Work Text:
It was a Saturday morning when the dust motes danced lazily in the attic air, shafts of sunlight spilling through the narrow window panes like liquid gold. The kind of morning that asked for nothing loud or urgent, just tea, soft humming, and a bit of overdue organizing.
You were elbow-deep in nostalgia, rearranging boxes from when you and Fred had first moved in. Most of them had been shoved carelessly into the attic with the naive promise of we’ll sort it out later. Later, apparently, was today.
Behind a stack of forgotten books and a chipped cauldron you used once for a romantic candlelit stew (that ended in minor combustion), you spotted it, a weathered, dust-coated box nearly hidden beneath a heap of old rags. With a grunt, you tugged it free and brushed your hand over the lid, coughing slightly as years of attic dust danced into the sunlight.
Inside was a time capsule.
Fred’s old Hogwarts uniform.
Robes and sweaters, a rumpled white shirt, his worn Quidditch jersey, scarlet and gold dulled by time, but still unmistakably his. Even his tattered Quidditch gloves and a cracked helmet were in there, shoved in beside his broomstick maintenance kit. You couldn’t help but smile, heart tugged by the sight.
Somehow, he’d kept all of it.
You pulled out a thick maroon sweater, one of Molly’s, no doubt. His initials were carefully embroidered into the inside of the collar, the yarn slightly unraveled at the edge. You imagined her bustling around The Burrow with a frown and a knowing hum as she stitched it.
You held it up. It still looked comically oversized on you, and the sleeves fell past your hands. The faintest scent of old wood and something like cinnamon clung to it, and for a second, you felt like you’d stepped back in time.
The thought warmed you.
You decided to give the clothes a good wash, there was sunlight outside, warm enough to dry them on the line within hours. After gathering the laundry inside and folding what had dried, you settled on the couch in the living room, robe and jumper in your lap. Some parts were torn beyond fixing, but you had a solution for that too.
Needle and thread in hand, you sewed carefully under the golden glow of afternoon light, your fingers steady. Where the tears were too wide to mend cleanly, you stitched in little flourishes, tiny flowers, curling vines. You hummed a soft tune under your breath as you worked, sunlight filtering through the windows and painting everything in warm amber.
You didn’t even hear him come down the stairs.
Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, and a mop of tousled red hair buried itself in the crook of your neck.
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
“Fred!” you gasped, half-scolding, half-laughing.
He mumbled sleepily, his voice all husky edges and warmth. “Mornin’.”
Except it wasn’t morning. Not even close.
“It’s past lunch, love,” you said, heart still racing. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He chuckled against your skin, his breath warm as he nuzzled your shoulder. His grin was sleepy, teeth barely showing, and his breath still carried the sharpness of mint. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up. S’cold without you.”
Your lips twitched. “I made your favourite. It’s still warm in the kitchen if you hurry.”
But he wasn’t listening.
“Why were you up so early?” Fred mumbled, his lips brushing yours in a sleepy kiss before you could even finish your sentence. His voice was warm and gravelly, still thick from sleep. “I was lonely when you weren’t next to me.”
The way he said it, almost pouty, like a child denied his favorite toy, made you chuckle. Merlin, for someone who ran a wildly successful joke shop, he was such a bloody romantic behind closed doors.
“I was cleaning up the house a bit,” you replied, reaching up to smooth his tousled hair. It was warm from sleep, soft and messy under your fingertips.
He scoffed, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes, his brows knitting together. “Why didn’t you wake me? I could’ve helped.”
You smiled, brushing your thumb gently across his cheek. His concern was genuine, grumbly and endearing in the most Fred Weasley way. He always acted personally offended when you did something on your own that he thought should have been done together. Even something as simple as folding old laundry.
“You’ve been working nonstop lately,” you said, your voice quiet, affectionate. “Figured you deserved a lie-in for once.”
You leaned forward to place a small kiss at his hairline, just above the temple. He exhaled a long breath, melting under your touch, but his frown didn’t ease entirely.
The truth was, he had been busy, late nights at the shop, inventory restocks, new joke prototypes, letters from Zonko’s about potential collaborations. You hadn’t wanted to disturb him on one of the rare mornings he didn’t have to be anywhere.
But Fred Weasley was nothing if not stubborn when it came to you.
He let out a dramatic little sigh, leaning his head against your shoulder and blinking up at you with exaggerated heartbreak.
“Wake me next time,” he said, his voice lower now, more serious beneath the playfulness. “I don’t care if we’re ankle-deep in soot or just lying in bed doing absolutely nothing. I want to be where you are.”
You felt something flutter in your chest at that, something warm and familiar, the kind of love that doesn’t shout but settles into your bones like home.
He flopped beside you on the couch, limbs loose and sprawling like a cat in a sunbeam. One strong arm slung around your shoulders as if it had always belonged there, and you immediately leaned into his warmth, burying your face against his chest.
“Got it,” you murmured against his shirt, smile curling at your lips. “I promise. Next time, I’ll wake you.”
His hand found yours without looking, fingers lacing together like it was second nature.
“Good,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “What’s the point of a day off if I can’t spend it wrapped around my gorgeous wife?”
You snorted against his collarbone. “You’re ridiculous.”
Fred pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as though the contact grounded him. When he pulled back, his gaze drifted downward, caught by the familiar fabric resting across your lap.
“Oh?” he murmured, brow arching. “What are you up to?”
You lifted the maroon jumper, holding it up for him to see. “Found your old uniforms,” you said with a small smile. “Thought you’d left them all at the Burrow.”
He reached out, fingers curling around the edge of the sweater. His expression didn’t shift much, but you noticed it, the faintest twitch of his lips, the softness creeping into his eyes. The kind of stillness that only came when someone was drifting into memory.
“Ah, this one,” he murmured. His thumb brushed over the frayed collar where the embroidered initials F.W. still clung, faded but proud. “I forgot we even packed this one.”
“And this too,” you said, lifting a second bundle into the light. A flash of vibrant red, his old Quidditch robe. Still striking after all these years, still unmistakably Fred. The fabric had held up surprisingly well, especially compared to the rest of the worn uniforms. You guessed he’d treated this one with extra care.
He chuckled as he saw it, reaching over to take the robe from your hands. His fingers ran across the fabric like he was reading a story hidden in the threads. “Blimey, I didn’t know I kept it this nice.”
You could tell, just from the weight in his breath, that the memories were flooding back. The roughness of the old pitch, the chill of early-morning practice, the way the wind felt when he and George flew in perfect tandem above the castle grounds.
“Most Weasley clothes don’t survive this long,” he said with a crooked grin. “Passed down, patched up, handed off again. But this one...”
“Because it meant something,” you said gently.
He gave a small hum of agreement, nostalgic but content. “Me and George took a bunch of our stuff with us when we moved into the flat above the shop. Thought it’d remind us who we were before the shop, before the war. Just two dumb blokes who liked to cause trouble.”
He scratched his chin, gaze distant, voice low. “Never regretted that decision. Not once. Especially not with everyone who backed us, even when we didn’t have much to show for it.”
You tilted your head. “Is that why you kept it? For the memories?”
His eyes found yours again, warm and alight with mischief and affection. “At first, yeah,” he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, featherlight against your cheek. “Also because we got banned from Quidditch for life, remember?”
You snorted, your chest tightening with fondness. “Oh, right, the Malfoy brawl. Umbridge lost her mind.”
Fred smirked at the memory, then sighed, a wistful tilt to his smile. “I loved playing. We both did. Didn’t talk about it much after the ban…”
You remembered trying to comfort him, back then, how his silence had said more than his laughter ever could. How he’d tried to brush it off with bravado, but his hands had tightened around his broom like it was the last piece of himself he could hold onto.
“But then,” he added, his voice softening again, “everything changed.”
His calloused hand cradled your face now, thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone. “When we got married, I actually planned to toss it. Or maybe send it back to Mum’s, tuck it away where it could gather dust properly.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Fred’s grin curved slyly. “But I thought… What if we had kids someday? What if it’s a boy? Maybe he’d want to wear it.”
The words landed like sunlight in your chest, warm and sudden. His eyes twinkled with the thought, with something quietly hopeful. You nuzzled into his hand, tracing your fingers along the back of it as your heart fluttered.
“And what if it’s a girl?”
Fred’s bark of laughter filled the room, bright and unfiltered. He wrapped both arms around your waist and pulled you fully onto his lap, catching you in a warm sprawl against him.
“Then she gets the helmet and the bat,” he declared proudly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And I’ll train her myself to become the best damn beater the world’s ever seen.”
You laughed, breath catching against his collarbone. “Think she’ll go for it?”
“She’ll be feral,” he said, already sounding like the most adoring father alive. “She’ll be swinging that bat at boys who try to flirt by third year.”
“Just like her dad then,” you teased, giggling as he gave you an affronted gasp.
“Oh, rude, I’ll have you know-” he started, but you silenced him with a kiss to his chin.
Then another, to the freckled curve of his cheek.
And one to the bridge of his nose, just beneath the unruly fringe.
He went quiet, lashes fluttering closed as you smoothed back his hair and leaned in once more.
The kiss you placed on his forehead was loving. Devoted. When your lips finally found his, he kissed you back just as gently.
------
Fred’s stubble scraped against your chin as you broke the kiss, giggling as the sensation tickled your skin.
“Fred- stop, it tickles!” you laughed, twisting slightly in his hold. But he wouldn’t let you escape. His long arms only wrapped tighter around you, holding you hostage against his chest as he rubbed his jaw deliberately along your cheek, his scruff leaving a warm flush behind.
“That's the point, darling,” he teased, voice muffled in your hair, utterly pleased with himself.
You gave up quickly, how could you not? and melted into his arms as he kissed you silly. You cupped his face gently, pressing a cascade of small kisses over his freckled cheeks, each one drawing a deeper laugh from his chest. His fingers threaded into your hair, cradling the back of your head with care.
“You know,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, “there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
You tilted your head, curious.
He shifted you slightly in his lap, one hand reaching to the side. When he turned back, you saw it: the bright red Quidditch robe, vivid even in the softened afternoon light. The number 5, golden and bold, gleamed on the back like it had been waiting all these years for this exact moment.
Before you could ask, he draped it over your shoulders, smoothing the fabric around your arms, tugging your hands into the sleeves that absolutely drowned you.
You blinked up at him in mild confusion.
“I always wanted to do this,” he said, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “After a big win, I was going to wrap you in my robe. Parade you around the pitch like the bloody queen you are.”
You laughed softly.
“But then,” he continued, voice quieter now, brushing past your ear in a way that made heat rise along the side of your neck, “the whole Malfoy fiasco happened. Umbridge. The ban. And it all just… faded.”
Your breath hitched. You remembered that day, how tightly he’d gripped his broom, the fury in his eyes, the sadness buried just beneath it. How you had held him later that night and whispered every soft word you could think of while he pretended it didn’t hurt.
“I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” he added.
He kissed your earlobe as he spoke, lips featherlight and warm. You melted into him, burying your face in the curve of his neck, your voice muffled when you replied.
“If it’s you… I don’t care how long it takes.”
That made him laugh. A loud, genuine sound that rumbled in his chest as he wrapped you tighter in his arms. The Quidditch robe cocooned around you both, soft and warm, still smelling faintly of worn-in leather. He tucked his chin atop your head, his nose buried in your hair as he let out a slow, contented sigh.
Then he hummed, low and playful as one hand traced slow circles along your spine.
“You know,” he murmured, “I have a few more ideas, actually.”
You pulled back to look at him, resting your palms on his broad shoulders. The look in his eyes was pure trouble. Mischief danced in every freckled line of his face. Your instincts prickled.
“What is it?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t tell me you want me to actually play Quidditch in this- I mean, I can… but I’m not exactly- gah!”
Before you could finish, Fred stood up in one swift movement, his arms sliding under your thighs and hoisting you into the air with ease. You yelped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his neck.
“Fred!” you gasped, heart racing. “Where are you going?!”
“Shhh, relax, Sweetpea.” He kissed your temple with a grin. “Would I ever let you fall?”
You hated how much you trusted him in these ridiculous, spontaneous moments. Hated it… and loved it entirely.
His steps were steady as he carried you toward the bedroom, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hand splayed wide over your back. The breeze from the cracked window stirred the curtains as you entered, carrying with it the scent of spring grass and the distant hum of birdsong.
Fred laid you down gently on the bed like you were something precious. His hands lingered at your sides, and his gaze drank you in as you sprawled across the duvet, wearing a familiar old robe and a dazed expression.
You tugged at the collar of his shirt. “So…” you asked quietly, “was this the idea?”
He didn’t answer.
He just leaned down and kissed you again, deeper this time, filled with all the things words would only cheapen. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that made your breath catch, his hand slipping beneath the folds of red fabric to find your waist.
“You know I can’t resist you, yeah?” he whispered against your ear, voice husky and low. “Not when you’re wearing my number.”
Before you could reply, he sat up, peeling off his shirt in one smooth movement. You barely had time to admire the familiar freckled planes of his chest before he was back on you, his mouth, his hands, his everything.
Your fingers found their home in his hair as he kissed you like a starving man, like he hadn’t eaten, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t lived until this moment. Maybe that was true. He didn’t seem to care about food right now. Only about you.
He huffed softly, lips ghosting your jaw, your neck, then down, pausing to look at you, to watch the rise and fall of your chest, the flush blooming across your cheeks. You, wrapped in crimson and gold, eyes hazy, lips kiss-bitten.
He looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in a world full of noise.
----
“Maybe it’s better,” Fred murmured against your lips, breath warm and teasing, “if you only wear my robe.”
Your breath caught just as his hands slid beneath your shirt, calloused palms trailing across the soft skin of your stomach, grazing higher. You yelped, half laughing, half breathless.
“Fred.”
He shushed you with a grin and a kiss, lips slanting over yours with impatient sweetness. “I’ll clean it up later,” he promised absentmindedly, already pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it to the floor.
He barely gave you time to protest, though honestly, you didn’t want to. His mouth moved against yours like he couldn’t bear a single inch between you, like he was starving for something only you could offer. And maybe he was. Because by the time he pulled back, just far enough to breathe again, you realized you were already bare save for the crimson robe hanging off your shoulders.
The golden thread shimmered against your skin, bright in the sunlight that flooded the room, painting both your bodies in warmth.
Your cheeks flushed under the daylight, no shadows to hide behind, no sheets to cover the blush on your chest or the way your thighs shifted under his gaze. But Fred didn’t give you the chance to feel self-conscious. His arms anchored you in place, and his lips returned to your throat with soft, open-mouthed kisses, slowly dragging down to your collarbone.
Each kiss lingered. Each suck left behind a bloom of red, blooming like wildflowers on the canvas of your skin. You tangled your fingers in his hair, gasping when he reached your chest, reverently cupping you in his large hands.
“Love this,” he mumbled, voice already ragged. “You know I do. My favorite place to land after a long day.”
And you knew. Every evening, after hours in the shop, he’d collapse into your arms and bury his face against your chest like it was his own personal sanctuary. He never even tried to hide it.
He licked his lips now, eyes darkening with want, before lowering his mouth. His tongue flicked against your nipple, tasting, savoring, like he was memorizing you all over again. You arched into him, breath catching in your throat.
He groaned softly, like your voice alone made him tremble. One hand kneaded your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive bud, while the other slid lower, fingers curling around your hip, then slipping between your thighs with ease.
“You left me all alone this morning,” he murmured, voice heavy with faux accusation as he circled your clit. “Had to suffer, dreaming about you in our bloody bed.”
His teasing touch made your hips buck instinctively. You could hardly breathe as he rubbed slow, steady circles, the pad of his finger slick against you.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered, pupils blown. “Did I make you lonely too, sweetheart?”
You gasped again, your back arching under him. His fingers worked you with expert precision, like he knew you better than you knew yourself. He slipped a finger inside you, slow and deep, and sighed as if the heat of you was a balm to every part of him.
“So wet and tight,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Fuck…”
He added a second finger without pause, then a third. You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders, your thighs trembling around his wrist. But he didn’t rush, he never rushed. Even now, when you could feel how hard he was against your hip, straining through his trousers, he still took his time.
Because Fred Weasley might be chaos incarnate but in bed? With you?
He was all patience, all focus, all worship.
He curled his fingers deliberately, searching until.
“Ah! Fred!”
There it was. The sweet spot. He found it effortlessly and pressed again, again, drawing the kind of sound from you that had his whole body clenching in response. You felt yourself unraveling, heart pounding against your ribs like it might burst free.
The crimson robe was wrinkled beneath you, golden thread twisted between your limbs, but you didn’t care. Neither did he. His eyes stayed on you, watching the way your mouth parted, the way your chest heaved, how your whole body began to tremble under the weight of his hand and the rhythm of his touch.
The sunlight painted every part of you in gold, and Fred drank in the sight like it might disappear.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “Look how perfect you are for me.”
“There,” Fred murmured, his voice low and warm, “you like it right here, baby? When I press just like that?”
Your back arched as his fingers curled perfectly against your sweet spot. A strangled cry broke free from your throat, cut short as you instinctively clapped your hand over your mouth, trying to muffle the sound.
But Fred tsked softly, his free hand catching yours. “No, no, sweetheart,” he chastised with mock disapproval, gently pinning your wrists above your head. “You don’t get to hide that from me. How else will I know how good I’m making you feel?”
He leaned down, mouth brushing yours, his kiss slow, open, all heat and teasing. And still, his fingers moved inside you, coaxing, curling, stroking that exact spot he knew drove you wild. Your body trembled beneath him, legs twitching under the weight of pleasure.
“Good girl,” he whispered, lips at your temple now, his voice like velvet laced in sin. “That’s it. Come for me, love.”
And you did.
Your whole body seized with the wave crashing over you, soaking his fingers as your breath came in sharp, unsteady gasps. Fred watched you fall apart with that wicked, knowing grin. Then, without breaking eye contact, he raised his hand and slowly licked your release off his fingers.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, tongue flicking between knuckles. “Like fucking honey.”
He leaned in close again, whispering against your jaw like a secret just for you. “Makes me want to stay between your legs all bloody day.”
Before you could even reply, still dazed, blinking through the afterglow, he was already sliding down the bed, settling between your thighs with practiced ease.
“I owe you for all those nights I came home late,” he murmured, placing a reverent kiss to your inner thigh. Another. Then one more, just over the tender skin he’d left marked with faint bruises of love.
Your hips twitched when his breath ghosted over your folds.
You looked down, flushed and breathless, meeting his eyes as he smirked, mischievous and so utterly yours. He nudged his nose against your clit, making you gasp.
Then his mouth opened and you forgot how to breathe.
His tongue lapped at your folds with slow, confident strokes, dragging across every sensitive inch as if he were savoring a feast. Sloppy, filthy kisses trailed from your entrance to your clit and back again, his grip tightening on your thighs as he buried himself deeper.
He didn’t eat you out. He worshipped you.
Slurping, groaning, deliberately letting the obscene sounds echo in the room, Fred devoured you like a man starving, tongue-fucking you until your legs shook around his shoulders.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking when the pleasure became too much, but it only made him growl against your core, sending the vibrations straight through you.
“Fred!”
You shattered again, unexpectedly, crying out as the orgasm ripped through you. Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he didn’t pull away, not until he’d licked up every last drop, his chin slick and glistening when he finally surfaced.
He hovered over you again, and you could barely focus. But you saw it, his swollen, flushed lips, the glint of pride in his eyes. He looked like the devil and the savior all at once.
“Fred…” you breathed, dazed.
“Yes?” he asked, so softly it made your chest ache. As if he hadn’t just reduced you to a writhing mess seconds ago.
You reached up, tracing his cheek, still panting. “I want you… please. Put it in.”
The plea was needier than you intended. But the second the words left your lips, Fred froze. His jaw clenched, and that look in his eyes changed.
“Fuck,” he muttered, sitting up just enough to strip his pants off in one motion. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, and already leaking. He wrapped a hand around it, giving it a few rough strokes, and you whimpered at the sight of him.
You instinctively tried to hide, burying your face into the red robe still tangled around your shoulders but he caught your chin, guiding you back to face him.
“No hiding, baby,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I want to see you when I slide in. Every time.”
You bit your lip as he lined himself up, his cock teasing your slick folds. He rocked his hips forward, coating himself in your arousal, notching against your entrance but still not pushing in.
“Fred,” you whispered, “stop teasing…”
He laughed under his breath, kissing your forehead before gripping your hips and finally, finally, thrusting in, slow and steady.
You both groaned, breath mingling as he sank deeper inch by inch. The stretch burned in the most delicious way, familiar and overwhelming, even after all this time. Fred never rushed this part. He always gave you time to adjust. No matter how many nights you’d spent tangled together, he treated each time like it mattered.
Because to him, it did.
“Gods, you're tight,” he hissed, forehead resting against yours. “Always so perfect for me.”
You clung to his shoulders, nails digging in as he bottomed out with a final thrust. Both of you stilled, bodies trembling, completely joined.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing and the faint rustle of robes and sheets.
“Breathe, baby.”
His voice was barely a whisper as his forehead pressed against yours, a quiet grounding force in the chaos of sensation. Your chest heaved as you obeyed, breath syncing with his as he eased deeper inside, inch by inch, until he was fully, completely, nestled within you.
“Yeah,” he groaned, voice ragged, “just like that. You’re takin’ me so well.”
You both stilled. The moment Fred bottomed out, your body clamped around him so tightly he had to grit his teeth, hands flexing on either side of your ribs. His palm slid down your belly, broad and warm, and rubbed gently, pausing just above your navel.
“It’s all the way up to here,” he murmured, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Reckon I can fill you up this high? Hm? How much do you think I can give you today, love?”
The very idea made your core flutter. A soft whimper slipped from your lips as your body clenched around him again, pure instinct, pure need.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to whisper through desperate lips, “Please, just move already. You’re driving me mad.”
He chuckled low, lips brushing your ear, “Now,” he whispered, rocking his hips slightly, “let me really make up for lost time.”
Fred began to thrust, slow at first, hips rocking into yours with aching precision. The rhythm built gradually, rolling heat between your bodies like waves beneath silk. Your legs locked around his waist, moving with him, every rise and fall a silent plea for more.
Breathy moans and wet gasps tangled in the air as the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm. He kissed your jaw, your cheek, your shoulder, never pulling away, never letting go. It was rough, and tender.
“Fred! Ah-”
Your cry cracked through the air when he angled his hips just right, slamming into that tender, perfect spot deep inside. His thick cock dragged against your walls with every thrust, rubbing you raw with pleasure until tears pricked your eyes.
You clung to him, nails digging into his back, mouth finding his shoulder as you bit down hard. He hissed at the pain, but never stopped. In fact, it only spurred him on.
His hand cradled your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises, anchoring you in place while he fucked into you like a man starved.
“I love you,” he panted against your neck. “I love you I fucking love you.”
You melted beneath him, breath hitching as his words soaked through your bones, searing deeper than any thrust could reach. His body might have been pounding you mercilessly, but his heart was pressed into every motion.
“I- I love- ah- I love you too!”
Your voice trembled through gasps, your head fuzzy, vision swimming as you tried to say the words between thrusts that knocked the breath from your lungs.
“Yeah?” he growled, pulling back to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide and wild. “You love me, love me fucking you this silly, yeah?”
You nodded, tried to, at least. The rest of your body had gone limp and twitchy under him, unraveling from the inside out. He loved seeing you like this: a breathless, trembling mess, writhing under his touch, soaking the old red robe you were still draped in like his favorite trophy.
His hand pushed your leg higher, spreading you open as his pace turned savage, raw and deep. The slapping of skin, the slick, embarrassing sounds of your soaked cunt taking every thrust, echoed like music to his ears.
“Fred! Ah- inside!”
That broke him.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he gasped, sweat dripping from his brow. “Tell me what you want. Say it again.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly close. “Please,” you cried, “please come inside me- I want it- ”
“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes rolling back. “How the fuck could I say no to that?”
With a low growl, he slammed forward, fucking you through every last ounce of control he had. He held your hips flush to his, balls slapping against your ass as he rutted into you with desperate purpose, burying himself so deep you could feel him in your throat.
And then, with one final, broken moan, he came.
Thick, hot ropes of cum spilled inside you, pulse after pulse filling you to the brim, warm and aching and his. The sensation alone tipped you over the edge again, clenching down on him so tight he cursed and whimpered into your skin.
Stars burst behind your eyes.
Your vision blurred.
You were nothing but trembling limbs, slick skin, and the sound of Fred breathing your name into your neck like a prayer.
He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, buried deep, chest rising and falling as he kissed your hair, your forehead, your cheek, anywhere he could reach.
“Good girl,” he murmured softly. “Gods, you’re such a good girl for me…”
You barely registered him shifting, only noticed when his arms slid beneath your back and thighs, lifting you effortlessly. He kissed your temple, brushing the sweat-slicked strands of hair from your face.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, love,” he whispered, so gentle now. “Can’t have you glued to my bloody robe all day.”
You giggled weakly, voice hoarse, as he carried you into the bathroom like it was second nature, because it was. He always took care of you after.
And as the water began to run, warm steam filling the air, you caught a glimpse of the crimson fabric lying crumpled on the bed.
Fred’s old Quidditch robe.
Not passed down. Not tucked away.
But used, claimed, marked by you and only you.
And something about that made him smile with wicked satisfaction as he looked back.
Yeah. He had a better idea for it now.
-The End-