheepish Peter Parker smile still written across his face.

“You still owe me Italian,” you whispered, pressing one last kiss to his cheek. “And this time… you’re picking me up early.”

“Deal,” he whispered.

And in that moment, with your arms around him and the weight of the world finally quiet, you realized:

Peter Parker might’ve been a superhero to the city — but to you?

He was just the boy who made your heart feel safe.

[lumosflairr]

Have you got any angst Peter Parker fics coming or are you waiting for requests

so far im waiting for requests!! I have more fluff written so far because I’ve been really busy with family on vacation and haven’t had time to really get into writing angst but please give me requests whenever!!

[lumosflairr]

i loveee ur posts!!! can u pls make bf harry hcs

𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝!

sorry these are so short, I just got back from vacation <3

taglist: @Teddys-things @imnotnotgabrielle @Imherefortea @hutaotao @cans4dayz @divineani @scaredraccoon @iluvhrj @plumbum4 @aouoo @shadesofcoolxo

• Once Harry gives you his heart, you have all of it.

• He doesn’t look at anyone else, doesn’t even think about it. He’s all in — loyal, steady, and devoted.

• He treats your relationship like something sacred, because in his world full of chaos and loss, you are something safe.

• He’s not overly affectionate in public, but he needs to be touching you in some way — hand-holding, pinkies linked under the table, arm around your waist if he’s feeling bold.

• He blushes when you kiss his cheek in front of Ron and Hermione. Ron groans every time. Hermione secretly finds it cute.

• Loves seeing you wear his oversized sweaters or his Quidditch jersey — “Looks better on you, honestly.”

• Claims it’s because it smells like him and he “wants to keep you warm,” but secretly just loves how it makes you look like his.

• On rainy days, you read while he naps with his head in your lap. Glasses sliding off.

• Harry isn’t the type to gush or overshare — but when he says “I love you,” it means everything.

• His love shows in small, quiet ways — waiting for you outside class, sharing the last chocolate frog, brushing your hair out of your face when he thinks you’re asleep.

• Harry never expected to have someone love him the way you do. So he never takes it for granted.

• He thanks you for the little things — for being patient with him, for holding his hand, for laughing at his terrible jokes.

• He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

• He stammers over compliments and gets flustered when you flirt back.

• When you catch him staring, he’ll immediately look away and blush, muttering something like: “Didn’t mean to — you just look really pretty.”

• Around others, he’s chill, polite, and soft-spoken — but when it’s just you two, he’s playful, sarcastic, and teases you endlessly.

• He’ll mimic you when you’re being dramatic, laugh so hard he snorts, and tickle you just to hear you laugh.

• Memorizes your favorite sweets and always picks them up without asking.

• Leaves them on your bed in Gryffindor Tower with a note like: “For the sweetest girl I know.”

• Uses the Marauder’s Map to sneak you into the Astronomy Tower after hours.

• Brings a blanket, snacks, and just wants to stargaze while lying next to you.

overall, Harry Potter as a boyfriend is quiet but deeply loving — all soft touches, nervous smiles, and loyal, steady devotion. He’s awkward with his words but wears his heart in his actions, always making sure you feel safe, cherished, and like the most magical part of his world.

[lumosflairr]

as sweet as cake || s.r. [6.1]

pairing: steve rogers x afab reader

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word count: 6k (im so sorry this is so long :')) summary: flashback from the photo of steve's birthday at the beach as mentioned in chapters two and three :) warnings: swearing, smut implications/mentions, smut (unprotected sex, appraisal, fingering & oral (f receiving)) it's really just filth, guys a/n: a sweet little filler chapter before actual chapter 6 comes out later although it could be read as a one-shot, technically.

The salty beach air fills your lungs as the night breeze tousles your hair. You lay in Steve's lap with your head resting on his broad chest as he admires you, the warm sand feeling like a soft blanket under you. A smile that matches his perfectly is etched on your face, both of you soaking in the moment.

His heartbeat was almost in tune with the soothing sound of the crashing waves. The rhythmic beating of his heart would typically put you to sleep- but in this case, Bucky was currently sitting across from you two holding your last piece of Steve's birthday cake.

You exchange a playful glance with Bucky; his eyes narrow at you and you stick your tongue out at him in retaliation. The cake had been the hottest commodity that day and the fight for the last piece had come down to this intimidating final round of rock, paper, scissors.

Tony, Nat, and Pepper walk by right as you're about to throw out your hands, but Tony stops to say, "I hope she beats you," with a smirk on his face. Bucky grumbles and shoots him a glare but you smile up at him instead.

"Thank you, Tony," you say.

"Always," Tony grins.

Steve laughs at the stark contrast in expressions between you and Bucky. Before Bucky can say anything, Tony snaps a picture of the three of you and scurries off to catch up to Pepper and Nat.

"And there he goes," you giggle, earning a chuckle from the blond behind you.

"Alright you two, on the count of three," Steve says, ever the referee, "One... two... three!" he counts out.

You and Bucky throw out your hands with one swift and synchronized movement to reveal your chosen moves. Bucky's paper covers your rock; he chuckles lowly as you groan.

A dramatic sigh escapes your lips and you look up at Steve with a frown. He smiles down at you, his fingers gently tugging mindlessly on the thin straps of your bikini bottoms.

"I lost," you say, faking a frown.

"Don't worry, I'm sure Buck was gonna share with you, sweetheart," he replies softly.

"Oh, was he?"

"Of course, baby." Steve leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "It's my birthday, and I say you can have a bite."

Bucky raises an eyebrow at the two of you. "Since when can you auction up somebody else's food, punk?" he asks, an obvious smirk in his voice.

"Like I said, it is my birthday, so that has to count for something, right?" Steve says with a shrug. "Plus, she's got on my favorite bikini- I'd give her whatever she asks for right now," he adds.

And he wasn't lying, the bikini is his favorite of yours. The hues mimicked that of a sunset and complimented your skin just right.

Bucky shakes his head in mock disbelief. "I guess I can't argue with that," he concedes, bringing a forkful of cake to your mouth.

You smile and take a bite from the fork, the chocolate flavor melting in your mouth. "Thanks, Buck."

"Can't say no to either of you anyways," Bucky grins.

You beam, "We know."

With the cake situation now, somewhat peacefully, resolved, you settle back into the comfort of Steve's arms. Bucky leans backwards to rest on his forearms in the sand, placing the now empty plate on the ground. The waves continue their gentle lullaby, the stars twinkle brightly, and the world feels perfect- whole, even.

Bucky breaks the silence, "So, Steve, do you feel old yet?"

Steve shoots him a playful glare, "Hey, you're right up there with me, Buck. Besides, she keeps me young," he states.

"Oh, really? Cause I think I see a grey hair right there," Bucky snickers, pointing up at Steve's hair.

"You weren't supposed to tell him, Buck," you say, joining in on the teasing.

"Well, if I do have any it's because of the two of you," Steve jokes back.

"I guess we'll just have to keep him feeling young then, won't we, doll?" Bucky grins as he winks at you. "As much as I enjoy the banter, I think I'm gonna go for a swim, either of you interested in coming?" Bucky asks as he rises to his feet.

The offer is tempting, but it dims in comparison to Steve's warm chest. It also dims in comparison to what you know is to come if you don't go swimming. You tilt your head up at Steve, exchanging a knowing glance with him.

You direct your attention back to Bucky and shake your head at him. "No, think I'm good right here, Buck. You go enjoy the water, though."

Steve nods in agreement with you. "We'll catch up with you later?"

Bucky offers a small smile. "Alright, you two enjoy your alone time then," he says before making his way towards the inviting waves.

Steve, once Bucky is far enough away, wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. "Honey, have I mentioned how good you look in that?" he asks, fingers tugging at your bottoms again.

"Not nearly enough," you answer, looking up at him again.

"Well isn't that just a shame? Guess I'll have to make up for it then," he murmurs.

Steve's free hand cups your cheek then he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. The taste of chocolate faintly lingers on your tongue as his lips work against yours. His hand makes its way from your cheek into your hair, fingers running themselves through the damp strands.

His eyes meet yours when he pulls away. "I love you."

"And I love you," you reply lovingly.

He starts to pepper slow kisses along your jaw to make his way down your neck. The sensation makes you shiver as a sigh of pleasure falls from your lips. His trail comes to a halt when he gets just below your ear.

"No one's in the beach house, you know," Steve says quietly, his voice husky in your ear. "You think we should take this inside, poppet?"

"I think that's a fantastic idea, Captain."

He doesn't allow for another second to pass before untangling his arms from around your waist. After rising to his feet, he offers out a hand to help you up; you accept with a smile. Both of you walk hand in hand to the beach house, the anticipation of being alone with you making Steve's steps a bit quicker than yours.

The inside of the beach house is only lit up by a few stray candles and the moonlight pouring in from the sunroof in the kitchen. The house was fairly huge and housed the entire team, so it was unreasonably dark downstairs.

A yelp escapes you when Steve lifts you effortlessly into his arms to carry you bridal style. He slides you onto the kitchen counter and then pulls you as close to the edge as possible without you falling off. He spreads your legs allowing room for him to stand in between them.

"Was gonna take you to the bedroom but I don't think I can wait that long," he says with a mischievous grin.

You giggle in response and he seizes the opportunity to take you in while he's got it. The moonlight casts its glow down on you as if it's illuminating you just for him. Your hair appears soft and silky under the delicate white light, eyes twinkling when you look up at him through your lashes. His heart hammers in his chest at the sight of you. The corners of his lips turn up when he leans down to rest his forehead against yours.

"Happy birthday, Steve," you whisper, your hand raising to rest on his cheek.

His eyes close as he leans into your touch. "Thank you, my darling girl," he murmurs. "You're the best birthday gift I could ask for."

Eagerly, he closes the gap between you two, and his mouth meets yours in a passionate kiss. Large hands trace along the curves of your body, his kisses becoming more hungry by the second. His tongue swipes at your bottom lip; you debate testing his patience but find yourself too needy and allow him entry.

Your tongues dance together in a slow rhythm as his hand slides up your back and to the clasp of your bikini top. Steve unhooks the top and slides it down your shoulders. He tosses the fabric beside you as his lips continue to work against yours. He kisses you once more, slowly, then tugs your bottom lip between his teeth gently. His mouth trails from your jawline to your neck to leave fleeting kisses, stopping a few times to softly nip at the flesh.

Your eyes close, head tilting back in relaxing pleasure while he moves lower down your chest. His breath fans over one of your hardened nipples before he takes it into his mouth. You sigh wantonly and allow your fingers to run through his hair. His warm tongue swirls around the sensitive peak, his hand coming up to squeeze your other breast.

The sensation makes you shiver, your back arches and you press your body closer to his as if begging for more- and he gives it to you. His fingers roll your nipple between them as he sucks on the other. You whine softly, hips bucking up into his chest. Your noises go straight to his throbbing, hardened cock; the vibrations from his low grunt force a whimper out of you.

Much to your dismay, he releases your nipple from his grasp and then from his mouth. His lips leave a trail of searing kisses down your abdomen until he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. He hooks his fingers under the sides of your bikini bottoms and steps back to pull them down your legs.

He returns back to his spot between your legs, his hand traveling down to your inner thigh only for his digits to dance their way up to your heat. His eyes meet yours and you gasp quietly when he slowly drags his finger through your wetness.

"God, you're wet, honey. That all for me?" Steve teases as he continues the tantalizing motion.

When he dips the tip of his finger into your opening, teasing your entrance slowly, all you can muster up is a nod. He pulls the digit out and allows it to find your throbbing clit. Slowly, he circles the sensitive bundle of nerves as he leans in closer to brush his lips against yours briefly.

"I believe I asked you a question, and I want to hear an answer."

Your breath hitches in your throat when he applies more pressure on you. "I-it's all for you, Stevie- promise."

"That's my girl," he praises, his words sweeter than honey.

His touch withdraws but he lowers himself, almost instantly, to his knees in front of you. Though he's got heightened senses, he's not sure that explains why he can smell your dripping cunt only inches from his face. It's a good smell, an intoxicating one at that, and it's sickeningly sweet.

Steve sighs while pressing tender kisses up your inner thigh, his breath fanning your skin. "Been waiting for this all day," he breathes out.

He places a gentle kiss onto your aching bud before flattening his tongue on your wet cunt. His tongue drags upwards a few times, soft sighs falling from your mouth as he parts your slick folds slowly. You gasp at the sudden sensation and try to grind onto his face, begging for more, but he doesn't give in.

Strong hands make their way to hold your thighs in place so you can't move as easily. He ends the teasing by sucking harshly on your clit, releasing it with a 'pop.' His mouth sucks your clit back into his mouth softer than before while his tongue flicks out at the same time. Your hands tangle themselves into his hair as his mouth works on you. Your breath comes out in fast, quiet pants and you buck your hips onto his face again.

This time he allows you to do so- his large and slightly calloused hands tighten on your thighs to pull you closer to his face. He lets one hand slide up your body to cup your breast and pinch your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger. Then his tongue glides from your entrance to just below your clit and back again, stopping every few laps to draw small circles on your throbbing bud. Ever so attentive, he notices how your hand tugs on his hair a little harder when he teases your opening.

You frown, whining when he stops his motions and removes his mouth. Your whine is quickly replaced with a mewl when he spreads your warmth open to allow his tongue to slither into you. He's fucking his tongue in and out of you; he swirls it inside of you to lap up your arousal, not wanting to waste a drop of your slightly sweet slick as if he's absolutely starved.

Your grip on the counter tightens at every thrust of his tongue. You shiver, your body aching and yearning for release. Steve's cock throbs, aching to be inside of you with every moan, whine, or whimper that comes from your lips. No matter how badly he wants to palm himself through his shorts, he knows it'll provide no relief- his relief always and only comes after yours.

Your lower half scoots towards him again in need of more of him. "Steve," you whimper with a trembling voice.

His only response is a growl of approval that sends delicious vibrations to your core as his tongue works even harder in your cunt. Still tweaking your nipple with his fingers, he uses his other hand to rub circles on your swollen clit again.

As your moans grow louder and more strung together, Steve finds himself growing needier. His movements grow quicker, less in sync, and he brings you to the edge only to balance you there. With fingers tangled in his hair and nails scratching almost animalistically at his back, you whine as he sucks on your opening with his tongue still inside of you.

All it takes is a few precise licks upwards against your g-spot for you to let go. Your surroundings shatter into a kaleidoscope of pleasure as you cry out his name repeatedly like it's a prayer. Steve doesn't let up, though, and he continues his movements to make the most of your bliss. Your hand tugs hard in his hair, your body shuddering uncontrollably as he coaxes you through your orgasm.

Steve only stops when your whines of pleasure turn into those of discomfort. He pulls back from between your thighs to stand up and his lips and stubbled chin glisten with your juices. His chest heaves as the evident bulge in his swim shorts twitches. Of course, you're no expert, but the way his pants are straining against his cock even looks painful.

Your gaze locks with his and your breaths begin to slow back to normal. "Stevie," you mumble with a weak smile.

He smiles back at your drowsiness as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You did so good for me, honey," he says gently before stepping back in between your legs. He leans in close to your face, eyes scanning over you for a moment. "God, how did I get someone as breathtaking as you?"

Steve's eyes fill with adoration upon hearing your giggle as he closes the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a deep, loving kiss. The taste of your own arousal on his lips and tongue fuels the fire growing in your stomach again. His hands find your hips and pull you closer. A moan passes from your mouth and into his as his mouth moves in sync with yours.

"Fuck," he grunts, his voice low and husky as he murmurs against your lips, "I need to be inside of you- please tell me you want more."

"I do," you reply, your voice not coming out as more than a fervent whisper.

He steps back a little then reaches down and unties his shorts. The fabric falls to his ankles and exposes all of him to you. His perfectly sculpted body tenses for a second when his cock springs up and hits his abdomen.

"Wanna slide off that counter for me, poppet?"

The request confuses you, but you comply nonetheless. Your legs are still a little jelly-like from your previous orgasm as you slide off of the counter. You look up at him through your lashes and almost melt under his intense gaze.

"Sit," he instructs, nodding towards the bar stool beside you.

Again, you do as you're told. You take a seat on the edge of the stool with your legs spread just far enough to give Steve the perfect view of your bare, dripping cunt. His eyes focus on nothing but the view you've given him, his hard cock twitching at the sight. Piercing blue eyes snap up to meet yours again within seconds.

He steps closer to you until his chest is mere inches from yours. "Such a pretty little thing. You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

A smirk spreads on your lips. "No," you lie.

His eyebrow cocks up at you, his stare becoming more intense. He does not buy the feigned innocence, but that's what makes the fun, right? Fingers reach out to dance across your inner thigh as his lips curl into a smirk.

"You've always been a horrible liar, angel," he purrs.

Slowly, and teasingly, he slides the reddened tip of his cock through your wet warmth. Every stroke between your folds sends your mind into overdrive. You reach up to grab his upper arm, urging him to look at you.

"Need you, Stevie. Don't make me wait any longer please," you beg, locking eyes with him.

His lips curl into a knowing grin. "Oh, my pretty girl. I'll give you what you want now, hm?" he coos before beginning to push himself inside you.

A low rumble sounds from his chest when your tightness pulls him in more than he'd wanted. He pauses momentarily then starts to sink deeper into you again; this time he moves much slower to savor the feeling. The antagonizing slowness at which he slides into you makes your breath catch in your throat; it only takes a few seconds for him to fill you completely though, his thick cock stretching you out.

He pauses, waiting for you to adjust, and peppers kisses on your face. You smile and scrunch your nose up at the sudden influx of kisses. His lips capture yours in a slow, gentle kiss. He stops to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching.

"Can I move, sweet girl?"

You nod, head tipping back in pleasure as he starts to pull out. The tip of his cock almost slides out but he eases back into you before it does. Your fingers trace the defined lines on his abdomen and he shutters at the sensation. He repeats the process a few times, each time pushing just a bit deeper into you.

"Need more, Stevie," you whine.

"A little desperate t'night, huh?" he taunts with a chuckle, "Guess we should hurry up since it's getting late; anybody could walk in now."

"I don't care," you grunt, voice hitching when he slides back inside of you with ease.

"'Course you don't," he grins knowingly, "Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You give him a playful glare as he continues to tease you, "Steve, just stop teasing me already," you pant, your nails digging into his back.

He leans down and in closer to your face, his breath tickling the tip of your nose, "Okay, darling," he says as he places a kiss on your nose.

With that, he withdraws almost fully before driving back into you with an urgency that forces you to cry out in pleasure. You gasp and your hands clutch at his shoulders for support. His hips collide with yours harshly, and the bar stool creaks in protest against the intensity of his thrusts. The world narrows down to just the feeling of Steve inside you, filling you completely in the way only he can. Your grip on his shoulders tightens, your fingernails leaving crescent-shaped imprints on his skin.

"You're so fuckin tight and so- God, so perfect, angel," he grunts out, his hips rocking into you at an unreasonably fast pace. "I swear you were made just for me."

Your heart swells at his appraisal, yet you find yourself unable to conjure up any real words. Chills run through you as his hands roam your body, worshiping every curve and contour. Fingers brush along the skin of your thighs and ignite sparks of pleasure as you arch your back. Your moans mix with groans of his own to create a symphony of ecstasy that echoes throughout the moonlit kitchen.

Steve's pace doesn't falter, not even for a second, his relentless thrusts filling the room with the sound of skin slapping skin. His gaze lingers on you with an intensity that borders on primal, the love and desire in his eyes fueling the fire between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to, baby," he growls demandingly, his thumb now tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit.

You're lost in a haze of pleasure, soft gasps escaping your parted lips. Your fingers scratch at Steve's back in response to his animalistic thrusts. The dual sensations of the tip of his cock brushing your g-spot and his thumb teasing your bud threaten to send you over the edge. If it weren't for the light slap he gives your clit, a reminder that he won't take 'no answer' for an answer, you would've forgotten he said anything.

"Y-you, Steve," you manage to stammer with a shaky voice, "I belong to you, 'm all yours."

Steve almost loses it then and there. His brows furrow, his head tips back a little, and a deep groan sounds from his chest. His free hand now holds onto your hip as he drives himself deeper inside you.

"Fuck, I love hearing you say it," Steve growls, his breath coming in ragged huffs, "You're all mine, every single inch of you."

He leans down to press his lips to yours in a feverish kiss, his tongue tangling with yours. Your whines and moans are muffled by his mouth as your body quivers at his powerful rhythm. Your breathless affirmations only aid in fueling Steve's unwavering passion, his thumb rubbing faster circles. The stool creaks under you at the intensity of his movements, and the pleasure builds like a wave that steadily crashes over you.

Steve's lips trail from your lips to your chin and then along your jawline. He makes his way down your neck, leaving rough kisses and the occasional nibble on your delicate skin.

"C'mon, say my name, angel. Let everyone know who the only one who can make you feel this good is," he urges as he continues to kiss your neck.

You don't hesitate when his pace somehow quickens, your voice dripping with need, "Steve! Oh, my God- make me feel s-so good."

His head pulls away from your neck, his icy blue eyes finding yours immediately, "That's right, nobody else can make you feel like this, can they, honey?"

Your voice quivers as you respond, "No one, Steve, only you."

A triumphant, cocky grin spreads across Steve's lips, "Always such a good girl for me," he praises.

Without another word, he adjusts his angle so his cock plunges deeper to hit that sweet spot head-on. Sparks of pleasure radiate through your body causing your hips to buck into his involuntarily. You can't help yourself, your body now writhing beneath his as you surrender to him.

His eyes never leave yours which does nothing but add to the intensity. You're teetering on the edge of release and you can see in the way he looks at you that he's right there with you.

"Steve... I'm- Oh, God," you gasp.

"I know," he groans, resting his forehead on yours, "You can let go with me. Come apart on my cock, angel."

And as if on cue, you do just that. You cry out his name again, the world around you blurring into static. Wave after wave of ecstasy, your body quivers uncontrollably as you reach your climax. Steve continues to thrust into you roughly with his own release not far behind; the feeling of his cock throbbing in you only intensifies your orgasm. Careful not to overwhelm you, his thumb pulls away from your clit.

"That's it, honey. Look so fuckin' pretty when you're clenching around me like that," he says, his voice husky and strained.

He leans in to kiss you deeply again and swallows your cries as his movements become erratic and somewhat sloppy. Your tight, needy cunt pulsating around him and pulling him in farther. With a carnal groan, he finds his release, his warm seed painting your insides. Soft pants fan against your lips while he whispers sweet praises to you, his thrusts coming almost to a standstill as he rides out his high. Your bodies are pressed tightly together by his arm looping around your waist, and your foreheads rest on each other's as you both catch your breath.

Steve gently pulls out of you, moving slowly so he doesn't hurt you. You wince a little at the sting of him leaving your warmth, already missing the sensation of his cock stretching you. His eyes meet yours to offer a silent apology for your soreness. He scoots over to the side, pulling a few paper towels off the roll and running them under the tap. Then he returns to his spot to lean down and clean you up, wiping up any trace of your shared passionate moment.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Steve questions, concern etched on his features when you shiver.

Your fingers reach out to brush his cheek, "I'm okay, just sensitive is all," you reassure him with a smile, "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

His lips curl into a soft smile as he continues his movements, "I'll always take good care of you, my sweet girl."

After he's finished, he cleans himself off and tosses the paper towels into the trash bin. Then he wipes down the counter with a cleaning wipe and tosses that too. He pulls his shorts back on before locating your bikini bottoms and top to help you put them on. His arms wrap around your waist to pull you into a hug. You snuggle into Steve's warm chest, your head resting on him as you listen to the familiar beating of his heart again. The tranquil crashing of the water outside the beach house provides a comforting background noise that could put you to sleep.

Steve presses a tender kiss to the top of your head, "I love you, sweetheart," he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

"I love you too, Stevie," you reply adoringly.

A brief moment of silence passes before he pulls away, his fingers tilting your chin so that you look up at him. "'M gonna marry you someday," he beams.

"I'll hold you to it," you joke, pressing your nose to his, "Do a few babies and a white picket fence by the beach come with it?"

Steve chuckles as he gives a peck to your lips, "That sounds perfect. But I'd give you whatever you want, darlin'- hell, I'd build the house myself if you asked me to," he says before pulling his face away from yours.

A warm smile stretches your lips, knowing he meant every word, "Well, I do like a man who's good with his hands and we've got time to plan it all out, don't we?"

Your joke earns a snicker from Steve, "All the time in the world, honey," he agrees with a contented sigh, his strong arms wrapping around you again.

The door of the beach house creaks open, but you're much too comfortable to care. Still, you turn your head to the side anyway. Bucky stands only a few feet away with his wet hair clinging to his forehead and a towel wrapped around his waist. He raises an eyebrow at the sight, taking in your messy hair and sleepy eyes along with Steve's bashful grin.

"Missed all the fun while I was out there, huh?" Bucky smirks, making his to the fridge behind Steve.

Steve responds with a smirk of his own, "Oh, you have no idea what you missed, Buck."

Bucky retrieves a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the kitchen island, "I can see that. You do look more radiant than usual, doll. What'd you do to her, Steve?" he says with a grin.

Steve leaves an arm slung lazily over your shoulders when he turns sideways to face the brunet fully, "Nothing special, y'know. Just did what I said I was going to: made a birthday wish with her and had a little...something..to eat," he replies, shrugging nonchalantly.

Bucky chokes a little on his water when he snorts at the implication, "Something to eat, huh?" he teases, "Well, don't let me be a bother, I'll just be here hydrating. I would offer you a bottle, but I'd say you already had enough 'hydration' for the day."

You and Steve exchange amused glances as you wrap your arms around his waist. Your head rests on his firm but comfortable chest while Bucky takes another sip of water, still grinning at the two of you.

These were the simple moments you loved, where it's just the three of you. You rather enjoyed seeing both of them together because it was refreshing to see how Steve relaxed when he was with only you and Bucky.

"You're right, I do think we've quenched our thirst quite well," you playfully reply, making Bucky nearly choke on his water again.

Bucky finally laughs, shaking his head at you as he tosses his empty bottle, "You're something else, you know that, doll?"

You chuckle, nestling closer to Steve, the post-orgasm bliss enveloping you, "I think it's safe to say I'm in good company then," you quip.

Bucky moves closer to the two of you, "Guess I can't argue with that, I'm not a great influence," he says, reaching out to ruffle your hair which earns a mock glare from Steve.

"Hey- get your own y/n, this one's all mine," Steve warns jokingly, his arm finding its place around your midsection again.

"Thought we shared everything, huh?" Bucky japes, grinning from ear to ear as he playfully jabs Steve's arm.

"Yeah, Stevie," you murmur, pinching his side, "Share."

"Sorry to say but I'm not sharing this one, Buck," Steve teases with a hint of possessiveness in his voice as he looks down at you, "And don't tell me you've fallen victim to his fake charm too, poppet."

"You know you'll always be my number one, Stevie. And you, Bucky, will always be my number one charismatic troublemaker," you beam, soaking in the warmth of what would become a sweet memory.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, "Well, aren't you just the sweetest tonight," he says, his tone laced with false indignation, "I suppose I can settle for being the charming troublemaker in this equation."

"I did not say charm-"

"It's what I heard," Bucky says with a smirk, cutting your sentence short.

You let out an exasperated sigh while shaking your head. Steve joins in, also shaking his head as he chuckles at the playful banter between you and his best friend. If it were all those years ago, Steve might've actually worried about you leaving him for Bucky. But it's not back then, and you're just so you, so he rarely worried about anything with you. And he liked it that way.

"I'm just playin' with you two. You know you're both like family to me, and you are a lucky guy, Steve," Bucky says, a heartfelt smile on his face.

"That I am," Steve agrees as his hand reaches up to caress your cheek, "I wouldn't trade this, or her, for anything."

Bucky lets out a contented sigh, "Think I'm gonna hit the shower and turn in for the night, it's getting a little late. Happy birthday again, punk."

"Thanks, Buck," Steve says warmly, "Have a good night."

You smile up at Bucky, "G'night, Buck."

Bucky nods at Steve, ruffling your hair once more, "Goodnight, doll. Don't let him keep you up too late," he says before heading towards the stairs.

When you hear the distant sound of the shower turning on, you turn your attention back to Steve. He looks down at you with a loving gaze as he rubs your side. Before you can speak, he removes his arm from your waist to scoop you up and set you on the counter again.

He's always preferred when you're at eye level with him so he can see your face up close; he can also keep you within reasonable kiss range- which was definitely the motive this time. His fingers trace your jawline as he leans in to kiss you tenderly. The taste of your juices still lingers on his lips, transferring to yours.

Steve pulls away slightly, "I truly am a lucky man, you know that, honey?" he states, recalling Bucky's statement from earlier in the night.

"And I'm the luckiest lady on the planet, Steve," you say, your voice filled with admiration.

"I love you, my sweet girl."

"I love you too, Stevie."

Your fingers softly trace the contours of his face, and he reciprocates the affection, his touch filled with fondness. His hand slides down to rest on your hip and he presses his lips to yours in yet another sweet, loving kiss.

"How about we get some rest?" he suggests after pulling away, "We've got a whole day ahead of us and I've got houses to start sketching, apparently."

You nod in agreement as you giggle and slide off the counter. Your hands lace with his, the two of you making your way to the bedroom. He takes his spot on the left side of the bed and waits for you to lay up next to him before pulling the blankets over you. His body provides a familiar warmth as he curls up behind you to hold you. Surrounded by the soothing sounds of the ocean and his comforting embrace, you begin to drift off.

Right as you're about to fall asleep, your phone, which was left on the nightstand beside you before you went to the beach for the day, dings three times. You reach over groggily and pull it into the bed with you. After unlocking it, you see on your lock screen that both messages are from Tony; one is an image and the other two are just regular texts.

The image is the one he took earlier of you, Steve, and Bucky. You save the picture, smiling warmly at it. Your smile fades to a grin when you read the texts.

Tone: "Would say hope you enjoyed yourself, but everyone out here already knows you did. P.s. clean everything anybody's ass touched, especially if it was his."

Tone: "Just kidding with ya, kid (not about the cleaning part-seriously). Tell the old man I said Happy Birthday again, love ya."

You giggle and write back a message saying, "we're not complete animals, geez. love you too, tone," before tucking your phone under your pillow and falling asleep. This day would be remembered fondly, and you were sure of it.

taglist!

@oh-thats-cute @vicmc624 @blackhawkfanatic @tooruen

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@flowers-and-fichte @ozwriterchick @kandis-mom @nouk1998

@lokislady82 @procrastinatingsince99 @bethexo07 @angelicxkayla

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per usual, if i forgot your tag, or you want to be added to the tag list for this series and/or anything else i write, *let me know here*, leave a comment, or message me :)

[lumosflairr]

ty for 1k notes🩷🩷🩷

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭

welcome page

summary: You and Theo have always had silent tension, until one day you both finally break.

warnings: making out. thats about it

word count: 1.6k

if you want to know when i post more theo content, please join my taglist!

It started with the way he looked at you. Or maybe it started long before that—before the stolen glances, before the lazy smirks and low-voiced jokes, before you even realized Theodore Nott had a voice that could make your name sound like velvet.

You were both Slytherins. That should’ve made you allies by default. But no—he wasn’t the kind of housemate you exchanged greetings with in the common room. You weren’t exactly friends. You weren’t rivals either. You were something in between—always orbiting one another, never quite colliding.

He was always in the background. In the corner of the room at late-night study sessions, draped over an armchair like he was carved into it. At breakfast, quiet and unreadable, swirling his coffee while the rest of the table buzzed with chatter. You’d pass each other in the dungeons, exchange dry comments in the common room, occasionally get paired for group work.

He wasn’t loud like the others. Didn’t try to charm, didn’t posture. He was observant, precise, untouchable. And it irritated you—the way he always seemed ten steps ahead, as if nothing anyone did could touch him.

You didn’t expect him to start speaking to you.

The first time was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, sixth year. You were both assigned to demonstrate shielding spells together, and he didn’t even glance up when Snape announced it.

You squared off in front of him, wand raised.

He finally looked at you, one brow lifted. “I’ll try not to obliterate you. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pride of yours.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “If anyone’s pride needs bruising, it’s yours.”

That was the beginning.

From then on, something shifted. He’d make offhand comments in the common room when you passed. Sit just close enough during study hours that you could feel the edge of his presence. He never really talked—not in the way others did—but when he did, it always left an echo.

After a long Potions lab one evening, you were trudging back to the common room when he fell into step beside you. He didn’t say anything for a moment—just walked, hands in his pockets, eyes forward.

“Stanchi ma belli, huh?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Tired, but beautiful.” He glanced sideways at you. “You look it.”

You glared at him, even as your cheeks burned. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”

“No,” he said easily. “That was just honesty.”

The tension built slowly. Not obvious to anyone else, maybe not even to you at first. But it was there—in the way your eyes lingered a little longer when he walked into the room. In the way you found yourself choosing the seat across from him at the long green-glass tables in the common room. In the way he looked at you like he was cataloging something he wanted to keep.

It wasn’t until the night in the library that everything truly changed.

You were both working late on your essays—separately, of course. You’d claimed a table near the back, close to the Restricted Section, surrounded by open books and half-finished notes. You were hunched over, quill in hand, when you heard the familiar scrape of a chair pulling out across from you.

You looked up to see Theo sitting down without asking.

“Burning the midnight oil, amore?”

You scowled. “I’m not your amore, Nott.”

His lips curled slightly. “Not yet.”

Your jaw clenched, heat blooming at the back of your neck. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed lazily. “Just observant.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Only to those who look at me like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze didn’t waver—it held yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

“Like you want me to stop,” he said softly, “when you don’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You hated how still you went. How the words hit too precisely—how they exposed something you hadn’t dared admit even to yourself.

And he knew.

Of course he did.

That was the worst part—he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The long looks, the quiet comments, the way his fingers drummed against the table just loud enough to pull your attention, the way his eyes traced your face like he was memorizing it.

The game wasn’t subtle anymore. He’d cracked the silence between you open, and neither of you made an effort to close it.

You didn’t even try to ignore him anymore. When he leaned in with that lazy smirk and those damn velvet-lined words, you leaned right back.

“I’m trying to work,” you muttered, eyes locked on him.

“Mm.” His voice was low. “And I’m trying not to think about how good you look when you’re pretending you don’t like me.”

You raised an eyebrow, daring to glance at him. “Who said I’m pretending?”

His eyes lit up with that unmistakable spark. “So you admit it, then?”

You shut your book slowly, eyes meeting his across the table. “I didn’t admit anything. You’re just hearing what you want.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes scanning your face like he was reading a very interesting sentence.

“Tesoro… you think I don’t know the way you look at me?”

“Like you’re an inconvenience?” you shot back sweetly.

“Like I’m the best part of your day,” he countered, not missing a beat.

You swallowed, pulse quickening.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nott.”

“Oh, I don’t have to.” He grinned, teeth barely visible. “You do it for me.”

You rolled your eyes, standing abruptly and gathering your things. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet here you are, still sitting with me at midnight,” he said, voice trailing into a dark, amused hum. “Should I be flattered?”

“Or concerned for your ego,” you muttered.

As you turned to walk away, he stood too, suddenly close—closer than he’d ever been. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, “and I will.”

You turned back toward him, slowly.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

Instead, you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling into the smallest, most dangerous smile you’d ever worn.

“Don’t look at me like that, Nott.”

He laughed softly, and it wasn’t smug—it was dark and low and full of heat.

“Too late for that, bella.”

His voice was low, silken, barely more than a breath—but it hit you like a spark to dry parchment.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between you pulsed, heavy and electric, thick with all the tension you’d both let simmer for far too long. And now, it was boiling over.

Theo’s eyes dropped to your lips.

That was all it took.

One moment you were standing toe to toe, and the next, his hands were in your hair and his mouth was crashing against yours like he’d been holding back for years.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was everything you’d both been biting back—every glance, every smirk, every brush of fingers in the common room, every almost-touch, every smug comment that lingered just a little too long. It exploded all at once.

His kiss was hot, hungry, all tongue and teeth and hands pulling you in. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been aching to taste you, and now that he had, he couldn’t get enough.

You gasped into his mouth, and he groaned—deep and low—and that sound alone made your knees buckle.

He pushed you back, guiding you into the nearest bookshelf until your back hit the wood. One of his hands gripped your waist, the other sliding up your spine to fist gently in your hair as he kissed you deeper.

Your hands clutched at his collar, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to him as his body pressed against yours—solid and warm and demanding. His tongue slid against yours and you let out a soft whimper you didn’t mean to, but the way he growled in response told you he liked it.

He kissed like it was personal. Like it meant something.

He pulled back just an inch, lips brushing yours, breath hot.

“Been wanting to know…” he murmured, eyes flickering between your mouth and your eyes, voice thick with desire, “what those pretty lips taste like.”

Then he was kissing you again, harder this time, rougher, like the truth of it had only made him hungrier.

Your fingers tangled in his hair and his hand slid beneath the hem of your jumper to rest against the bare skin at your waist. He groaned again—quieter this time, but no less intense—as if just touching you sent a shiver up his spine.

You could feel it in the way his body trembled slightly against yours. The way his mouth broke away only to return a second later with more urgency. Like he physically couldn’t stop.

“You have no idea…” he whispered between kisses, “…how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

He kissed your jaw, your neck, just under your ear, and your eyes fluttered shut as your head fell back against the shelf.

“You—” Kiss. “Drive me—” Kiss. “Absolutely mad.”

His lips returned to yours with a bruising intensity, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pulling him in like he was oxygen.

The kiss went on and on, like you were both making up for all the nights you’d walked away instead of leaning in. All the times you’d looked at each other across the common room and said nothing. All the unsaid things that had finally found their voice—in your hands, your mouths, your gasps between kisses.

Eventually, he pulled away, just barely. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless and flushed, hearts pounding.

His lips brushed your cheek, then your jaw again, softer now, and he whispered, “Say something, before I kiss you again and forget my own name.”

You looked up at him, dazed and grinning and completely undone.

“Then forget it,” you whispered back. “Just kiss me again.”

And Merlin, did he ever.

[lumosflairr]

I’m in LOVE with your Peter Parker (tom) fics! You’re so talented!!!!! Please write more 🙏🙏

Thank you so much! I plan on writing more soon :)

[lumosflairr]

*implied nsfw

You stirred awake in bed, blindly reaching out to the space next to you only to be met with the feeling of vacancy. Your eyes shot open as you stared at the messy linen sheets that previously swathed the famous Captain America, aka Steve Rogers.

You reached to grab what looked like a small folded paper on the pillow.

'Went out for a run with Sam, I'll be home at 9:00 sharp. Don't watch our show without me, I'm serious sweetheart. I love you.

-Steve'

You giggled at his wholesome words, finding it humorous at how serious he was about making sure you don't watch a single episode of modern family without him. Steve didn't even understand half of the jokes in the show, hell he didn't even understand why they were 'filming random people in their homes' or why they would cut to an interview in the middle of an episode.

Yet, he still sat and watched every episode with you because it made you laugh, and fuck if your laugh wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world. He would sit through hell if it meant that he could hear your little giggles that came out of your pretty lips while watching your favorite show.

Nothing made you giggle more than watching Steve laugh at a joke that Jay—his favorite character—made. Or the confusion on his face that matched Jay's when one of the younger characters made a reference to something that made no sense to the older men.

"Hun, you know Jay is only like 60 in the show right? So technically speaking, you're older than him." You let out a chuckle as he watched the screen so intently.

"I feel like him sometimes when I hear people speak, everything is so confusing. I mean I don't agree with some of the things he says, but I understand how change can confuse a person. He's also a veteran." Steve responded gently.

You smiled and shook your head at the memory.

You climbed out of bed and made a cup of tea, not bothering to change out of your pajama shorts that had little star prints all over. You curled up onto the couch and began to read, as the sunlight filtered through the sheer window curtain.

It wasn't long before the lock on the front door began to softly rattle, and in walked your boyfriend.

He had on navy blue joggers and a tight gray compression shirt that practically put his pecs on display, the fabric of the sleeves were tight around his bulging biceps, a thin sheet of sweat glazed his forehead as well as his arms. You couldn't help but to stare.

"Well good morning to you, I think you have a bit of drool right there sweetheart." He said through a cocky smile while pointing to the side of his mouth.

You rolled your eyes playfully and looked up into your boyfriend's eyes, "What, a girl isn't allowed to admire her boyfriend anymore?" you teased back.

Steve saw your eyes roll and he walked over to you curled up on the couch and stood in front of you while grasping your chin in his hand gently.

"I'm just teasin' you honey." He whispered on your lips before taking them onto his own.

He sat down on the couch next to you and pulled your legs over his lap running his hands up down them slowly while he tilted his head back. It felt like a crime to be so attracted to him while he did such a mundane task.

But, god was he beautiful.

You stared up at him as he caressed your legs softly, "How was your run with Sam?" You needed to fill the silence with something other than your own thoughts because you could feel how warm your face was getting just by staring at him.

"It was good, he was a bit upset though. Couldn't keep up with me." He let out an airy chuckle.

You bit your lip as you watched his adams apple bob up and down his throat as he spoke. He turned to look at you, noticing your flustered state.

A cheeky grin slowly appeared on his face, "Y'know if you want something, you gotta ask dear."

You let out a pout and put your book down, Steve watched as you climbed onto him and straddled his lap while snaking your arms around his neck. You felt his hands find their place onto your hips as he smiled up at you.

You gave him a peck on the lips and pulled away,

"Wake me before you leave next time."

"Yes ma'am."

"And come back earlier. You were gone too long."

"Will do."

"Actually, just don't go next time."

"Whatever you say princess."

You stared down at him with a pout on your lips once again.

"Is that all you wanted to ask?" Steve looked up at you with a lovesick grin on his face, causing your face to heat up even more.

You fidgeted with the strings of his joggers, "Mmm, one more thing."

Steve stared up at you with wide eyes, before giving you a look that meant he understood what you were implying.

"Yes."

[lumosflairr]

HIIIIIII NEW FOLLOWERRRR AND OMGGGGG LOVE YOUR WORKK RAHHHHHHH(i got into my harry potter phase again and craved fanfics and I stumbled upon yours)I DEVOURED EVERY LETTER AND WRITING YOU DID!IT WAS DELICIOUS BTW YUMYUM. IDK THE SERVICE 10/10!It's like going to a restaurant and the people serve you kinda way but instead with your writing it feels like I was given princess treatment with their service. YOUR HARRY JAMES POTTER FANFICS OMGGG YOU HAVE MY TOES CURLING AND MY BACK ARCHING SO BAD!like you made me giggle at 3am cuz you made him so dreamy. ANYWAYS YEAH JUST WANTED TO DROP SOME LOVE AND APPRECIATION! HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY AND PLEASE NEVER STOP WRITING AND I HOPE YOU NEVER GET BALD! MWAH!🫶

OMG SHUT UP RN!! THANK YOU SO MUCH YOURE SO SO SWEET!! I PLAN ON WRITING A LOTTTT MORE HARRY JAMES POTTER FICS SO MAKE SURE TO JOIN MY TAGLIST!! THANK YOU FOR TAKING TIME OUT OF YOUR DAY TO WRITE THIS SWEET MESSAGE!! i hope you never go bald either pookie🩷🩷🩷

[lumosflairr]

hey guys!! Ill be posting soon. Ive been really busy while traveling with family so i haven’t had much time to post/answer you guys. Much love!!

[lumosflairr]

Hey (first of all, I just want to say I love your writing) I’d love to request a Fred Weasley fic inspired by To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, like the reader’s letters getting out and Fred being kind of like Peter Kavinsky. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language. I love your writing, take care!

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

summary: When a stack of private love letters accidentally gets out, you and Fred Weasley agree to fake-date to save face—and maybe make someone jealous. But between forehead kisses, stolen jumpers, and a Quidditch pitch kiss that feels way too real, pretending starts to feel a lot like falling… for real.

warnings: suggestive joke, once.

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

You always knew it was a dangerous game — bottling your feelings into ink and parchment. But it had always been safer that way. No heartbreak, no awkward stammering, no regret. Just you, your thoughts, and your stack of love letters tucked in a charm-locked, enchanted tea tin hidden behind your Charms textbooks.

There were five letters.

Each one carefully written under candlelight, sealed with a wax stamp you made from the base of your wand and a spell you found in Magical Sentiments: The Private Art of Wizarding Love Letters. You never intended for anyone to read them. That was the point. You wrote them to let go — to spill your heart in a place where no one could see the mess.

They were to:

1. Cedric Diggory – The golden boy of Hufflepuff. You admired him from afar during your second year when he picked up your books after Peeves knocked them over and smiled like he had all the time in the world. That smile lived in your memory longer than it should have.

2. Roger Davies – Brief, intense, and fizzled out like a dropped wand spark. You sat next to him in Ancient Runes for one term and swore he smelled like fresh parchment and mint. He never knew your name.

3. Oliver Wood – Oh, that was a phase. An intense, Quidditch-fueled phase where you convinced yourself you were in love with his drive, his voice during practice, and the way he said “bloody hell” under his breath every time someone dropped the Quaffle.

4. Fred Weasley – The most dangerous letter of them all. Not because it was the most passionate, or the most embarrassing, but because it was the most real. It was scribbled when you were fourteen and hopelessly stuck in a limbo between friendship and something that never quite happened. Fred, who once snuck you chocolate frogs after a bad exam. Fred, who danced with you once during a Gryffindor party when no one else asked. Fred, who made your heart feel like a fizzing whizzbee and never once noticed.

5. Michael Corner – A brief crush that died the moment he started dating Ginny Weasley. You wrote his letter half-heartedly, just to get it out of your system. It worked.

Five letters. Five pieces of your heart, written with no intention of ever being sent.

And yet, somehow, they were gone.

It happened on a Monday. A normal, average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary Monday. Until it wasn’t.

You returned from breakfast to your dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, ready to grab your bag and rush off to Charms. But when you went to pull the tin from behind your books — a spot no one ever looked — it was gone.

You stared at the empty space, blinking. Maybe you moved it? Maybe you took it out and forgot? You pulled books down, tossed aside your spare quills and loose parchment, even looked under your bed.

Nothing.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Winnie?” you called to your roommate, who was brushing her hair in the mirror, “Did you move anything from my shelf?”

She glanced back, half-paying attention. “No, why?”

You swallowed. “The tin I kept behind my books. It’s missing.”

Winnie shrugged. “Isn’t that the ugly one with the pink lid? Thought it looked like something from Honeydukes. I saw George Weasley messing with something pink yesterday. Near your side of the dorm. I assumed it was one of his prank sweets.”

Your heart stopped.

George. Bloody. Weasley.

You didn’t even wait to process. You stormed down the spiral stairs of the girls’ dormitory, sprinted past confused first-years, and nearly tripped over a couch cushion as you beelined toward the only people on Earth who could take a harmless enchanted box and turn it into your personal social doom.

Fred and George Weasley.

When you got to the common room, Fred was leaning back in one of the armchairs, boots kicked up on the table, an open bag of Every Flavour Beans resting on his lap. George was beside him, half-laughing, holding what looked suspiciously like—

No.

No, no, no.

A letter. Your letter.

The wax seal had been cracked.

Fred was holding another one. He turned it over in his hands with curiosity and a smirk, reading the front quietly to himself before glancing up at you. “To… Fred Gideon Weasley,” he read aloud dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Well, well. I don’t recall ever getting love letters before breakfast.”

You froze mid-step. “Fred—”

George grinned like the devil himself. “So, these are yours, huh? They just showed up in our dorm this morning. No note, no explanation. Bit mysterious. Naturally, we opened one.”

“I didn’t open any!” George said quickly. “That was him.” He pointed a smug finger at his twin.

You took a breath, heart racing. “Give. Them. Back.”

But Fred was already standing, holding your letter to him just out of reach. “Hang on, love. You wrote this?” His voice wasn’t teasing. Not yet. “You liked me?”

Past tense. You clung to it like a lifeline. “It was years ago.”

Fred’s brow lifted. “Says here I made you laugh during Potions and that you thought I had nice hands.”

Your entire face went hot. “Fred—”

“I do have nice hands, though,” he said thoughtfully, examining them. “Long fingers. Very useful for pranks and snatching love letters out of the air, apparently.”

You made a desperate grab for it, but he pulled it away with ease. “This is serious! These weren’t meant to be read!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have written them,” George said brightly, though he handed back the other letters with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, we thought it was a prank box. You know, one of those joke confession things.”

Fred’s gaze hadn’t left the letter. He tapped it against his palm, quiet now.

You glared at both of them. “If you tell anyone—”

Fred cut you off, voice calmer. “I won’t.”

You looked up, surprised.

He tucked the letter into his coat pocket like it belonged there. “But you and I,” he added with a grin slowly spreading across his face, “should talk.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked intrigued.

And that was much, much more dangerous.

Maybe he’d make a joke of it. Maybe he’d bring it up at dinner, toast to his “secret admirer” in front of the whole Gryffindor table and watch you go crimson. Or maybe, worst of all, he’d just forget it happened. Toss the letter in the bin, let it fade like every other school crush in history.

But Fred Weasley didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he kept the letter. And the next day, he cornered you after Transfiguration with that same maddening glint in his eye — equal parts amusement and curiosity, like he was halfway between setting off a prank and solving a puzzle.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he grabbed your arm and steered you into an empty corridor.

“Let me guess,” you said flatly, yanking your arm free. “You want to frame it? Hang it over your bed so you can admire yourself more efficiently?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s very flattering, by the way. All the stuff about my eyes and laugh and — what was it? — the way I said ‘bugger’ like it was a love language?”

You groaned. “Fred—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sort of. But I’m not here to take the mickey out of you, alright?”

You eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m actually here to make you a deal.”

That got your attention. “A deal?”

He looked around dramatically, then leaned in like he was about to reveal the location of a secret passageway Filch didn’t even know about. “We fake-date.”

You stared. “We what?”

“You and me,” he said, pointing between the two of you. “Public hand-holding, flirty looks across the Great Hall, sitting next to each other at meals, all that. We give people something to talk about.”

“Why?” you asked, blinking. “So you can mess with me more efficiently?”

“Because,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “Angelina’s seeing someone.”

You tilted your head. “Angelina Johnson?”

He nodded. “Started hanging around some Ravenclaw bloke last week. Tall. Prefect badge. A personality made of stale toast.”

You blinked. “Wait, you like Angelina?”

He made a face. “Not like-like. Just… we’ve been mates for years. We’ve snogged a few times after Quidditch wins. I thought maybe there was a thing there.”

“Ouch.”

He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

You crossed your arms, frowning. “So let me get this straight: You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend to make her jealous?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit manipulative—”

“It is manipulative.”

He held up a finger. “It’s also mutually beneficial.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”

He grinned. “Because everyone’s talking about those letters now. I overheard two Hufflepuffs debating whether you wrote one to Snape.”

You winced. “Merlin.”

“And if we pretend to date,” he continued, “it gives you a way to spin it. You’ll look confident. Mysterious. Like you had options and you chose me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like it benefits you a lot more than me.”

He shrugged. “You get plausible deniability. And the satisfaction of making me act like a charming, devoted boyfriend for a few weeks.”

You studied him. “Why not ask Alicia? Or Katie?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because they’d see right through me. And they’d laugh.”

You tilted your head. “And I won’t?”

“I mean,” he said, flashing that signature smirk, “you already had a crush on me. So technically you’re more invested.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was fourteen, Fred. That crush died years ago.”

He leaned in slightly. “Shame.”

The air shifted just slightly between you.

You cleared your throat. “So what exactly would this… fake thing entail?”

Fred shrugged. “We do the basics. Walk together between classes. Sit a bit too close in the common room. Maybe a stolen kiss in the corridor to really sell it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’d… want to kiss me?”

His expression softened just a little. “Only if you’re alright with it. It’s just for the act.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked down at the floor, then back up at him. Fred Weasley, asking you to play pretend. To act like everything you’d dreamed about years ago was real — only for someone else’s attention.

It was insane.

It was stupid.

It was tempting.

“How long?” you asked quietly.

Fred tilted his head. “A few weeks. Just until Angelina realizes she let something brilliant slip away.”

“And then what?” you asked. “We just break up publicly? Fight in the middle of the Great Hall for added drama?”

“I was thinking something more tasteful,” he said, grinning. “A mutual parting. We stay friends. Maybe you slap me for cheating. Up to you, really.”

You shook your head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

You paused. “If anyone finds out—”

“No one will,” he promised. “We’re professionals. Well, I am. You’ll catch on.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then finally sighed. “Fine.”

Fred’s grin exploded across his face. “Brilliant!”

“But if you so much as hint at anything in that letter—”

“I swear on my broomstick,” he said solemnly.

You hesitated, then added, “And don’t think I’m swooning over you just because I once said you had nice hands.”

He held them up again, wiggling his fingers. “They are nice, though.”

You turned to walk away, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

Behind you, Fred called, “So does this mean I can call you darling in public now?”

“Try it,” you called back, “and I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

By dinner that night, you had almost convinced yourself he’d forgotten the whole thing. Fred wasn’t exactly known for his attention span, and George had already started an indoor Dungbomb relay in the common room, which should’ve occupied his entire brain.

But when you entered the Great Hall, you spotted him instantly — already sitting at the Gryffindor table with his arm stretched along the bench, eyes scanning the entrance like he was waiting for you.

You paused in the doorway. He caught your eye, and without missing a beat, he patted the space beside him. You took a deep breath and walked toward him, ignoring the way your heart was starting to pound again. He looked unreasonably smug as you slid onto the bench.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You nearly choked. “You promised.”

“No eyebrow hexes yet,” he said, reaching for a roll. “I’m just playing my part.”

You glanced across the table — and sure enough, a few students were already whispering. Even Angelina, who sat three spots down, looked over at you both curiously.

Fred leaned closer. “Smile. You’re in love with me, remember?”

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Instead, you plastered on what you hoped was a convincingly lovesick smile and leaned just a little into his shoulder. Fred tilted his head toward yours, his voice low.

“Convincing,” he murmured. “Maybe too convincing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered.

“I’m not. That was a genuine compliment.” He reached forward and served you mashed potatoes — unprompted. “You’re glowing, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you say that word again, I will make it so you can’t say any word again.”

Fred only grinned, utterly unfazed. “You’re very violent for someone in love.”

You risked another glance at Angelina. She was laughing at something her friend said, but she glanced over again, just for a second. Her eyes dropped to where Fred’s arm was still resting behind you on the bench.

Fred noticed, too.

He shifted subtly, letting his fingers brush against the back of your shoulder. You stiffened. He leaned in like he was about to whisper something sweet — but instead, he whispered, “She’s looking.”

“Then stop acting like you’re narrating a spy mission.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to miss the moment my fake girlfriend has a public meltdown.”

“I’m this close, Weasley.”

“Good,” he said brightly. “Keep that fiery passion. It makes the whole performance feel more alive.”

You stabbed your fork into a piece of roasted carrot.

Then — to your surprise — he softened.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Fred said, quieter now. “I’m not doing this to mess with you. And I’m not going to make fun of the letter. I swear.”

You glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he added. “You’re brilliant. Everyone’s going to believe it.”

That… shut you up.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warming again — and not from embarrassment this time.

Before you could form a response, Fred turned his head slightly and spoke again, louder this time. “We should head to the library after this, yeah? I want to spend some time with you before practice.”

You blinked. “You hate the library.”

“It’s romantic now,” he said, standing and offering his hand like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, darling.”

You hesitated — then placed your hand in his.

Fred laced your fingers together, and just like that, every whisper in the Great Hall tripled. Angelina looked up. Fred didn’t acknowledge her. He was too busy smirking at you as he pulled you gently toward the doors, swinging your joined hands between you like it was all real.

And maybe, for a single second, it almost felt like it was.

As the week progressed, Fred didn’t drop the act — if anything, he doubled down.

He started walking you to class like it was routine. At meals, his thigh always pressed just slightly against yours under the table. During breaks between lessons, he’d appear out of nowhere to drape his arm over your shoulder and press a casual, too-natural kiss to your temple. Always in sight of someone.

At first, it caught you off guard — the way he played the part so easily, so convincingly. He’d slip his fingers into yours in the middle of the corridor, flash a grin at anyone who looked confused, and say things like “She’s mine, sorry lads” without missing a beat.

He called you darling, angel, sweetheart, and once — just to see you nearly combust — love of my life.

It was maddening. And unfairly effective.

The strangest part was how quickly everyone else started believing it.

By Friday, your friends had fully accepted the performance as truth. You’d walked into the Gryffindor common room late one evening to find Katie, Alicia, and Winnie sprawled on the couch, quizzing each other on Astronomy charts. They all looked up at once when you entered — and Katie practically launched forward.

“Oh my Godric’s beard,” she gasped. “You and Fred?”

You blinked, heart skipping. “What?”

Alicia grinned. “Don’t play dumb. He walked you to class again today. And you let him hold your hand the entire way down the corridor like it was nothing.”

“Also,” Katie added, narrowing her eyes, “he kissed your forehead right in front of Slughorn’s office. That’s practically domestic.”

You sat down slowly, trying not to panic. “Okay, yes — but—”

“But?” Winnie cut in, smirking. “Since when has this been a thing?”

You shrugged, forcing a casual smile. “It’s… new. Kind of a secret thing.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Secret?”

“I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew it was mutual,” you said, and technically, it wasn’t a lie. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”

Alicia clutched her chest. “That’s adorable.”

You gave a helpless laugh. “It’s not— I mean— we’re not—”

“You’re definitely something,” Katie cut in with a wicked glint in her eyes. “And if he’s not sneaking off to see you later tonight, I’ll eat Peeves’ socks.”

You froze. “W-what?”

Her grin widened. “Oh please, we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t be shocked if you wandered off to his dorm sometime around midnight.”

Your face went pink so fast, it was like a charm had hit you.

They howled.

Even Winnie, usually the most composed of them all, was laughing into a pillow. Alicia threw an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re blushing,” she teased.

“Am not,” you lied.

Katie leaned forward, practically vibrating with delight. “Just promise you’ll tell us everything if something happens, yeah?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Nothing is happening.”

They all giggled again, delighted, and settled back into their conversation like they hadn’t just shattered your composure.

But as the fire crackled and the room softened into late-night warmth, you caught yourself smiling behind your hands — because somewhere between the teasing and the pretending, Fred Weasley had started to feel dangerously real.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

Because somewhere between the forehead kisses and the hand-holding, somewhere between his arm draped lazily around your shoulders and the quiet, stolen looks he gave you when he thought no one else was watching — you started to wonder if you were slipping.

Not just pretending.

Not just playing along.

But feeling again.

It was terrifying. Because you remembered how it felt the first time — years ago, when your heart was younger and your crush on Fred was sweet and harmless. Back then, liking him had been simple. It had lived in glances and giggles, in letters you never intended to send.

But now?

Now it felt different. Sharper. Deeper. Like something had cracked open and let all that buried affection bleed out again, stronger than before — fed by every smile he threw your way, every quiet moment he leaned in close enough to make your breath catch.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way.

This was fake.

You knew it.

You knew it.

And yet your heart fluttered every single time he touched you. Every time he called you darling in that lazy, affectionate voice like he’d been doing it for years. Every time he tugged you toward him just a little too gently. Every time he rested his chin on your shoulder in the common room and sighed like being next to you was exactly where he wanted to be.

The worst part was… he made it look so easy. Like all this affection — all this closeness — meant nothing to him. Like it was just a performance, no more meaningful than pulling off a prank or slipping a Dungbomb into someone’s bag.

For you, every second of it was a storm. And for him, it was just weather.

It made your stomach ache, the way he could be so casual about it — laughing, teasing, touching you like it was nothing. Like he didn’t see the way you froze every time his fingers brushed your cheek. Like he didn’t notice the way your eyes lingered on his lips when he got too close.

Like he didn’t feel it too.

You kept telling yourself it would end. That it had to end. That Fred would get what he wanted — Angelina’s attention, her jealousy, her interest again — and the charade would fade. You’d go back to being just friends. Or classmates. Or nothing at all.

But until then, you were caught in this in-between. This sweet, aching lie you both agreed to live in — one where he looked at you like you were his and smiled like he meant it.

And no matter how hard you tried to protect yourself, your heart was slipping.

Falling again.

Maybe it had never really stopped.

And Merlin help you, but a part of you was starting to wish that Fred Weasley wasn’t acting at all.

So you told yourself to keep your heart guarded.

To stop overanalyzing every smile, every look, every gentle touch. To remember that Fred Weasley was just playing a role — and you were the one who signed up for it.

But then he said something like, “Girlfriends should hang out with their boyfriend’s mates at least once in a while,” and next thing you knew, you were sitting in the courtyard on a lazy Saturday afternoon with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, sunlight pooling over the stone benches as laughter bounced around you.

It was… easy. Too easy.

The four of you were tucked beneath one of the arched colonnades, eating from a shared bag of Honeydukes sweets and trading stories about Filch, Quidditch, and the time George accidentally blew up the third-year cauldron closet.

Fred sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, occasionally stealing your chocolate frogs and tossing every third one into Lee’s open palm like they’d made some silent agreement. You kept telling yourself to relax, to enjoy the sunshine and the way Fred laughed with his whole body and nudged your knee whenever you looked too serious.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling so much — until George teased, “You’re awfully quiet, lovebird. Cat got your tongue or are you just busy memorizing Freddie’s jawline again?”

You rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to argue — but before you could respond, Fred shifted closer and said smoothly, “Let her admire me. It’s character development.”

Lee snorted. “More like a tragic case of brain rot.”

“Oh, shut it,” Fred said, smirking. “She’s got excellent taste.”

You turned your head, ready to fire back something smart — when you saw Angelina.

She was walking across the grass just a few meters away, hand-in-hand with a tall Ravenclaw boy whose name you didn’t know. Her laugh was soft, the kind she reserved for people who got past her walls, and her head tilted affectionately toward the boy beside her as they strolled by like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Fred saw her, too.

His jaw shifted. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

And then — without warning — he turned to you and murmured under his breath, voice low and casual, but firm:

“Don’t be alarmed by what I’m about to do, love.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you clean off the bench — right into his lap.

You landed with a surprised “oof,” half-sprawled across him, your hands catching instinctively on his chest. Your entire face turned pink.

George choked on his sweet. Lee let out a sharp whistle.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Fred!” George laughed. “Warn a bloke before you get all handsy!”

“She’s fine,” Fred said easily, arms loosely wrapped around your waist now like you belonged there. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding. His face was so close now. Playfully smug, lips curved, eyes warm and a little too focused on yours.

He was acting.

You knew that.

And yet… you didn’t move.

“Dizzy,” you said flatly, “from the whiplash.”

Fred grinned. “That’s my girl.”

George and Lee were already cackling.

Lee pointed. “Can’t lie, that was smooth. The kind of move that makes seventh-year girls write poetry about you.”

Fred beamed. “I do inspire great art.”

“And tragic regret,” you muttered.

Fred’s gaze dipped down to your lips for half a second — just enough to make your stomach do a weird little flip — then back up to your eyes. “Regret? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“I’m calling it reckless.”

“You wound me.”

You tilted your head. “Not yet, but I’m considering it.”

His grin widened. “Keep talking like that, love, and people might start thinking you enjoy this.”

You didn’t answer.

Because, maybe — just maybe — you did.

And it scared you how easy it was to flirt back. How natural it felt to have his hands on your waist, his voice low in your ear, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

You didn’t miss the way Angelina glanced back once, eyebrows raised slightly — and how Fred’s hold on you tightened, just a little.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because as fake as this all was supposed to be, part of you was starting to forget where the act ended and your heart began.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the fake relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Later that night, you found yourself standing just inside Fred Weasley’s dorm room.

The space was cluttered, loud in the way boys’ rooms always were — half-empty boxes of sweets, a tangle of worn Quidditch gloves and broomstick wax, and a few fading posters plastered across the walls. His bed was unmade (shocking) and smelled faintly of mint and broom polish.

Fred was rifling through one of his drawers while you sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, trying not to overthink literally everything.

“Close your eyes,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not five.”

“Do it anyway.”

You huffed dramatically but obliged.

Something soft landed in your lap.

“Okay, open.”

You blinked — and stared.

It was a thick maroon Quidditch sweater. Slightly oversized, clearly worn, and unmistakably his. The back had his last name “WEASLEY” stitched in bold letters with the number “3” beneath it.

You looked up, startled. “Is this… your jersey?”

Fred leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips.

“Very good deduction, darling.”

You blinked again. “Why are you giving this to me?”

He raised a brow. “Because it’s what girlfriends do. Wear their boyfriend’s number. Show their undying devotion. Obsessively cheer them on from the stands.”

“I do not obsessively cheer.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I clapped once.”

“It was passionate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re serious? You want me to wear this at the match?”

Fred pushed off the wall and strolled over, leaning down slightly until your knees bumped. He plucked the sweater from your lap and held it up with both hands, sizing it against your frame. His voice dropped low — teasing, warm.

“Picture it: You, in the crowd. This on you. My name on your back, yeah? Everyone sees it. Angelina sees it. You’re mine.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—”

He gently tugged the sweater over your head before you could stop him. You yelped as the thick fabric slipped down your arms and past your waist, swallowing you entirely. It smelled like him — cinnamon and wind and something warm you couldn’t name.

Fred stepped back and nodded appreciatively.

“See? Perfect.”

You stared down at yourself. The sweater reached your thighs.

“This is practically a dress.”

Fred’s grin deepened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that either.”

“Fred.”

“What? Just making observations.”

You tried not to smile — and failed miserably. He flopped onto the bed beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “It suits you. Just saying.”

You glanced at him, heart thudding uncomfortably loud in your chest.

“Why does this feel… weirdly real?”

Fred’s expression faltered — just for a second — before the smirk returned.

“Because I’m very convincing,” he said, softer now. “Dangerously so.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. You really are.”

You didn’t take the sweater off that night.

Not even when you got back to your dorm and had to answer your roommates’ endless questions. Not even when you crawled into bed, Fred’s name still stitched across your back, warmth lingering like a phantom where his fingers had brushed your waist.

And certainly not the next morning, when you tugged it back on and headed down to the Quidditch pitch — pretending like this was all normal, like you hadn’t been lying awake half the night replaying everything in your head.

The stands were alive with energy, the Gryffindor section decked in red and gold. Banners rippled through the wind, students painted their faces, and someone had even charmed tiny lions to roar out house chants every few minutes.

You sat wedged between Hermione and Alicia Spinnet, your knees bouncing with nerves — although, if you were being honest, you weren’t nervous for the match.

You were nervous about him.

“Look at you,” Hermione said with a knowing smile, nudging your side. “In your boyfriend’s Quidditch sweater. How adorably cliché.”

You groaned, pulling at the too-long sleeves. “It’s not—he just gave it to me. For the match.”

“Right,” Alicia teased from your other side. “Totally not because he wanted everyone to see you wearing his name. Very casual.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Oh, we know,” Hermione said sweetly, then pointed toward the sky. “Look — they’re out!”

The players zoomed into view, a blur of scarlet robes and glinting broomsticks. The roar from the stands swelled. You leaned forward on instinct, your eyes scanning the team until you spotted him.

Fred.

Hair windswept, bat clutched in one hand, flying in perfect tandem with George. His eyes were sharp, focused — until they weren’t. Until they flicked up toward the crowd.

He found you instantly.

Your breath caught.

Fred grinned.

And then — right there in the middle of the match, without a care in the world — he blew you a kiss.

You blinked, stunned, and then laughed — warm and giddy — as you blew one right back.

Hermione let out a mock gasp. “Scandalous.”

Alicia giggled. “You two are actually sickening.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still smiling like an idiot.

Down on the pitch, Fred twisted midair just in time to whack a Bludger clean across the field, sending it spiraling past the Slytherin Chaser with barely an inch to spare. He high-fived George mid-flight, who whooped in celebration.

The match was fast-paced and aggressive, with both teams locked in a tug-of-war for control. Fred played like he had fire in his veins — sharp turns, daring dives, calculated hits that had the crowd shrieking. Every time a Slytherin tried to close in on a Gryffindor Chaser, Fred or George was already there, knocking Bludgers like guided missiles.

And then — twenty minutes in, Lee Jordan’s voice blared through the stadium, frantic and excited:

“Potter’s seen the Snitch—he’s diving—COME ON, HARRY—YES—HE’S GOT IT!”

The stands exploded.

Red and gold erupted into the air. Flags waved wildly. People screamed, threw their arms around each other, stomped the bleachers until the whole structure trembled.

You were already on your feet, heart racing with joy. Gryffindor had won.

You clambered down the stands with the rest of the crowd, your sweater bouncing against your thighs as you pushed through the sea of students pouring onto the pitch.

The team was already on the ground, dismounting and hugging and yelling over the chaos. You caught Fred’s eyes the moment your feet hit the grass.

He was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split.

“Fred!” you called, weaving toward him.

He didn’t say a word. Just strode forward, scooped you up, and spun you in a full circle, his arms locked around your waist, his laughter rumbling against your ear.

“You were brilliant,” you managed, breathless and flushed.

“And you look bloody adorable in my sweater,” he said with a grin. “Reckon it brought me luck.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already gazing at you — eyes roving over your face like you were something rare. Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

His hands tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

And then — just like that — he kissed you.

Right there on the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by noise and celebration and way too many witnesses, Fred Weasley kissed you.

It was soft at first — gentle, like he was testing the waters. But the moment you didn’t pull away, his hands slid up your back, and the kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into his jersey. The crowd melted around you.

Someone whistled loudly.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER!” George yelled obnoxiously. “GET IT, FREDDIE!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and catcalls, but neither of you moved.

When Fred finally pulled back, he was slightly out of breath, his grin wide and lopsided.

“Hi,” he said simply, voice lower than usual.

“Hi,” you whispered back, dazed.

Your cheeks were flaming. You couldn’t stop smiling.

Fred’s fingers brushed your cheek, lingering there for a beat too long. You were still close enough to feel the afterglow of his kiss, to see the glint in his eyes that looked way too real.

And then George jogged over, throwing an arm around his twin with a proud grin.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he said to Fred, before turning to you with a wink.

Fred opened his mouth to respond — but you weren’t even listening anymore.

Because over George’s shoulder, your eyes caught on Angelina, who stood off to the side near the goalpost, still talking to her boyfriend. Laughing at something he said. Unbothered. Unaware.

She hadn’t even looked.

She hadn’t seen the kiss. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t flinched.

Which meant…

Fred hadn’t kissed you to make her jealous.

He had just… kissed you.

Your heart pounded.

You looked up at Fred — and he was already looking at you.

The smirk was back, but his eyes told a different story.

And suddenly, the lines between fake and real had never felt blurrier.

The common room was buzzing.

Someone had charmed the wireless to blast The Weird Sisters. Butterbeer bottles clinked together in cheers. Laughter rang from every corner, people draped in Gryffindor scarves still riding the high from the win.

You were curled into the corner of the red velvet couch, tucked beneath Fred’s arm, your legs stretched across his lap. His fingertips absentmindedly traced patterns along the sleeve of your jumper — his jumper — and every time his knuckle brushed your wrist, your heart skipped a beat.

He smelled like grass and soap and wind. You’d spent the better half of the match yelling yourself hoarse, and the other half trying not to think about the way his lips had felt against yours.

But you were failing miserably at that second part.

Because the truth was, you’d thought about that kiss a lot.

Over and over, like some dumb record stuck on repeat.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if it was all still pretend.

Fred was laughing now at something Seamus had said from the armchair across from you. His chest shook against your side, and his arm pulled you in closer as if it were second nature. As if you belonged there. As if this was always supposed to happen.

You tilted your head toward him, a soft smile teasing at your lips.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood tonight,” you said, nudging him playfully.

Fred gave you a lopsided grin. “I did win a Quidditch match and kiss the prettiest girl on the pitch. Can you blame me?”

Your heart did that stupid flutter again.

You scoffed through your blush, trying to act unfazed. “That kiss was for show, remember?”

“Was it?” he asked, smirking — and you couldn’t tell if he was teasing or being honest. It was always so hard to tell with Fred.

Before you could reply, George sauntered over with a smug look on his face and a Butterbeer in hand.

“Oi, Freddie,” he said with a knowing grin, “taking her up to your dorm again tonight?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

George let out a dramatic whistle and wiggled his eyebrows in your direction. “Didn’t know we were playing house already.”

You threw a cushion at him, laughing. “Hush it, Weasley.”

George caught the cushion with a grin and winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Fred chuckled beside you. “That’s a very short list.”

As George wandered off, you looked up at Fred and cocked your head. “So? Was that an actual invitation?”

Fred leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Only if you’re in need of some quiet. It’s chaos down here.”

You blinked. “Didn’t take you as the type to run from chaos.”

His grin deepened. “I don’t. But I do prefer my chaos in smaller doses. Select company.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile. “Well then. Lead the way.”

His dorm was dim and warm, the walls cluttered with posters and Quidditch memorabilia. One wall was plastered in clippings from old Daily Prophet articles and Wizarding Wheezes product drafts — messy handwriting and colorful doodles trailing in the margins.

Fred tossed himself onto his bed and sighed dramatically. “Much better.”

You stood awkwardly near his desk, taking in the room.

A tower of Chocolate Frog boxes stood on one bookshelf. A broomstick leaned against the far wall. A pair of well-worn boots were kicked beneath the bed, and a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott’s sat open on his trunk.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Your room is exactly how I imagined it.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just…” You walked slowly around the room. “You in room form.”

He chuckled, then stretched like a cat, arms over his head. “M’gonna shower. Try not to snoop through my deepest secrets while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He winked, grabbing a towel from his bed. “Be right back, sweetheart.”

You tried not to react to the nickname as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

And then… it was just you.

You sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing across the worn comforter. Your eyes drifted again to his side of the room — the shelves lined with broken toy prototypes, half-taped sketches, and what looked like a book of Quidditch strategies stuffed beneath a stack of Exploding Snap cards.

And then you saw it.

Tucked neatly beneath the amber glow of his bedside lamp — a folded sheet of parchment. Crisp. Clean. Unmistakably familiar.

Your heart skipped.

You reached for it slowly, your fingers shaking ever so slightly as you picked it up.

Your handwriting.

The first line was visible before you even unfolded it.

“Dear Fred Weasley, I know I shouldn’t still think about you like this, but sometimes it hurts not to.”

It was one of your letters.

And not just any letter.

The letter.

The one you wrote when you thought you’d finally buried the last of those feelings. The one where you told the truth — the messy, unfiltered, honest truth about what he’d meant to you before everything got too complicated. The one you thought no one would ever read.

Yet there it was.

Sitting under his lamp like it belonged there.

Like he’d read it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The weight of the parchment in your hand suddenly felt like a thousand pounds.

Because if he’d read it—if Fred Weasley had really read this letter—then every single wall you’d carefully built between your heart and this fake relationship just came crashing down. It was no longer some silly game, no longer pretend.

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or laugh at how stupidly vulnerable you felt. At how real it all suddenly was.

And maybe the worst part?

A part of you hoped he had read it.

Because this version of Fred—warm, affectionate, always looking at you like you hung the stars—wasn’t that different from the Fred you wrote about all those months ago. The one who stayed up late telling you his wildest ideas, who tugged on your braid during lessons just to make you smile, who made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t even realized you needed.

But none of that was supposed to leave the page.

This was supposed to be safe. Controlled. A fake relationship to protect your real feelings.

Now?

Now your feelings were inching toward the surface again—loud, reckless, and entirely out of your hands.

You took a shaky breath and slowly folded the letter, placing it back exactly where you found it, beneath the lamp. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

Just as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, the bathroom door creaked open.

Fred stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, hair damp and tousled in every direction, a black shirt clinging to his chest and a pair of maroon-and-gold pajama pants hanging loosely on his hips.

“Miss me?” he asked with a grin, rubbing a hand through his hair.

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to play it cool despite your racing thoughts. “You were gone for ten minutes.”

He plopped down next to you on the bed, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I know. Tragic, wasn’t it?”

You laughed softly, your voice a little quieter than usual. “You were brilliant tonight, by the way. In the match.”

Fred paused, turning to look at you with an expression that wavered somewhere between smug and sheepish. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a genuine smile. “Seriously. I was proud of you.”

He blinked, and for a second—just a second—you saw a soft pink color dust the tips of his ears. But Fred being Fred, he recovered quickly, flashing a smirk.

“Careful, darling. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me.”

You snorted, bumping your shoulder into his. “You wish.”

But the truth was, part of you did.

The conversation drifted into easy laughter again, the two of you trading stories, teasing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was so effortless—so dangerously close to everything you’d ever wanted—that your chest ached with the weight of it.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

Eventually, you glanced at the clock on his wall and sighed. “I should probably head back to my dorm.”

Fred looked at you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he nodded. “Alright, sugarplum. Don’t let the staircases trip you on the way down.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, standing up and smoothing down your jumper. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you keep coming back.”

You smiled, your heart squeezing in your chest.

God, you were so screwed.

The next morning came far too quickly.

Despite the weight of everything that had happened the night before—the letter, the kiss, the way Fred had looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of—you somehow managed to fall asleep, only to wake up feeling like your chest was still holding onto something it hadn’t finished processing.

And now here you were.

Sat at breakfast in the Great Hall beside Fred Weasley, his large hand resting comfortably on your thigh beneath the table, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into the fabric of your skirt as if it were second nature to him. Like this was something he did every morning. Like this was just… you two.

You’d barely taken a bite of your toast because your heart was thudding so loud it practically echoed in your ears.

Across from you sat George, Katie, and Lee—all in the middle of one of their usual chaotic, early morning debates. Something about who had the best aim in the entire Gryffindor Quidditch lineup (Katie said her, George argued himself, and Lee just kept saying “It’s obviously Angelina, she nearly broke my nose during practice once.”)

You were laughing, lips curled around the rim of your orange juice goblet when Fred leaned over toward you, muttering just low enough that only you could hear, “You look real cute when you laugh like that, sweetheart.”

You turned your head slightly, giving him a skeptical look, but the way his eyes were already focused on you—bright, amused, and just the slightest bit hungry—sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re full of it,” you murmured, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

Fred grinned, inching closer, his nose brushing your cheek. “Maybe. But you’re still smiling.”

And then, with the kind of confidence that came so naturally to him it made your head spin, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Warm. Barely there.

But it stole your breath all the same.

George didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he groaned around a bite of eggs. “You two are worse than Bill and Fleur.”

Katie laughed. “I think it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Lee added with a grin. “Cute in the way that makes me want to hex something out of jealousy.”

You flushed, burying your face slightly into your goblet just to hide the way your cheeks had gone scarlet, but Fred only chuckled beside you and tightened his hand on your thigh, fingers squeezing gently before continuing their slow, teasing strokes.

As the day went on, the lines between real and pretend blurred further.

Fred’s hand found yours in the corridor as you walked beside him, fingers laced tightly together. He leaned in during class breaks, whispering jokes against your ear, your skin tingling where his breath brushed it. He kissed your lips before Charms—right in the middle of the corridor—without a care in the world, and there wasn’t a single soul around to witness it who mattered. Not even Angelina.

And somehow… that made it worse.

Because if he was doing it just for show, there would’ve been an audience.

But there wasn’t.

There was only you.

And the soft, casual way he held you like you belonged to him.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all—because part of you wanted to belong to him. Again. Completely.

The rest of the castle moved around you, friends teasing, classes dragging, owls swooping down mid-day with care packages and letters—but you? You were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the way Fred’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sleeve during lunch. Somewhere in the way his lips pressed to your temple before heading off to a prefect meeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere in that hazy space between fake and dangerously close to real.

And you were falling all over again.

The Gryffindor common room was already buzzing with noise by the time you made it downstairs. The party was well underway—music echoing off the stone walls, glowing orbs of red and gold light bobbing above everyone’s heads like fireflies, and the unmistakable scent of pumpkin pastries and Honeydukes chocolate wafting through the air. Laughter spilled out from every corner—someone had charmed the butterbeer to refill itself, and someone else (likely George) was passing out Ever-Bouncing Berries that ricocheted off the ceilings like magical confetti.

Before all that chaos, though—you were still upstairs.

Your red top hugged your frame perfectly, and the short black leather skirt had felt like a bold choice… but when you looked in the mirror, you knew it worked. You looked good. You felt good. Alicia let out a low whistle the second she saw you step out of your dorm.

“Well, damn,” she said, smirking as she eyed your outfit. “If Fred isn’t staring at you like you’ve hung the bloody moon, I’m hexing him.”

Katie grinned beside her. “Yeah, prepare yourself, love. His hands are going to be all over you tonight.”

That made your cheeks flush instantly. “You guys are awful.”

“Just honest,” Alicia said, bumping your hip with hers. “You look hot.”

Still flustered and smiling through it, you grabbed your wand and smoothed down your top one last time before making your way out of the girls’ dorm. As you descended the staircase, the music got louder, laughter and chatter layering into it all. The common room had been transformed: strings of golden lights wrapped around the banisters, cushions charmed to float midair, and the fireplace crackled with an unnatural red flame that matched the celebratory chaos perfectly.

Your eyes scanned the room, trailing over the crowd of students packed in shoulder-to-shoulder—some dancing, some chugging butterbeer, some sprawled on couches in various states of intoxicated euphoria.

Then you saw him.

Fred was tucked into the corner, drink in hand, laughing along with Seamus and Dean. The second your eyes met, it was like time stopped. He froze—mid-laugh, mid-sentence, mid-everything. His expression slackened slightly, like he hadn’t been prepared to be completely knocked off his axis.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Hard.

You smirked.

The moment was yours now.

With slow, deliberate steps, you crossed the room, weaving between bodies until you reached him. Fred blinked down at you, mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Close your mouth, Weasley,” you teased, tugging on the hem of your top playfully. “You’re going to catch a Snitch in it.”

He blinked again, then broke into that familiar, heart-stopping grin. “You tryin’ to kill me, darling? ‘Cause I think you just succeeded.”

Your cheeks burned despite yourself. “It’s just a skirt.”

“It’s not just a skirt when it’s on you,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping just slightly as his gaze flicked down and then back to your face. “Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me tonight.”

“Flatterer,” you said, brushing your fingers over his arm. “You look decent yourself.”

“Decent?” he scoffed. “Sweetheart, I’m hurt.”

You laughed, and his hands found your waist—pulling you just a little closer. There was a soft beat of music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the rhythm of your heart in your chest.

Before you could respond, you heard Katie’s voice from across the room. “Oi! Come dance with us!”

Alicia and Angelina were already waving you over, motioning toward the dance floor that had formed in the middle of the room. You turned back to Fred, who let out a small, exaggerated sigh and slowly removed his hands from your waist.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving you a crooked grin. “But don’t blame me if I come steal you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” he murmured. “I absolutely would.”

With a breathy laugh, you turned and made your way toward your friends, letting the music pull you in. You swayed with the beat, arms lifted as you danced beside Alicia and Katie. The rhythm buzzed in your veins as you let go of everything else for a moment—just letting yourself be in the music, the laughter, the warmth of the room.

But you felt it—before you saw it.

A presence behind you. A shift in the air.

And then, his voice—low, teasing—right against your ear. “Merlin, you’re making it really hard to behave tonight.”

You turned, heart skipping, to see Fred standing behind you, a grin dancing on his lips.

“I knew you’d come back,” you said with a raised brow.

He stepped closer. “Couldn’t stay away. Not when you’re dancing like that.”

Your stomach flipped as he offered you his hand with a slight bow. “May I have this dance?”

You took it without hesitation.

He spun you around effortlessly, your laughter ringing through the room as you stumbled into his chest. The two of you danced—really danced. Spinning, laughing, holding onto each other as the crowd blurred around you. Fred dipped you playfully, caught you in his arms, and whispered flirty little remarks that made your face burn and your heart race.

But eventually… the laughter died down.

Your giggles slowed.

And then it was just the two of you.

The music faded beneath the sound of your breathing. Fred’s hands settled on your waist, your palms resting against his chest. You looked up at him—really looked. And he looked back.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then rose to meet your gaze again.

“Careful, Freddie,” you whispered, voice low and teasing. “You’re starting to make me think this is more than a game to you.”

Fred’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Who says it isn’t anymore?”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, chest tightening, mouth parted slightly in stunned silence. His hands gently trailed from your waist, fingers brushing your sides until they landed on your cheeks.

And then—he kissed you.

No games. No teasing. No charade.

Just him.

Just you.

His lips were warm and familiar and dizzying all at once, his kiss deep and full of something that set your nerves on fire. You kissed him back without thinking, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he held you close, not caring that people around you had stopped to look.

When you both pulled away—breathless, flushed, reeling—Fred still hadn’t let go.

“Come outside with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. “I need to tell you something.”

You nodded, heart hammering in your chest.

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth inside, but it helped clear your head just enough to process that something was changing.

You turned to him once you were a few steps from the common room door.

Fred was staring at the stars—then at you.

“I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he began, voice a little shakier than you’d ever heard. “This was supposed to be pretend, yeah. Just a stupid idea. Make Angelina jealous, whatever. But…”

His eyes met yours again.

“After the second day, it didn’t feel fake anymore. Not even a little. And then you wore that stupid jumper. And kissed me back. And stood there in that crowd looking at me like I was worth something—and I realized I’ve always loved you. Always. I just didn’t let myself admit it.”

You blinked, your heart splintering at the edges.

“And now,” he added with a sheepish grin, “you’ve gone and ruined me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, then stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his cheek.

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered. “You absolute idiot. I never stopped loving you. I just… never thought you’d actually feel the same.”

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours.

“I do,” he murmured. “So much.”

And then—you kissed him again.

This one slower. Sweeter.

Filled with everything that had been left unsaid.

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling, hands still tangled together.

“So,” Fred said, his voice light again. “Does this mean I get to call you mine?”

You smirked. “If you behave.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Officially.

[lumosflairr]

Hey (first of all, I just want to say I love your writing) I’d love to request a Fred Weasley fic inspired by To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, like the reader’s letters getting out and Fred being kind of like Peter Kavinsky. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language. I love your writing, take care!

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

summary: When a stack of private love letters accidentally gets out, you and Fred Weasley agree to fake-date to save face—and maybe make someone jealous. But between forehead kisses, stolen jumpers, and a Quidditch pitch kiss that feels way too real, pretending starts to feel a lot like falling… for real.

warnings: suggestive joke, once.

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

You always knew it was a dangerous game — bottling your feelings into ink and parchment. But it had always been safer that way. No heartbreak, no awkward stammering, no regret. Just you, your thoughts, and your stack of love letters tucked in a charm-locked, enchanted tea tin hidden behind your Charms textbooks.

There were five letters.

Each one carefully written under candlelight, sealed with a wax stamp you made from the base of your wand and a spell you found in Magical Sentiments: The Private Art of Wizarding Love Letters. You never intended for anyone to read them. That was the point. You wrote them to let go — to spill your heart in a place where no one could see the mess.

They were to:

1. Cedric Diggory – The golden boy of Hufflepuff. You admired him from afar during your second year when he picked up your books after Peeves knocked them over and smiled like he had all the time in the world. That smile lived in your memory longer than it should have.

2. Roger Davies – Brief, intense, and fizzled out like a dropped wand spark. You sat next to him in Ancient Runes for one term and swore he smelled like fresh parchment and mint. He never knew your name.

3. Oliver Wood – Oh, that was a phase. An intense, Quidditch-fueled phase where you convinced yourself you were in love with his drive, his voice during practice, and the way he said “bloody hell” under his breath every time someone dropped the Quaffle.

4. Fred Weasley – The most dangerous letter of them all. Not because it was the most passionate, or the most embarrassing, but because it was the most real. It was scribbled when you were fourteen and hopelessly stuck in a limbo between friendship and something that never quite happened. Fred, who once snuck you chocolate frogs after a bad exam. Fred, who danced with you once during a Gryffindor party when no one else asked. Fred, who made your heart feel like a fizzing whizzbee and never once noticed.

5. Michael Corner – A brief crush that died the moment he started dating Ginny Weasley. You wrote his letter half-heartedly, just to get it out of your system. It worked.

Five letters. Five pieces of your heart, written with no intention of ever being sent.

And yet, somehow, they were gone.

It happened on a Monday. A normal, average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary Monday. Until it wasn’t.

You returned from breakfast to your dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, ready to grab your bag and rush off to Charms. But when you went to pull the tin from behind your books — a spot no one ever looked — it was gone.

You stared at the empty space, blinking. Maybe you moved it? Maybe you took it out and forgot? You pulled books down, tossed aside your spare quills and loose parchment, even looked under your bed.

Nothing.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Winnie?” you called to your roommate, who was brushing her hair in the mirror, “Did you move anything from my shelf?”

She glanced back, half-paying attention. “No, why?”

You swallowed. “The tin I kept behind my books. It’s missing.”

Winnie shrugged. “Isn’t that the ugly one with the pink lid? Thought it looked like something from Honeydukes. I saw George Weasley messing with something pink yesterday. Near your side of the dorm. I assumed it was one of his prank sweets.”

Your heart stopped.

George. Bloody. Weasley.

You didn’t even wait to process. You stormed down the spiral stairs of the girls’ dormitory, sprinted past confused first-years, and nearly tripped over a couch cushion as you beelined toward the only people on Earth who could take a harmless enchanted box and turn it into your personal social doom.

Fred and George Weasley.

When you got to the common room, Fred was leaning back in one of the armchairs, boots kicked up on the table, an open bag of Every Flavour Beans resting on his lap. George was beside him, half-laughing, holding what looked suspiciously like—

No.

No, no, no.

A letter. Your letter.

The wax seal had been cracked.

Fred was holding another one. He turned it over in his hands with curiosity and a smirk, reading the front quietly to himself before glancing up at you. “To… Fred Gideon Weasley,” he read aloud dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Well, well. I don’t recall ever getting love letters before breakfast.”

You froze mid-step. “Fred—”

George grinned like the devil himself. “So, these are yours, huh? They just showed up in our dorm this morning. No note, no explanation. Bit mysterious. Naturally, we opened one.”

“I didn’t open any!” George said quickly. “That was him.” He pointed a smug finger at his twin.

You took a breath, heart racing. “Give. Them. Back.”

But Fred was already standing, holding your letter to him just out of reach. “Hang on, love. You wrote this?” His voice wasn’t teasing. Not yet. “You liked me?”

Past tense. You clung to it like a lifeline. “It was years ago.”

Fred’s brow lifted. “Says here I made you laugh during Potions and that you thought I had nice hands.”

Your entire face went hot. “Fred—”

“I do have nice hands, though,” he said thoughtfully, examining them. “Long fingers. Very useful for pranks and snatching love letters out of the air, apparently.”

You made a desperate grab for it, but he pulled it away with ease. “This is serious! These weren’t meant to be read!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have written them,” George said brightly, though he handed back the other letters with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, we thought it was a prank box. You know, one of those joke confession things.”

Fred’s gaze hadn’t left the letter. He tapped it against his palm, quiet now.

You glared at both of them. “If you tell anyone—”

Fred cut you off, voice calmer. “I won’t.”

You looked up, surprised.

He tucked the letter into his coat pocket like it belonged there. “But you and I,” he added with a grin slowly spreading across his face, “should talk.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked intrigued.

And that was much, much more dangerous.

Maybe he’d make a joke of it. Maybe he’d bring it up at dinner, toast to his “secret admirer” in front of the whole Gryffindor table and watch you go crimson. Or maybe, worst of all, he’d just forget it happened. Toss the letter in the bin, let it fade like every other school crush in history.

But Fred Weasley didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he kept the letter. And the next day, he cornered you after Transfiguration with that same maddening glint in his eye — equal parts amusement and curiosity, like he was halfway between setting off a prank and solving a puzzle.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he grabbed your arm and steered you into an empty corridor.

“Let me guess,” you said flatly, yanking your arm free. “You want to frame it? Hang it over your bed so you can admire yourself more efficiently?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s very flattering, by the way. All the stuff about my eyes and laugh and — what was it? — the way I said ‘bugger’ like it was a love language?”

You groaned. “Fred—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sort of. But I’m not here to take the mickey out of you, alright?”

You eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m actually here to make you a deal.”

That got your attention. “A deal?”

He looked around dramatically, then leaned in like he was about to reveal the location of a secret passageway Filch didn’t even know about. “We fake-date.”

You stared. “We what?”

“You and me,” he said, pointing between the two of you. “Public hand-holding, flirty looks across the Great Hall, sitting next to each other at meals, all that. We give people something to talk about.”

“Why?” you asked, blinking. “So you can mess with me more efficiently?”

“Because,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “Angelina’s seeing someone.”

You tilted your head. “Angelina Johnson?”

He nodded. “Started hanging around some Ravenclaw bloke last week. Tall. Prefect badge. A personality made of stale toast.”

You blinked. “Wait, you like Angelina?”

He made a face. “Not like-like. Just… we’ve been mates for years. We’ve snogged a few times after Quidditch wins. I thought maybe there was a thing there.”

“Ouch.”

He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

You crossed your arms, frowning. “So let me get this straight: You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend to make her jealous?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit manipulative—”

“It is manipulative.”

He held up a finger. “It’s also mutually beneficial.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”

He grinned. “Because everyone’s talking about those letters now. I overheard two Hufflepuffs debating whether you wrote one to Snape.”

You winced. “Merlin.”

“And if we pretend to date,” he continued, “it gives you a way to spin it. You’ll look confident. Mysterious. Like you had options and you chose me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like it benefits you a lot more than me.”

He shrugged. “You get plausible deniability. And the satisfaction of making me act like a charming, devoted boyfriend for a few weeks.”

You studied him. “Why not ask Alicia? Or Katie?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because they’d see right through me. And they’d laugh.”

You tilted your head. “And I won’t?”

“I mean,” he said, flashing that signature smirk, “you already had a crush on me. So technically you’re more invested.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was fourteen, Fred. That crush died years ago.”

He leaned in slightly. “Shame.”

The air shifted just slightly between you.

You cleared your throat. “So what exactly would this… fake thing entail?”

Fred shrugged. “We do the basics. Walk together between classes. Sit a bit too close in the common room. Maybe a stolen kiss in the corridor to really sell it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’d… want to kiss me?”

His expression softened just a little. “Only if you’re alright with it. It’s just for the act.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked down at the floor, then back up at him. Fred Weasley, asking you to play pretend. To act like everything you’d dreamed about years ago was real — only for someone else’s attention.

It was insane.

It was stupid.

It was tempting.

“How long?” you asked quietly.

Fred tilted his head. “A few weeks. Just until Angelina realizes she let something brilliant slip away.”

“And then what?” you asked. “We just break up publicly? Fight in the middle of the Great Hall for added drama?”

“I was thinking something more tasteful,” he said, grinning. “A mutual parting. We stay friends. Maybe you slap me for cheating. Up to you, really.”

You shook your head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

You paused. “If anyone finds out—”

“No one will,” he promised. “We’re professionals. Well, I am. You’ll catch on.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then finally sighed. “Fine.”

Fred’s grin exploded across his face. “Brilliant!”

“But if you so much as hint at anything in that letter—”

“I swear on my broomstick,” he said solemnly.

You hesitated, then added, “And don’t think I’m swooning over you just because I once said you had nice hands.”

He held them up again, wiggling his fingers. “They are nice, though.”

You turned to walk away, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

Behind you, Fred called, “So does this mean I can call you darling in public now?”

“Try it,” you called back, “and I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

By dinner that night, you had almost convinced yourself he’d forgotten the whole thing. Fred wasn’t exactly known for his attention span, and George had already started an indoor Dungbomb relay in the common room, which should’ve occupied his entire brain.

But when you entered the Great Hall, you spotted him instantly — already sitting at the Gryffindor table with his arm stretched along the bench, eyes scanning the entrance like he was waiting for you.

You paused in the doorway. He caught your eye, and without missing a beat, he patted the space beside him. You took a deep breath and walked toward him, ignoring the way your heart was starting to pound again. He looked unreasonably smug as you slid onto the bench.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You nearly choked. “You promised.”

“No eyebrow hexes yet,” he said, reaching for a roll. “I’m just playing my part.”

You glanced across the table — and sure enough, a few students were already whispering. Even Angelina, who sat three spots down, looked over at you both curiously.

Fred leaned closer. “Smile. You’re in love with me, remember?”

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Instead, you plastered on what you hoped was a convincingly lovesick smile and leaned just a little into his shoulder. Fred tilted his head toward yours, his voice low.

“Convincing,” he murmured. “Maybe too convincing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered.

“I’m not. That was a genuine compliment.” He reached forward and served you mashed potatoes — unprompted. “You’re glowing, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you say that word again, I will make it so you can’t say any word again.”

Fred only grinned, utterly unfazed. “You’re very violent for someone in love.”

You risked another glance at Angelina. She was laughing at something her friend said, but she glanced over again, just for a second. Her eyes dropped to where Fred’s arm was still resting behind you on the bench.

Fred noticed, too.

He shifted subtly, letting his fingers brush against the back of your shoulder. You stiffened. He leaned in like he was about to whisper something sweet — but instead, he whispered, “She’s looking.”

“Then stop acting like you’re narrating a spy mission.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to miss the moment my fake girlfriend has a public meltdown.”

“I’m this close, Weasley.”

“Good,” he said brightly. “Keep that fiery passion. It makes the whole performance feel more alive.”

You stabbed your fork into a piece of roasted carrot.

Then — to your surprise — he softened.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Fred said, quieter now. “I’m not doing this to mess with you. And I’m not going to make fun of the letter. I swear.”

You glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he added. “You’re brilliant. Everyone’s going to believe it.”

That… shut you up.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warming again — and not from embarrassment this time.

Before you could form a response, Fred turned his head slightly and spoke again, louder this time. “We should head to the library after this, yeah? I want to spend some time with you before practice.”

You blinked. “You hate the library.”

“It’s romantic now,” he said, standing and offering his hand like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, darling.”

You hesitated — then placed your hand in his.

Fred laced your fingers together, and just like that, every whisper in the Great Hall tripled. Angelina looked up. Fred didn’t acknowledge her. He was too busy smirking at you as he pulled you gently toward the doors, swinging your joined hands between you like it was all real.

And maybe, for a single second, it almost felt like it was.

As the week progressed, Fred didn’t drop the act — if anything, he doubled down.

He started walking you to class like it was routine. At meals, his thigh always pressed just slightly against yours under the table. During breaks between lessons, he’d appear out of nowhere to drape his arm over your shoulder and press a casual, too-natural kiss to your temple. Always in sight of someone.

At first, it caught you off guard — the way he played the part so easily, so convincingly. He’d slip his fingers into yours in the middle of the corridor, flash a grin at anyone who looked confused, and say things like “She’s mine, sorry lads” without missing a beat.

He called you darling, angel, sweetheart, and once — just to see you nearly combust — love of my life.

It was maddening. And unfairly effective.

The strangest part was how quickly everyone else started believing it.

By Friday, your friends had fully accepted the performance as truth. You’d walked into the Gryffindor common room late one evening to find Katie, Alicia, and Winnie sprawled on the couch, quizzing each other on Astronomy charts. They all looked up at once when you entered — and Katie practically launched forward.

“Oh my Godric’s beard,” she gasped. “You and Fred?”

You blinked, heart skipping. “What?”

Alicia grinned. “Don’t play dumb. He walked you to class again today. And you let him hold your hand the entire way down the corridor like it was nothing.”

“Also,” Katie added, narrowing her eyes, “he kissed your forehead right in front of Slughorn’s office. That’s practically domestic.”

You sat down slowly, trying not to panic. “Okay, yes — but—”

“But?” Winnie cut in, smirking. “Since when has this been a thing?”

You shrugged, forcing a casual smile. “It’s… new. Kind of a secret thing.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Secret?”

“I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew it was mutual,” you said, and technically, it wasn’t a lie. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”

Alicia clutched her chest. “That’s adorable.”

You gave a helpless laugh. “It’s not— I mean— we’re not—”

“You’re definitely something,” Katie cut in with a wicked glint in her eyes. “And if he’s not sneaking off to see you later tonight, I’ll eat Peeves’ socks.”

You froze. “W-what?”

Her grin widened. “Oh please, we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t be shocked if you wandered off to his dorm sometime around midnight.”

Your face went pink so fast, it was like a charm had hit you.

They howled.

Even Winnie, usually the most composed of them all, was laughing into a pillow. Alicia threw an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re blushing,” she teased.

“Am not,” you lied.

Katie leaned forward, practically vibrating with delight. “Just promise you’ll tell us everything if something happens, yeah?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Nothing is happening.”

They all giggled again, delighted, and settled back into their conversation like they hadn’t just shattered your composure.

But as the fire crackled and the room softened into late-night warmth, you caught yourself smiling behind your hands — because somewhere between the teasing and the pretending, Fred Weasley had started to feel dangerously real.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

Because somewhere between the forehead kisses and the hand-holding, somewhere between his arm draped lazily around your shoulders and the quiet, stolen looks he gave you when he thought no one else was watching — you started to wonder if you were slipping.

Not just pretending.

Not just playing along.

But feeling again.

It was terrifying. Because you remembered how it felt the first time — years ago, when your heart was younger and your crush on Fred was sweet and harmless. Back then, liking him had been simple. It had lived in glances and giggles, in letters you never intended to send.

But now?

Now it felt different. Sharper. Deeper. Like something had cracked open and let all that buried affection bleed out again, stronger than before — fed by every smile he threw your way, every quiet moment he leaned in close enough to make your breath catch.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way.

This was fake.

You knew it.

You knew it.

And yet your heart fluttered every single time he touched you. Every time he called you darling in that lazy, affectionate voice like he’d been doing it for years. Every time he tugged you toward him just a little too gently. Every time he rested his chin on your shoulder in the common room and sighed like being next to you was exactly where he wanted to be.

The worst part was… he made it look so easy. Like all this affection — all this closeness — meant nothing to him. Like it was just a performance, no more meaningful than pulling off a prank or slipping a Dungbomb into someone’s bag.

For you, every second of it was a storm. And for him, it was just weather.

It made your stomach ache, the way he could be so casual about it — laughing, teasing, touching you like it was nothing. Like he didn’t see the way you froze every time his fingers brushed your cheek. Like he didn’t notice the way your eyes lingered on his lips when he got too close.

Like he didn’t feel it too.

You kept telling yourself it would end. That it had to end. That Fred would get what he wanted — Angelina’s attention, her jealousy, her interest again — and the charade would fade. You’d go back to being just friends. Or classmates. Or nothing at all.

But until then, you were caught in this in-between. This sweet, aching lie you both agreed to live in — one where he looked at you like you were his and smiled like he meant it.

And no matter how hard you tried to protect yourself, your heart was slipping.

Falling again.

Maybe it had never really stopped.

And Merlin help you, but a part of you was starting to wish that Fred Weasley wasn’t acting at all.

So you told yourself to keep your heart guarded.

To stop overanalyzing every smile, every look, every gentle touch. To remember that Fred Weasley was just playing a role — and you were the one who signed up for it.

But then he said something like, “Girlfriends should hang out with their boyfriend’s mates at least once in a while,” and next thing you knew, you were sitting in the courtyard on a lazy Saturday afternoon with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, sunlight pooling over the stone benches as laughter bounced around you.

It was… easy. Too easy.

The four of you were tucked beneath one of the arched colonnades, eating from a shared bag of Honeydukes sweets and trading stories about Filch, Quidditch, and the time George accidentally blew up the third-year cauldron closet.

Fred sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, occasionally stealing your chocolate frogs and tossing every third one into Lee’s open palm like they’d made some silent agreement. You kept telling yourself to relax, to enjoy the sunshine and the way Fred laughed with his whole body and nudged your knee whenever you looked too serious.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling so much — until George teased, “You’re awfully quiet, lovebird. Cat got your tongue or are you just busy memorizing Freddie’s jawline again?”

You rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to argue — but before you could respond, Fred shifted closer and said smoothly, “Let her admire me. It’s character development.”

Lee snorted. “More like a tragic case of brain rot.”

“Oh, shut it,” Fred said, smirking. “She’s got excellent taste.”

You turned your head, ready to fire back something smart — when you saw Angelina.

She was walking across the grass just a few meters away, hand-in-hand with a tall Ravenclaw boy whose name you didn’t know. Her laugh was soft, the kind she reserved for people who got past her walls, and her head tilted affectionately toward the boy beside her as they strolled by like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Fred saw her, too.

His jaw shifted. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

And then — without warning — he turned to you and murmured under his breath, voice low and casual, but firm:

“Don’t be alarmed by what I’m about to do, love.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you clean off the bench — right into his lap.

You landed with a surprised “oof,” half-sprawled across him, your hands catching instinctively on his chest. Your entire face turned pink.

George choked on his sweet. Lee let out a sharp whistle.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Fred!” George laughed. “Warn a bloke before you get all handsy!”

“She’s fine,” Fred said easily, arms loosely wrapped around your waist now like you belonged there. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding. His face was so close now. Playfully smug, lips curved, eyes warm and a little too focused on yours.

He was acting.

You knew that.

And yet… you didn’t move.

“Dizzy,” you said flatly, “from the whiplash.”

Fred grinned. “That’s my girl.”

George and Lee were already cackling.

Lee pointed. “Can’t lie, that was smooth. The kind of move that makes seventh-year girls write poetry about you.”

Fred beamed. “I do inspire great art.”

“And tragic regret,” you muttered.

Fred’s gaze dipped down to your lips for half a second — just enough to make your stomach do a weird little flip — then back up to your eyes. “Regret? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“I’m calling it reckless.”

“You wound me.”

You tilted your head. “Not yet, but I’m considering it.”

His grin widened. “Keep talking like that, love, and people might start thinking you enjoy this.”

You didn’t answer.

Because, maybe — just maybe — you did.

And it scared you how easy it was to flirt back. How natural it felt to have his hands on your waist, his voice low in your ear, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

You didn’t miss the way Angelina glanced back once, eyebrows raised slightly — and how Fred’s hold on you tightened, just a little.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because as fake as this all was supposed to be, part of you was starting to forget where the act ended and your heart began.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the fake relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Later that night, you found yourself standing just inside Fred Weasley’s dorm room.

The space was cluttered, loud in the way boys’ rooms always were — half-empty boxes of sweets, a tangle of worn Quidditch gloves and broomstick wax, and a few fading posters plastered across the walls. His bed was unmade (shocking) and smelled faintly of mint and broom polish.

Fred was rifling through one of his drawers while you sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, trying not to overthink literally everything.

“Close your eyes,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not five.”

“Do it anyway.”

You huffed dramatically but obliged.

Something soft landed in your lap.

“Okay, open.”

You blinked — and stared.

It was a thick maroon Quidditch sweater. Slightly oversized, clearly worn, and unmistakably his. The back had his last name “WEASLEY” stitched in bold letters with the number “3” beneath it.

You looked up, startled. “Is this… your jersey?”

Fred leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips.

“Very good deduction, darling.”

You blinked again. “Why are you giving this to me?”

He raised a brow. “Because it’s what girlfriends do. Wear their boyfriend’s number. Show their undying devotion. Obsessively cheer them on from the stands.”

“I do not obsessively cheer.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I clapped once.”

“It was passionate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re serious? You want me to wear this at the match?”

Fred pushed off the wall and strolled over, leaning down slightly until your knees bumped. He plucked the sweater from your lap and held it up with both hands, sizing it against your frame. His voice dropped low — teasing, warm.

“Picture it: You, in the crowd. This on you. My name on your back, yeah? Everyone sees it. Angelina sees it. You’re mine.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—”

He gently tugged the sweater over your head before you could stop him. You yelped as the thick fabric slipped down your arms and past your waist, swallowing you entirely. It smelled like him — cinnamon and wind and something warm you couldn’t name.

Fred stepped back and nodded appreciatively.

“See? Perfect.”

You stared down at yourself. The sweater reached your thighs.

“This is practically a dress.”

Fred’s grin deepened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that either.”

“Fred.”

“What? Just making observations.”

You tried not to smile — and failed miserably. He flopped onto the bed beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “It suits you. Just saying.”

You glanced at him, heart thudding uncomfortably loud in your chest.

“Why does this feel… weirdly real?”

Fred’s expression faltered — just for a second — before the smirk returned.

“Because I’m very convincing,” he said, softer now. “Dangerously so.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. You really are.”

You didn’t take the sweater off that night.

Not even when you got back to your dorm and had to answer your roommates’ endless questions. Not even when you crawled into bed, Fred’s name still stitched across your back, warmth lingering like a phantom where his fingers had brushed your waist.

And certainly not the next morning, when you tugged it back on and headed down to the Quidditch pitch — pretending like this was all normal, like you hadn’t been lying awake half the night replaying everything in your head.

The stands were alive with energy, the Gryffindor section decked in red and gold. Banners rippled through the wind, students painted their faces, and someone had even charmed tiny lions to roar out house chants every few minutes.

You sat wedged between Hermione and Alicia Spinnet, your knees bouncing with nerves — although, if you were being honest, you weren’t nervous for the match.

You were nervous about him.

“Look at you,” Hermione said with a knowing smile, nudging your side. “In your boyfriend’s Quidditch sweater. How adorably cliché.”

You groaned, pulling at the too-long sleeves. “It’s not—he just gave it to me. For the match.”

“Right,” Alicia teased from your other side. “Totally not because he wanted everyone to see you wearing his name. Very casual.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Oh, we know,” Hermione said sweetly, then pointed toward the sky. “Look — they’re out!”

The players zoomed into view, a blur of scarlet robes and glinting broomsticks. The roar from the stands swelled. You leaned forward on instinct, your eyes scanning the team until you spotted him.

Fred.

Hair windswept, bat clutched in one hand, flying in perfect tandem with George. His eyes were sharp, focused — until they weren’t. Until they flicked up toward the crowd.

He found you instantly.

Your breath caught.

Fred grinned.

And then — right there in the middle of the match, without a care in the world — he blew you a kiss.

You blinked, stunned, and then laughed — warm and giddy — as you blew one right back.

Hermione let out a mock gasp. “Scandalous.”

Alicia giggled. “You two are actually sickening.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still smiling like an idiot.

Down on the pitch, Fred twisted midair just in time to whack a Bludger clean across the field, sending it spiraling past the Slytherin Chaser with barely an inch to spare. He high-fived George mid-flight, who whooped in celebration.

The match was fast-paced and aggressive, with both teams locked in a tug-of-war for control. Fred played like he had fire in his veins — sharp turns, daring dives, calculated hits that had the crowd shrieking. Every time a Slytherin tried to close in on a Gryffindor Chaser, Fred or George was already there, knocking Bludgers like guided missiles.

And then — twenty minutes in, Lee Jordan’s voice blared through the stadium, frantic and excited:

“Potter’s seen the Snitch—he’s diving—COME ON, HARRY—YES—HE’S GOT IT!”

The stands exploded.

Red and gold erupted into the air. Flags waved wildly. People screamed, threw their arms around each other, stomped the bleachers until the whole structure trembled.

You were already on your feet, heart racing with joy. Gryffindor had won.

You clambered down the stands with the rest of the crowd, your sweater bouncing against your thighs as you pushed through the sea of students pouring onto the pitch.

The team was already on the ground, dismounting and hugging and yelling over the chaos. You caught Fred’s eyes the moment your feet hit the grass.

He was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split.

“Fred!” you called, weaving toward him.

He didn’t say a word. Just strode forward, scooped you up, and spun you in a full circle, his arms locked around your waist, his laughter rumbling against your ear.

“You were brilliant,” you managed, breathless and flushed.

“And you look bloody adorable in my sweater,” he said with a grin. “Reckon it brought me luck.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already gazing at you — eyes roving over your face like you were something rare. Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

His hands tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

And then — just like that — he kissed you.

Right there on the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by noise and celebration and way too many witnesses, Fred Weasley kissed you.

It was soft at first — gentle, like he was testing the waters. But the moment you didn’t pull away, his hands slid up your back, and the kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into his jersey. The crowd melted around you.

Someone whistled loudly.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER!” George yelled obnoxiously. “GET IT, FREDDIE!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and catcalls, but neither of you moved.

When Fred finally pulled back, he was slightly out of breath, his grin wide and lopsided.

“Hi,” he said simply, voice lower than usual.

“Hi,” you whispered back, dazed.

Your cheeks were flaming. You couldn’t stop smiling.

Fred’s fingers brushed your cheek, lingering there for a beat too long. You were still close enough to feel the afterglow of his kiss, to see the glint in his eyes that looked way too real.

And then George jogged over, throwing an arm around his twin with a proud grin.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he said to Fred, before turning to you with a wink.

Fred opened his mouth to respond — but you weren’t even listening anymore.

Because over George’s shoulder, your eyes caught on Angelina, who stood off to the side near the goalpost, still talking to her boyfriend. Laughing at something he said. Unbothered. Unaware.

She hadn’t even looked.

She hadn’t seen the kiss. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t flinched.

Which meant…

Fred hadn’t kissed you to make her jealous.

He had just… kissed you.

Your heart pounded.

You looked up at Fred — and he was already looking at you.

The smirk was back, but his eyes told a different story.

And suddenly, the lines between fake and real had never felt blurrier.

The common room was buzzing.

Someone had charmed the wireless to blast The Weird Sisters. Butterbeer bottles clinked together in cheers. Laughter rang from every corner, people draped in Gryffindor scarves still riding the high from the win.

You were curled into the corner of the red velvet couch, tucked beneath Fred’s arm, your legs stretched across his lap. His fingertips absentmindedly traced patterns along the sleeve of your jumper — his jumper — and every time his knuckle brushed your wrist, your heart skipped a beat.

He smelled like grass and soap and wind. You’d spent the better half of the match yelling yourself hoarse, and the other half trying not to think about the way his lips had felt against yours.

But you were failing miserably at that second part.

Because the truth was, you’d thought about that kiss a lot.

Over and over, like some dumb record stuck on repeat.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if it was all still pretend.

Fred was laughing now at something Seamus had said from the armchair across from you. His chest shook against your side, and his arm pulled you in closer as if it were second nature. As if you belonged there. As if this was always supposed to happen.

You tilted your head toward him, a soft smile teasing at your lips.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood tonight,” you said, nudging him playfully.

Fred gave you a lopsided grin. “I did win a Quidditch match and kiss the prettiest girl on the pitch. Can you blame me?”

Your heart did that stupid flutter again.

You scoffed through your blush, trying to act unfazed. “That kiss was for show, remember?”

“Was it?” he asked, smirking — and you couldn’t tell if he was teasing or being honest. It was always so hard to tell with Fred.

Before you could reply, George sauntered over with a smug look on his face and a Butterbeer in hand.

“Oi, Freddie,” he said with a knowing grin, “taking her up to your dorm again tonight?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

George let out a dramatic whistle and wiggled his eyebrows in your direction. “Didn’t know we were playing house already.”

You threw a cushion at him, laughing. “Hush it, Weasley.”

George caught the cushion with a grin and winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Fred chuckled beside you. “That’s a very short list.”

As George wandered off, you looked up at Fred and cocked your head. “So? Was that an actual invitation?”

Fred leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Only if you’re in need of some quiet. It’s chaos down here.”

You blinked. “Didn’t take you as the type to run from chaos.”

His grin deepened. “I don’t. But I do prefer my chaos in smaller doses. Select company.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile. “Well then. Lead the way.”

His dorm was dim and warm, the walls cluttered with posters and Quidditch memorabilia. One wall was plastered in clippings from old Daily Prophet articles and Wizarding Wheezes product drafts — messy handwriting and colorful doodles trailing in the margins.

Fred tossed himself onto his bed and sighed dramatically. “Much better.”

You stood awkwardly near his desk, taking in the room.

A tower of Chocolate Frog boxes stood on one bookshelf. A broomstick leaned against the far wall. A pair of well-worn boots were kicked beneath the bed, and a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott’s sat open on his trunk.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Your room is exactly how I imagined it.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just…” You walked slowly around the room. “You in room form.”

He chuckled, then stretched like a cat, arms over his head. “M’gonna shower. Try not to snoop through my deepest secrets while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He winked, grabbing a towel from his bed. “Be right back, sweetheart.”

You tried not to react to the nickname as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

And then… it was just you.

You sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing across the worn comforter. Your eyes drifted again to his side of the room — the shelves lined with broken toy prototypes, half-taped sketches, and what looked like a book of Quidditch strategies stuffed beneath a stack of Exploding Snap cards.

And then you saw it.

Tucked neatly beneath the amber glow of his bedside lamp — a folded sheet of parchment. Crisp. Clean. Unmistakably familiar.

Your heart skipped.

You reached for it slowly, your fingers shaking ever so slightly as you picked it up.

Your handwriting.

The first line was visible before you even unfolded it.

“Dear Fred Weasley, I know I shouldn’t still think about you like this, but sometimes it hurts not to.”

It was one of your letters.

And not just any letter.

The letter.

The one you wrote when you thought you’d finally buried the last of those feelings. The one where you told the truth — the messy, unfiltered, honest truth about what he’d meant to you before everything got too complicated. The one you thought no one would ever read.

Yet there it was.

Sitting under his lamp like it belonged there.

Like he’d read it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The weight of the parchment in your hand suddenly felt like a thousand pounds.

Because if he’d read it—if Fred Weasley had really read this letter—then every single wall you’d carefully built between your heart and this fake relationship just came crashing down. It was no longer some silly game, no longer pretend.

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or laugh at how stupidly vulnerable you felt. At how real it all suddenly was.

And maybe the worst part?

A part of you hoped he had read it.

Because this version of Fred—warm, affectionate, always looking at you like you hung the stars—wasn’t that different from the Fred you wrote about all those months ago. The one who stayed up late telling you his wildest ideas, who tugged on your braid during lessons just to make you smile, who made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t even realized you needed.

But none of that was supposed to leave the page.

This was supposed to be safe. Controlled. A fake relationship to protect your real feelings.

Now?

Now your feelings were inching toward the surface again—loud, reckless, and entirely out of your hands.

You took a shaky breath and slowly folded the letter, placing it back exactly where you found it, beneath the lamp. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

Just as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, the bathroom door creaked open.

Fred stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, hair damp and tousled in every direction, a black shirt clinging to his chest and a pair of maroon-and-gold pajama pants hanging loosely on his hips.

“Miss me?” he asked with a grin, rubbing a hand through his hair.

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to play it cool despite your racing thoughts. “You were gone for ten minutes.”

He plopped down next to you on the bed, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I know. Tragic, wasn’t it?”

You laughed softly, your voice a little quieter than usual. “You were brilliant tonight, by the way. In the match.”

Fred paused, turning to look at you with an expression that wavered somewhere between smug and sheepish. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a genuine smile. “Seriously. I was proud of you.”

He blinked, and for a second—just a second—you saw a soft pink color dust the tips of his ears. But Fred being Fred, he recovered quickly, flashing a smirk.

“Careful, darling. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me.”

You snorted, bumping your shoulder into his. “You wish.”

But the truth was, part of you did.

The conversation drifted into easy laughter again, the two of you trading stories, teasing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was so effortless—so dangerously close to everything you’d ever wanted—that your chest ached with the weight of it.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

Eventually, you glanced at the clock on his wall and sighed. “I should probably head back to my dorm.”

Fred looked at you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he nodded. “Alright, sugarplum. Don’t let the staircases trip you on the way down.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, standing up and smoothing down your jumper. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you keep coming back.”

You smiled, your heart squeezing in your chest.

God, you were so screwed.

The next morning came far too quickly.

Despite the weight of everything that had happened the night before—the letter, the kiss, the way Fred had looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of—you somehow managed to fall asleep, only to wake up feeling like your chest was still holding onto something it hadn’t finished processing.

And now here you were.

Sat at breakfast in the Great Hall beside Fred Weasley, his large hand resting comfortably on your thigh beneath the table, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into the fabric of your skirt as if it were second nature to him. Like this was something he did every morning. Like this was just… you two.

You’d barely taken a bite of your toast because your heart was thudding so loud it practically echoed in your ears.

Across from you sat George, Katie, and Lee—all in the middle of one of their usual chaotic, early morning debates. Something about who had the best aim in the entire Gryffindor Quidditch lineup (Katie said her, George argued himself, and Lee just kept saying “It’s obviously Angelina, she nearly broke my nose during practice once.”)

You were laughing, lips curled around the rim of your orange juice goblet when Fred leaned over toward you, muttering just low enough that only you could hear, “You look real cute when you laugh like that, sweetheart.”

You turned your head slightly, giving him a skeptical look, but the way his eyes were already focused on you—bright, amused, and just the slightest bit hungry—sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re full of it,” you murmured, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

Fred grinned, inching closer, his nose brushing your cheek. “Maybe. But you’re still smiling.”

And then, with the kind of confidence that came so naturally to him it made your head spin, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Warm. Barely there.

But it stole your breath all the same.

George didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he groaned around a bite of eggs. “You two are worse than Bill and Fleur.”

Katie laughed. “I think it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Lee added with a grin. “Cute in the way that makes me want to hex something out of jealousy.”

You flushed, burying your face slightly into your goblet just to hide the way your cheeks had gone scarlet, but Fred only chuckled beside you and tightened his hand on your thigh, fingers squeezing gently before continuing their slow, teasing strokes.

As the day went on, the lines between real and pretend blurred further.

Fred’s hand found yours in the corridor as you walked beside him, fingers laced tightly together. He leaned in during class breaks, whispering jokes against your ear, your skin tingling where his breath brushed it. He kissed your lips before Charms—right in the middle of the corridor—without a care in the world, and there wasn’t a single soul around to witness it who mattered. Not even Angelina.

And somehow… that made it worse.

Because if he was doing it just for show, there would’ve been an audience.

But there wasn’t.

There was only you.

And the soft, casual way he held you like you belonged to him.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all—because part of you wanted to belong to him. Again. Completely.

The rest of the castle moved around you, friends teasing, classes dragging, owls swooping down mid-day with care packages and letters—but you? You were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the way Fred’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sleeve during lunch. Somewhere in the way his lips pressed to your temple before heading off to a prefect meeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere in that hazy space between fake and dangerously close to real.

And you were falling all over again.

The Gryffindor common room was already buzzing with noise by the time you made it downstairs. The party was well underway—music echoing off the stone walls, glowing orbs of red and gold light bobbing above everyone’s heads like fireflies, and the unmistakable scent of pumpkin pastries and Honeydukes chocolate wafting through the air. Laughter spilled out from every corner—someone had charmed the butterbeer to refill itself, and someone else (likely George) was passing out Ever-Bouncing Berries that ricocheted off the ceilings like magical confetti.

Before all that chaos, though—you were still upstairs.

Your red top hugged your frame perfectly, and the short black leather skirt had felt like a bold choice… but when you looked in the mirror, you knew it worked. You looked good. You felt good. Alicia let out a low whistle the second she saw you step out of your dorm.

“Well, damn,” she said, smirking as she eyed your outfit. “If Fred isn’t staring at you like you’ve hung the bloody moon, I’m hexing him.”

Katie grinned beside her. “Yeah, prepare yourself, love. His hands are going to be all over you tonight.”

That made your cheeks flush instantly. “You guys are awful.”

“Just honest,” Alicia said, bumping your hip with hers. “You look hot.”

Still flustered and smiling through it, you grabbed your wand and smoothed down your top one last time before making your way out of the girls’ dorm. As you descended the staircase, the music got louder, laughter and chatter layering into it all. The common room had been transformed: strings of golden lights wrapped around the banisters, cushions charmed to float midair, and the fireplace crackled with an unnatural red flame that matched the celebratory chaos perfectly.

Your eyes scanned the room, trailing over the crowd of students packed in shoulder-to-shoulder—some dancing, some chugging butterbeer, some sprawled on couches in various states of intoxicated euphoria.

Then you saw him.

Fred was tucked into the corner, drink in hand, laughing along with Seamus and Dean. The second your eyes met, it was like time stopped. He froze—mid-laugh, mid-sentence, mid-everything. His expression slackened slightly, like he hadn’t been prepared to be completely knocked off his axis.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Hard.

You smirked.

The moment was yours now.

With slow, deliberate steps, you crossed the room, weaving between bodies until you reached him. Fred blinked down at you, mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Close your mouth, Weasley,” you teased, tugging on the hem of your top playfully. “You’re going to catch a Snitch in it.”

He blinked again, then broke into that familiar, heart-stopping grin. “You tryin’ to kill me, darling? ‘Cause I think you just succeeded.”

Your cheeks burned despite yourself. “It’s just a skirt.”

“It’s not just a skirt when it’s on you,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping just slightly as his gaze flicked down and then back to your face. “Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me tonight.”

“Flatterer,” you said, brushing your fingers over his arm. “You look decent yourself.”

“Decent?” he scoffed. “Sweetheart, I’m hurt.”

You laughed, and his hands found your waist—pulling you just a little closer. There was a soft beat of music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the rhythm of your heart in your chest.

Before you could respond, you heard Katie’s voice from across the room. “Oi! Come dance with us!”

Alicia and Angelina were already waving you over, motioning toward the dance floor that had formed in the middle of the room. You turned back to Fred, who let out a small, exaggerated sigh and slowly removed his hands from your waist.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving you a crooked grin. “But don’t blame me if I come steal you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” he murmured. “I absolutely would.”

With a breathy laugh, you turned and made your way toward your friends, letting the music pull you in. You swayed with the beat, arms lifted as you danced beside Alicia and Katie. The rhythm buzzed in your veins as you let go of everything else for a moment—just letting yourself be in the music, the laughter, the warmth of the room.

But you felt it—before you saw it.

A presence behind you. A shift in the air.

And then, his voice—low, teasing—right against your ear. “Merlin, you’re making it really hard to behave tonight.”

You turned, heart skipping, to see Fred standing behind you, a grin dancing on his lips.

“I knew you’d come back,” you said with a raised brow.

He stepped closer. “Couldn’t stay away. Not when you’re dancing like that.”

Your stomach flipped as he offered you his hand with a slight bow. “May I have this dance?”

You took it without hesitation.

He spun you around effortlessly, your laughter ringing through the room as you stumbled into his chest. The two of you danced—really danced. Spinning, laughing, holding onto each other as the crowd blurred around you. Fred dipped you playfully, caught you in his arms, and whispered flirty little remarks that made your face burn and your heart race.

But eventually… the laughter died down.

Your giggles slowed.

And then it was just the two of you.

The music faded beneath the sound of your breathing. Fred’s hands settled on your waist, your palms resting against his chest. You looked up at him—really looked. And he looked back.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then rose to meet your gaze again.

“Careful, Freddie,” you whispered, voice low and teasing. “You’re starting to make me think this is more than a game to you.”

Fred’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Who says it isn’t anymore?”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, chest tightening, mouth parted slightly in stunned silence. His hands gently trailed from your waist, fingers brushing your sides until they landed on your cheeks.

And then—he kissed you.

No games. No teasing. No charade.

Just him.

Just you.

His lips were warm and familiar and dizzying all at once, his kiss deep and full of something that set your nerves on fire. You kissed him back without thinking, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he held you close, not caring that people around you had stopped to look.

When you both pulled away—breathless, flushed, reeling—Fred still hadn’t let go.

“Come outside with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. “I need to tell you something.”

You nodded, heart hammering in your chest.

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth inside, but it helped clear your head just enough to process that something was changing.

You turned to him once you were a few steps from the common room door.

Fred was staring at the stars—then at you.

“I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he began, voice a little shakier than you’d ever heard. “This was supposed to be pretend, yeah. Just a stupid idea. Make Angelina jealous, whatever. But…”

His eyes met yours again.

“After the second day, it didn’t feel fake anymore. Not even a little. And then you wore that stupid jumper. And kissed me back. And stood there in that crowd looking at me like I was worth something—and I realized I’ve always loved you. Always. I just didn’t let myself admit it.”

You blinked, your heart splintering at the edges.

“And now,” he added with a sheepish grin, “you’ve gone and ruined me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, then stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his cheek.

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered. “You absolute idiot. I never stopped loving you. I just… never thought you’d actually feel the same.”

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours.

“I do,” he murmured. “So much.”

And then—you kissed him again.

This one slower. Sweeter.

Filled with everything that had been left unsaid.

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling, hands still tangled together.

“So,” Fred said, his voice light again. “Does this mean I get to call you mine?”

You smirked. “If you behave.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Officially.

[lumosflairr]

𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

masterlist

summary: In the quiet aftermath of the war, Fred Weasley realizes how close he came to not only losing his own life, but losing the love of his life—and that he never wants to feel that fear again. As the two of you rebuild the joke shop together, Fred begins to imagine a future full of laughter, chaos, and children that look just like her. With George’s help and a trembling heart, Fred plans the perfect proposal, ready to give everything he has to the person he never wants to live without.

warnings: angsty but happy ending i promise. mentions of blood, death etc. Tonks, Lupin, and Colin’s death mentioned [sorry] Fred is alive, obviously. cussing.

word count: 7.4k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

Fred Weasley had never been good at silence.

He didn’t trust it.

It reminded him too much of the moments after explosions—the unnatural stillness before someone screamed. The breathless pause before someone didn’t get back up. Silence, these days, felt like the most dangerous sound in the world.

And now, it was everywhere.

The war was over. Voldemort was dead. The castle still stood, though just barely, its once-proud towers now shadowed with ash and grief. There were no more battles to fight, no missions to plan, no Death Eaters to chase down in the night. People were celebrating. Rebuilding. Laughing again.

But Fred Weasley couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still falling. That something had slipped loose in him and hadn’t quite come back into place.

He wasn’t supposed to be alive.

He knew that.

There were moments—whole seconds in that final battle—he still didn’t remember. Only flashes. Screams. The way the ground cracked under the force of a spell. The red-hot pain in his side. And then… nothing. Blackness. Cold. A weightless, terrible silence.

Then he’d woken up. In the rubble. On a stretcher. George hovering above him with a face pale as death. And behind him, you—your eyes red, cheeks streaked with ash and tears, your hands clenched so tightly in his that your knuckles were white.

You were the first thing he saw.

And that was when it hit him.

It wasn’t the curse that scared him. Not the blast, or the blood, or the darkness.

It was you—the thought of not seeing you again. Not kissing you one more time. Not pulling you into one last stupid prank. Not telling you that loving you had been the best bloody thing he’d ever done one last time.

He’d nearly lost that chance.

You’d been dating for over a year before the war officially reached Hogwarts’ doorstep. Everyone knew, of course. You and Fred were inseparable: fire meeting fire, laughter meeting warmth. There were rumors that you two had snogged in every secret hallway from Gryffindor Tower to the kitchens. And they weren’t wrong. But it was more than that. It was more than the jokes, the shoulder bumps, the slow kisses during late-night missions for the Order.

It was real. Real enough that it hurt.

You’d nearly lost him, and he’d almost left you behind without saying what he should have said a thousand times before.

That he loved you.

That he wanted everything with you. Every damn day. The easy ones, the hard ones, the quiet mornings and the loud nights. The dumb arguments over socks on the floor and the sweet reconciliations in the dark. He wanted all of it.

And he didn’t want to waste a second more pretending he could be casual about it.

It was two weeks after the battle when Fred finally stood in what remained of his childhood bedroom at the Burrow and let the weight settle over him.

George had gone downstairs. Molly and Arthur were in the garden. You were off with Hermione, helping sort through recovery efforts at the Ministry. And Fred stood there alone, fingers tracing the faint scar at his temple, breathing like the air was too heavy to hold.

He hadn’t cried during the funerals. Not for Tonks. Not for Lupin. Not even for Colin, who used to sneak into the shop and ask Fred and George if he could buy extra Firewhiz Bangs for his “photography experiments.”

But he cried now. Alone. Quietly.

Because even though he lived—he lived, Merlin, he lived—something inside him had changed. The war hadn’t taken him, but it had taken the illusion that he had all the time in the world.

Time was a lie.

And if he wanted a life with you, he wasn’t waiting anymore.

The first time Fred stepped back into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes after the war, he almost couldn’t breathe.

It was dust-choked and dark, the front window cracked straight through the middle like a lightning bolt. Someone had looted half the shelves. A Fanged Flyer display dangled half-charred from the ceiling, slowly spinning like a noose.

George stood beside him, silent for once. His hand rested on the doorframe, fingers curling around it like if he let go, the whole place might collapse.

Fred took a deep breath and stepped inside. And the second his foot touched the floor—creak, groan, soft puff of ash—it was like something unlocked in his chest.

“This is it,” he whispered.

George glanced over. “Still ours?”

Fred nodded once. “Always.”

And then the work began.

You showed up two days later, wearing an oversized jumper with the sleeves rolled to your elbows and a wand tucked behind your ear like a quill. You’d kissed him softly, silently, and handed him a coffee with a sleepy smile before saying, “Alright, Weasley. Where do you want me?”

Fred had stared at you for a full ten seconds before he said, “Everywhere.”

You laughed, blushed, hit him with a rolled-up newspaper charm.

But then you went to work.

You and Fred cleared rubble with side-by-side incantations, rebuilt shattered display shelves with practiced teamwork, and argued—lightly, always fondly—over color palettes and product placements.

Fred wanted explosive orange walls again. You wanted them a bit softer. You compromised by charming the paint to shimmer depending on the time of day: morning sun yellow by day, warm red-orange by dusk.

He made jokes while you restocked shelves, standing behind you and whispering sweet nothings like, “Merlin, you in those work robes is my Roman Empire,” which earned him a jab of your wand in his ribs (and a very not-subtle smirk).

He caught himself watching you constantly—especially when you thought no one was looking. When you were humming to yourself while labeling new prank potions. When your nose scrunched as you sorted Fizzing Fairy Dust jars. When you bent over to charm the floorboards to stop creaking and he had to physically look away or risk forgetting how to speak.

But it wasn’t just that he was in love with you.

It was that you made something ugly feel sacred again.

Fred had built this shop out of ambition. You were helping him rebuild it out of love.

One night, the two of you stayed late—past dinner, past moonrise. The shelves were mostly full, the lights newly enchanted, the register ticking happily with each completed test run.

You were sitting on the floor cross-legged, sorting joke sweets into new display bins. Fred dropped beside you with a dramatic groan.

“My back is broken. I am 20 going on 87.”

You smirked. “Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to carry six crates of Sneezing Sparkle Puffs at once.”

“I had something to prove.”

“To who?”

“To… the ghost of Zonko.”

You laughed, head falling against his shoulder.

Fred looked down at you then, the warm glow of the enchanted lanterns catching in your eyes, and something inside him ached.

Not with pain.

With certainty.

He wanted to do this every day. Come home smelling like fireworks and sugar. Fall asleep beside you with glitter in his hair. Build something that wasn’t just magic and profit—but family, too.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, fingers brushing against your knee, “if this is what real life is… I think I’m all in.”

You turned your head and looked at him. “Yeah?”

Fred nodded. “I want this. With you. All of it.”

You leaned in and kissed him—soft, sweet, lasting. You didn’t need to say anything.

Because he knew you wanted it too.

And before he knew it, business started picking up quicker than anyone expected.

Word spread fast that the twins were back. Hogwarts students trickled in first, followed by younger kids tugging their parents through the front door, wide-eyed at the revamped shelves and sparkling floating displays. Laughter started to replace the silence that had once haunted the shop’s corners.

And Fred noticed something new.

It was you.

He’d always loved watching you. Since Hogwarts, really. You had this kind of magic in you that had nothing to do with wands. It was in the way you smiled, the way you lit up a room just by existing in it. But lately, there was a softness to you that twisted something deep inside his chest.

You were adorable with children.

He wasn’t just saying that as your completely lovesick boyfriend, either (although, yes, he was absolutely that). It was just… true.

You’d kneel beside the younger ones, crouched low in your jumper and charmed boots, explaining how to safely unwrap a Puking Pastille or how many Nosebleed Nougats you were technically allowed to bring to school before a professor confiscated them. You laughed with them. You held their hands. You fixed a little boy’s glasses when he broke them while trying to catch a flying firecracker.

One afternoon, Fred caught you sitting cross-legged behind the counter with a tiny girl no older than five. She was clutching a color-changing pygmy puff and telling you, in painstaking detail, how she planned to name it “Princess Puff-and-Stuff” and bring it to every family dinner from now until forever.

You didn’t rush her. You listened to every single word, nodding solemnly and offering her a glitter-stamped adoption certificate for the puff that you “just happened to have” behind the register.

Fred stood a few feet back, watching, unmoving. Something swelled in his chest—warm and fierce and terrifyingly clear.

He wanted that. With you. Not someday. Now.

He could see it.

He could see you with a baby in your arms—maybe wrapped in a ridiculous dragon-patterned blanket from Charlie or covered in George’s failed embroidery attempts. A toddler with Weasley curls tugging at your pant leg, babbling about wanting to test Skiving Snackboxes. A daughter with your eyes and your stubborn streak, trying to prank her uncle Percy and totally getting away with it.

Fred wanted kids. He really wanted kids.

Three or four, he figured. Enough to fill a room with laughter and chaos and love. Enough to make the silence stay gone forever.

And more than anything, he wanted to raise them with you.

The kind of home he dreamed of didn’t have golden chandeliers or fine linens. It had messy kitchens and breakfast in bed on birthdays. It had you humming as you read bedtime stories. Him teaching your kids how to charm fake spiders into dancing across the ceiling. It had holidays at the Burrow, matching jumpers from Molly, and big family dinners with noise and warmth and burnt stuffing because he got distracted trying to kiss you.

He wanted it all.

Later that night, as he lay in bed beside you—your body tucked against his, your breathing soft and even—he whispered into the dark:

“I want a family with you, love.”

You didn’t stir. You were already fast asleep.

But Fred smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. He didn’t need to rush. He’d ask the right way. He’d do it properly.

And until then, he’d hold onto this moment and every one after it.

Fred wasn’t subtle. Not even a little.

He tried to be, of course. He told himself to wait, to think, to plan, but the minute the idea of marrying you planted itself in his brain, it rooted fast and hard. And by the third day of watching you calmly talk a ten-year-old out of sticking a Tongue-Ton Toffee in his ear, he was seconds away from proposing with a candy ring.

Which is when George cornered him in the backroom, arms crossed, one brow raised.

“You’ve been staring at her like she hung the moon, mate. You gonna tell me what’s going on or should I just start guessing?”

Fred blinked. “I—wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” George said, smirking. “With the kind of eyes people write poetry about. Very tragic. Very soppy. Bit nauseating, to be honest.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “I’m in love with her.”

George scoffed. “Well, yeah, obviously. Everyone knows that. You basically announce it every time she walks in the room.”

Fred’s grin faded slightly. “No, George. I mean… I’m really in love with her. I want to marry her.”

There was a beat of silence.

George’s expression shifted—softened. His arms uncrossed, and he leaned back against the wall.

“Oh,” he said, more gently now. “You serious?”

Fred nodded, slower this time. “I’ve been thinking about it every day since the war ended. And I—I just keep thinking about how I could’ve lost her. How close it came. And how if I hadn’t made it out—Merlin, Georgie, if I hadn’t made it, I never would’ve gotten to marry her. Or have kids. Or wake up next to her every morning. And I know we’re young and completely mental, but I’m not too young to know I love her.”

George said nothing for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “You know she loves you back just as much, right?”

Fred swallowed. “Yeah. I do.”

George clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Then you bloody well marry her.”

Fred laughed, voice catching in his throat. “You sure you’re alright with it? We’re just barely getting the shop back up—”

“Mate,” George interrupted, “we built this place so we could live the life we wanted. And you’ve known what you wanted since fifth year. I’ll be fine.”

Fred let out a breath. “Thanks.”

George gave a lopsided smile. “So… do I get to come with you to pick out the ring? Or is this one of those sappy solo missions?”

Fred grinned. “You’re coming. Obviously. Who else is gonna stop me from buying a ring shaped like a rubber duck?”

George snorted. “You would, too.”

They went the next weekend.

It was cold—December winds slipping through their jackets, cheeks pink and fingers numbing. Diagon Alley was festive and bustling, wreaths hung from every shop door and enchanted snowflakes floating down lazily through the sky.

Fred and George ducked into the quiet warmth of a tiny wizarding jeweler’s tucked between Flourish and Blotts and a cauldron repair shop. It smelled like cedarwood and magic. Velvet-lined cases glowed under soft light, and the jeweler—a tall man with silver-streaked hair—nodded at them with knowing eyes.

“You’ve got a look,” he said to Fred. “One I’ve seen before.”

Fred tilted his head. “Do I?”

“Yep.” The man tapped his own chest. “Right here. That’s where it lives, you know. The moment you know she’s the one.”

Fred smiled. “Guess it does.”

He picked a ring after nearly an hour—a delicate band of gold, warm and timeless, with a subtle vine design curled around the edges. In the center sat a softly glowing moonstone, enchanted to shimmer faintly whenever you smiled.

George approved with a single firm nod. “She’s gonna lose her mind.”

Fred turned the box over in his hand, heart full, eyes bright.

“Hope so.”

Fred didn’t sleep much the night after he bought the ring.

He lay awake staring at the ceiling of his flat above the shop, the little velvet box tucked safely in the drawer of his bedside table like it was made of glass. Every few hours he’d sit up, open the drawer, look at it again, then close it with trembling fingers and a breathless laugh.

Merlin, he was going to propose to you.

He, Fred Gideon Weasley, who once told you that commitment was scarier than a Hungarian Horntail and that he’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than talk about feelings, was about to drop to one knee and ask you to spend forever with him.

And he couldn’t wait.

But he also wanted it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.

So Fred, with George’s help and Molly’s subtle poking into his business, began to plan.

He decided on Christmas. Not on Christmas day, but right before—when everyone was warm and together and the lights at the Burrow were glowing like something out of a fairy tale. You had already planned to visit your family just before the holidays and come back in time for the Weasley Christmas traditions, so Fred offered to come with you—“for moral support,” he joked, but truthfully, he just didn’t want to let you out of his sight.

What he didn’t tell you was that he had a plan. A quiet conversation he needed to have.

Your parents were thrilled to have you both. The house smelled like pine and cinnamon, and your mum insisted Fred eat three servings of everything on the table. He did so gladly, cracking jokes and making everyone laugh, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the table the entire time.

After dessert—spiced apple pie and pumpkin buttercream biscuits—your dad slipped outside to light the enchanted lanterns in the garden. Fred cleared his throat softly and excused himself.

You smiled at him, none the wiser.

He stepped outside and spotted your father bent over a shrub, wand raised as small golden orbs floated up into the trees. Fred took a slow breath and approached him.

“Mr. Y/L/N?”

Your dad straightened, brushing his hands off on his jumper. “Fred! Full yet?”

Fred gave a breathless laugh. “Stuffed, actually. Your wife’s a saint.”

“She is,” your father agreed. “Everything alright?”

Fred nodded, but there was a tremble in his hand as he reached into his coat pocket.

“I, uh—I wanted to ask you something. Privately.”

Your dad studied him with kind, knowing eyes, and gestured toward the garden bench near the tree line. Fred followed him over, nerves alive in his throat.

“I know we’re young,” he started, voice low and firm. “And I know things haven’t exactly been steady since the war. But I love your daughter. I’ve loved her since she laughed at one of my worst jokes in fifth year, and I’ve loved her through every single thing that’s happened since. And after everything we’ve been through—after how close I came to not making it—I realized something: I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to waste a single second of the life I get to live if I’m not spending it with her.”

He pulled out the velvet box and opened it, revealing the delicate gold ring with the softly glowing moonstone.

“I want to marry her. I want a life with her. A family. All of it. Three or four little Weasleys running around, chaos in the kitchen, loud birthdays, messy holidays at the Burrow. I want everything with her. And I’d like to ask for your blessing.”

Your father didn’t answer at first. The soft golden light from the lanterns flickered across his face, making the moment feel sacred—almost still.

Then he looked at Fred with a warmth that made Fred’s throat ache.

“Fred, if there’s anyone I’d trust with her heart, it’s you. I’ve seen the way you love her. The way you look at her like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. I’d be honored to call you my son-in-law.”

Fred blinked fast, his smile breaking through like sunlight. “Thank you, sir.”

Your father stood and pulled him into a hug, clapping a hand on his back. “Now go inside before she comes looking and figures you’re up to something.”

Fred laughed, heart pounding. “Yes, sir.”

The Burrow glowed with warmth and magic.

The snow outside glittered on the garden gnomes and chicken coop, and the whole house smelled like sugar, spice, and Molly’s famous roasted ham. Fairy lights floated lazily along the ceiling beams, wrapping the mismatched furniture in golden light.

You had returned from your family visit just that morning, greeted with flying hugs, Ginny’s shrieking delight, and Molly trying to fatten you up in under twenty minutes.

Fred had barely let you go since.

He kissed the top of your head every time he passed you. Touched your waist like he was grounding himself. Watched you with an awe-struck smile like you might disappear if he blinked.

You didn’t notice how his hands were shaking.

You didn’t notice how George kept nudging him and whispering, “You sure about this? Now? You’re gonna cry and make me look bad.”

You didn’t notice how Arthur had his camera already ready, standing in the corner near the fireplace with misty eyes like he knew what was about to happen.

But Fred noticed. Fred noticed everything.

Because this was the moment.

The one he’d been building toward since the second the world stopped falling apart. Since he survived. Since he looked around at what was left, and saw you—blood on your cheek, tears in your eyes—and realized that if he had lost you, nothing else would have mattered.

Dinner was over, the pudding plates pushed aside, laughter echoing through the crooked house. Someone put on Celestina Warbeck’s Christmas album, and the radio crooned softly under the glow of the tree.

Fred stood up. Tapped his spoon against his butterbeer glass. And the room fell silent.

“Er—sorry,” he said, sheepishly. “Don’t mean to interrupt the musical stylings of Celestina, but I… I’ve got something to say.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Fred?”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked on you. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket.

And then he got down on one knee.

There was a sharp gasp—Ginny.

You froze.

“Y/N,” Fred started, voice low and trembling. “I don’t even know how to begin this, but I’m gonna try.”

You covered your mouth with your hands.

“I used to think we had all the time in the world,” he said, looking up at you like you were everything. “I used to joke about the future like it was just some vague idea we’d stumble into eventually. But then the war happened. And everything changed. And I realized that time isn’t promised. Nothing is.”

His voice broke for just a second. George looked away, jaw tight.

“That night at Hogwarts, I remember holding onto you like if I let go, the world would stop turning. And when it was over, when I looked around and saw the faces we didn’t get to keep… I knew. I knew I’d never take another day with you for granted again.”

You were crying now, tears streaming silently down your face.

Fred reached for your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles.

“I know we’re only twenty. I know we’re still figuring things out. But loving you has been the one thing I’ve never had to figure out. It’s always just been there. Easy. Loud. Annoyingly all-consuming,” he added with a teary laugh, making everyone chuckle through the emotion.

You let out a shaky breath, smile wobbly.

“And I know I’m young and stupid and prone to setting off fireworks in the kitchen, but I’m not stupid enough to let you go. Not now. Not ever.”

He opened the ring box with a soft click. The gold band shimmered in the firelight, the pale moonstone glowing like something ethereal.

“I want forever with you,” he whispered. “I want a home and chaos and three—maybe four if we’re not careful—little Weasleys running wild. I want birthdays where you make fun of me for getting older and anniversaries where we forget the date but never forget how we feel. I want a thousand quiet mornings with you in my arms. I want every laugh, every fight, every bit of it. With you.”

You were sobbing now, nodding furiously.

“So, Y/N Y/L/N,” he said, eyes shining like he might cry too, “Will you marry me?”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Fred, of course I will.”

The room exploded into cheers as Fred slipped the ring onto your finger and stood, catching you in his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. You kissed him like nothing else in the world mattered—because nothing else did.

The Burrow blurred in color and sound behind you, full of warmth and love and family.

And Fred held you like he never wanted to let go.

Because he didn’t.

The sky above the Burrow was painted in deep lavender, the last hints of daylight fading into dusk. Strings of warm, golden lights hung overhead, wrapped through tall wooden beams and trees that circled the clearing. Candles flickered in floating glass orbs, suspended by invisible spells, and enchanted blooms swayed gently in the air — a garden of flowers that never wilted, crafted by magic and love.

Long tables, draped in soft ivory linen, circled the open space, adorned with lush, overflowing arrangements of cream roses, wild greenery, and hints of deep plum and gold — just like the ones Fred had watched you admire in the window of a Muggle flower shop months ago. The chairs were vintage, mismatched in the most charming way, with enchanted votives glowing softly at every place setting. It was warm, soft, intimate — like the inside of a memory.

And in the center of it all stood Fred, wearing a dark emerald suit with a soft grin tugging at his lips, fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

His eyes found you the second you appeared, arm in arm with your dad, stepping out into the candlelit garden. The crowd — Weasleys, friends, classmates, Order members, Hogwarts professors — fell silent as you came into view.

You looked like something out of a dream. The gown was simple, delicate, and touched with magic — embroidery that shimmered faintly like stars. Your hair was swept back with golden pins that Molly had insisted on placing herself, and your eyes sparkled as they locked with Fred’s.

And Fred held you like he never wanted to let go.

Because he didn’t.

The ceremony was quiet. Intimate. Everyone sat close, family wrapped in one another’s arms. Molly held Arthur’s hand, her face already blotchy from crying before the ceremony had even begun. George sat beside her, eyes misty but filled with joy.

When it came time for the vows, Fred was the first to speak.

He cleared his throat, eyes fixed only on you, and suddenly it was just the two of you in that candlelit world.

“I used to think love was supposed to be chaotic. Fast. Loud. Like fireworks. And with you—it is, in the best way. But then the war happened. And I nearly lost everything. Nearly lost you.”

He paused, breath shaky.

“That night… when it all ended—I held you like I was afraid to let go. Because I was. I realized then that I never, ever wanted to feel what it’d be like to live in a world without you in it. You were the calm in the storm. The reason I kept laughing when everything felt like it was falling apart.”

“You rebuilt the world with me. Brick by brick. Joke by joke. You helped me believe in magic again—not the wand-waving kind, the real kind. The kind that exists when you look at someone and know they’re it for you.”

“I want the rest of my life with you. The late-night shop fixes. The toddlers with messy red hair and your smile. The quiet mornings and the loud holidays. All of it. I want all of it with you.Three kids—four, if you let me name one after a candy bar. I’m serious.”

The crowd laughed softly. Fred smiled, but his voice cracked at the end.

“I know we’re young. And dumb. But I’m not dumb enough to let you slip away without promising you everything I have to give. So today, I vow to love you in the big ways, and the small ones. To carry you through storms and celebrate you in sunlight. To kiss you every morning. To make you laugh even when you’re mad at me. To be your home—because you’ve always been mine.”

By the time Fred finished, George had to wipe his face with the corner of his sleeve. Even Percy was misty-eyed. Ron pretended to cough but sniffled behind his hand.

And then it was your turn.

“Fred Weasley, you are the most infuriating, brilliant, warm, loyal person I’ve ever met.”

“You make life brighter. Wilder. Better. You’ve taught me how to laugh when I want to cry, how to dream even when everything feels uncertain.”

“When the world was crumbling, you held me. You made me feel safe. And now… now you’re giving me a future I never thought I could have. One full of love, and magic, and too many kids running around a joke shop we built from the ashes.”

Your voice wavered, but your smile stayed steady.

“I vow to stand by you. To challenge you. To love you fiercely. I vow to dance with you in the kitchen, to prank our kids together, to grow old with you in a house full of laughter.”

“You are my best friend. My partner. My home. And I promise I will love you every single day—for the rest of this life, and whatever comes next.”

As soon as they pronounced you husband and wife, Fred didn’t wait.

He kissed you like he’d waited his whole life for that moment.

And maybe he had.

The reception was just as you imagined it—chaotic, magical, warm. The food was divine (thanks to Molly), and the drinks flowed as much as the laughter did. Arthur danced with you, twirling you around until you were both breathless. George gave a toast that made everyone laugh and cry. The twins had snuck in some enchanted fireworks that spelled your names across the sky in bursts of gold.

Later, as the guests filtered out and the lights dimmed, you and Fred sat at your sweetheart table, your shoes kicked off, hands tangled beneath the tablecloth.

Fred leaned in and whispered, “So… three kids, yeah?”

You laughed. “Four. But only if I name one.”

He beamed like you’d just promised him the moon.

And maybe, in some way, you had.

Because this was it.

The beginning of forever.

[lumosflairr]

If you have sent me a request in my inbox, i promise im getting to them soon!! Sorry for taking quite some time to answer🥲

[lumosflairr]

I’m so in love with your Peter Parker x Stark!reader fics!!

Im so glad you like them!! I plan on writing more, be sure to fill out my taglist form if youd like to be tagged in them <3

[lumosflairr]

can you pleaseee write for ron where he's been trying to ask out reader for ages and somehow he keeps on getting interrupted until one day he has had enough and he kisses her in the Gryffindor common room!!

love your work btww 🥰😫

(ps this is my first time writing a request)

𝐑𝐨𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝟓 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭.

summary: Ron keeps trying to ask you out, fails every time—until he finally kisses you in the Gryffindor common room.

warnings: use of y/n like 3-4 times.

word count: 1.3k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @iluvhrj @divineani @lilians17

this idea is so cute! Im so happy you enjoy my work, and I hope you enjoy reading this <3

Ron Weasley had always been terrible at feelings.

He could handle a chessboard like a pro, knock a Bludger straight into Malfoy’s smug face, and devour a full plate of roast beef in under five minutes—but when it came to you, he was all thumbs and second-guessing.

And that was saying something. Because he’d known you since second year. Sat next to you in Charms. Shared study notes. Laughed until he cried after Fred and George turned your ink purple for a week.

But somewhere between laughter and late-night common room chats, things had changed. His stomach flipped every time you touched his arm. His ears burned red when you leaned over his shoulder. And Merlin help him when you called him “Ronnie” during that Care of Magical Creatures lesson last spring.

It was hopeless.

Still, he had a plan.

Just… ask her out. Simple.

Except nothing at Hogwarts was ever simple.

⸻

Attempt #1 – Transfiguration Disaster

It was right after McGonagall dismissed class on a rainy Thursday, and Ron saw his window. You were stuffing your books into your bag, the strap of your satchel slipping off your shoulder. You looked tired, but pretty—he noticed that now. How the candlelight always made your eyes look softer somehow.

Ron’s heart was pounding in his ears.

“Hey, Y/N?” he asked, stepping up beside you and trying to sound casual.

You turned to him, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Yeah?”

“I was wondering if maybe—like, if you weren’t doing anything next weekend, maybe we could—”

CLANG.

An entire bottle of ink came crashing down from above, splattering black across his hair, down his face, into his shirt collar. The gasp that left your mouth was more dramatic than anything he’d ever heard from you.

“Oh my God—Ron!”

Ron stood frozen, blinking black out of his eyes. He looked up. Peeves was floating above them near the rafters, howling with laughter.

“OH-HO! Just trying to clean up the Weasel! Thought he needed a bit of polish!”

Your wand was already out as you began to clean the ink from his face, your fingers brushing under his chin gently.

Ron was only vaguely aware of what you were saying—something about “stupid poltergeist” and “thank Merlin it wasn’t acid”—because all he could think about was how soft your hands were, and how he’d almost asked you out.

Almost.

⸻

Attempt #2 – The Library Ambush

A week later, Ron found you tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, bent over your notes with a quill twirling in your fingers. The sunlight filtered in through the high windows, catching the dust motes in the air around you.

He paced outside the aisle for a full minute, mumbling to himself.

“You can do this. You’ve fought Death Eaters. This is one girl. Just go.”

When he finally approached, you looked up and smiled like he was the very person you’d been hoping to see. His stomach flipped.

“Hi, Ron,” you said. “Looking for a seat?”

He nodded mutely and slid in across from you.

“So, er… I was thinking,” he started, gripping the edge of the table a little too hard. “That maybe you and I could go to Hogsmeade next weekend. Not for, like, sweets. I mean—we could. But I meant, more just—us.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly.

Just as you opened your mouth—

“RON!”

Hermione appeared around the corner with a towering stack of books wobbling dangerously in her arms.

“There you are!” she huffed. “You said you’d help me carry these after dinner!”

Ron flinched. “I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

She looked at you and gave a polite nod before yanking Ron out of his seat by the sleeve.

“Hermione, wait—I was—”

But she was already dragging him out of the library. You sat there, blinking in confusion, and then shook your head with a little smile.

⸻

Attempt #3 – Quidditch Mayhem

After practice, the pitch still hummed with energy, the sky streaked pink and purple as the sun began to dip low. Ron was sweaty and flushed from the drills, but as he spotted you waiting by the stands with your scarf wrapped around your neck, he swore you were glowing.

He jogged over, hair damp and chest heaving. “Hey! You stayed!”

You smiled, hugging your cloak tighter around yourself. “Of course I did. I like watching you play.”

That earned a bright blush. “Thanks. So, um, I’ve been thinking…”

He reached for the words carefully this time.

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend? Just you and me? Sort of… not as friends?”

The smile that touched your lips was soft—until a sharp crack made you both whip around.

“Harry!” you shouted.

Your best friend was lying on the ground, moaning, a few feet from where a rogue Bludger had smacked into his ribs mid-flight. The rest of the team was sprinting over already.

Ron let out a groan and ran after you, watching his moment vanish like steam.

(And Harry, bruised but grinning later, had the audacity to wink and say, “Timing’s rough, mate.”)

⸻

Attempt #4 – The One with the Exploding Cauldron

This time, it was Potions. Slughorn had ducked out to his office, and the room buzzed with end-of-class chatter and the occasional puff of smoke.

You were scrubbing your cauldron clean, elbow-deep in foam, sleeves rolled up past your elbows. Ron watched you for a second too long before stumbling over.

“Y/N,” he started, wiping his hands on his robes. “Can I ask you something? It’s kind of important.”

You turned, brows raised. “Of course.”

And right as he opened his mouth—

BOOM.

The explosion was so loud half the class hit the floor. Green smoke burst from Seamus’ cauldron and rained boiling potion everywhere.

You shrieked and yanked Ron down behind your desk as people screamed and Slughorn came barrelling back in with his wand raised.

Ron just lay there, heart pounding, potion goo in his hair, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe fate really hated him.

⸻

Attempt #5 – The Final Straw

Which leads him to tonight.

The common room was quiet, wrapped in that gentle, sleepy hush that only came after a long day. The fire had burned down low, casting a warm amber glow across the walls and flickering shadows along the floor. The distant wind outside howled softly through the castle stone, but inside, everything was still.

You were curled up in your favorite armchair by the hearth, a blanket wrapped loosely around your legs, the glow of the flames painting golden hues across your skin. Your book lay open in your lap, one hand lazily turning the pages as your eyes scanned the text—but Ron could tell you weren’t really reading. You looked peaceful. Content. Like you belonged there.

He stood at the top of the dormitory stairs, frozen. Just… looking at you.

You always looked beautiful to him, but in that moment, you looked almost unreal. Maybe it was the firelight, maybe it was the quiet, or maybe he was just too far gone. But he knew then and there—he couldn’t wait another bloody second.

Ron muttered to himself under his breath. “Okay. No Peeves. No Hermione. No Seamus blowing anything up. Just say it.”

His feet carried him forward like they had a mind of their own, the soft soles of his slippers brushing across the rug as he approached. You heard him coming, and when you looked up, your lips curled into a sleepy, familiar smile.

“Hi, Ron,” you said softly.

He sank down beside you on the armrest, the warmth of your body already creeping into his side. He smiled back, but his heart was racing—his mouth dry. He tried to gather the words he’d been holding in for what felt like forever.

His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “Y/N…”

You tilted your head slightly, your book forgotten.

“I’ve been trying to ask you out,” he said, eyes fixed on the fire, then on his hands, then finally back to you. “For weeks, actually.”

You blinked, amused. “I know.”

That threw him. “You do?”

You gave him a look—fond and teasing. “Ron, you’ve asked me like six times. You just never got to the end.”

He groaned and buried his face in one hand. “Bloody hell, I’m pathetic.”

“No,” you said gently, brushing his hand away so you could see him. “Just a bit cursed, maybe.”

He laughed, but it was nervous. “I didn’t mean to mess it up so many times. But something always happened, y’know? Peeves. Hermione. Exploding cauldrons..”

Ron let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I meant it. Every time. I just wanted to say… I like you. A lot more than I know how to explain. And I want to take you to Hogsmeade, and walk you back, and maybe—I dunno—kiss you. Once. Maybe more. Probably a lot more.”

Your lips quirked. “Just once?”

He chuckled nervously. “Okay, yeah. Definitely more.”

Your hand slid down to his, fingers threading through his warm, calloused ones. “Good.”

And that was it.

No interruptions. No explosions. No bloody chaos.

Just you. And him.

He leaned in—slowly, hesitantly—but you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, like testing the edge of something delicate. His lips brushed yours, unsure, almost like he didn’t quite believe it was really happening. But you responded instantly, your hand curling into the front of his jumper as you deepened it, pulling him closer.

And once you kissed him back—really kissed him—Ron stopped thinking altogether.

His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as though you were something fragile and precious. He tasted like spearmint and nervous hope, and you thought—finally. The world faded around you. There was only the warmth of the fire, the sound of his breath, and the soft little noise you made when he kissed you like he meant it.

When you finally broke apart, both of you slightly breathless, your noses brushed. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at him with the softest look he’d ever seen.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, lips still barely touching his.

He rested his forehead against yours and laughed, cheeks pink, heart thundering. “Yeah,” he breathed. “But it was worth it.”

And then, without hesitation, he kissed you again—once, twice, three times—slow, lingering kisses that made your toes curl and your fingers twist in his jumper like you never wanted to let go.

Because maybe, after all this time… you wouldn’t have to.