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I love your writing and I would like Robby Keene x fem!flexible!reader where they are still starting their relationship even though they both already knew each other from the dojos. I feel like season six would be great where the boys bother him for having such a flexible girlfriend while she is just warming up to the girls and doesn't understand anything. HAHAH thanks<3
# YOU KNOW THAT I'M FALLING, ROBBY KEENE
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× You stretch at the dojo without realizing how much attention you’re drawing. The boys tease, Robby gets visibly jealous and protective, and amid the jokes, the beginning of your relationship quietly becomes official.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 1k
The mat was already crowded when you arrived, tossing your bag into the corner and dropping to your knees to stretch like you always did. Nothing special. Basic routine. Your body bending easily, legs opening into a perfect split, spine flexing as if you didn’t even have bones.
For you, it was just a warm-up.
For the rest of the dojo… it was a show.
“Dude…” Hawk muttered, elbowing Miguel. “Should this even be allowed?”
Miguel tried to keep a straight face, but failed.
“I’m trying to be respectful. I swear I’m trying.”
Robby closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply as if he were counting to ten… or maybe fifty.
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to look. Really trying. But it was hard when his — okay, maybe — girlfriend was right there, completely unaware of the chaos she was causing, casually talking to Sam and Tory while twisting into an impossible stretch.
“Has she always been like that?” Kenny asked, genuinely confused.
“Always,” Robby replied, way too tense for someone who was definitely not jealous.
“Always as in… always always?” Hawk pressed, that teasing grin already on his face.
Robby shot him a deadly look.
“Keep talking and I’ll take you down before training even starts.”
That only made the others laugh.
Meanwhile, you were laughing with the girls, completely clueless.
“They’re kinda weird today, right?” you commented, resting your chin on your knee while easily pulling one leg behind your head.
Sam nearly choked on her laugh.
“You really don’t notice, do you?”
“Notice what?”
Tory crossed her arms, watching the guys on the other side whisper shamelessly.
“That they’re losing their minds because you exist.”
You blinked.
“Huh?”
Before you could ask more, the senseis called everyone to start the new lesson. You jumped up lightly, passing by Robby and smiling at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”
His heart did that stupid little jump he pretended never happened.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Just… ignore them.”
“Who?”
Behind you, Hawk didn’t miss the chance.
“Your boyfriend’s suffering, you know.”
You stopped. Looked at Hawk. Then at Robby.
“Boyfriend?”
Silence fell for half a second.
Robby scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“We’re… kind of… starting. If you still want to.”
Your face warmed, but a slow smile appeared.
“I do,” you said simply, like it was obvious. “I just didn’t know it came with an audience.”
“Because apparently everyone thinks you’re doing this on purpose,” he muttered.
You blinked, looking at yourself.
“I was just stretching…”
“EXACTLY,” Robby said, a little too loudly. “Just stretching. Nothing special. Totally normal. Everyone does full splits while having a conversation.”
“Robby,” you laughed, “are you jealous?”
He froze.
“No.”
“You crossed your arms, scowled, and threatened someone.”
“Maybe.”
“So it is jealousy.”
He sighed, defeated.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice, almost brushing his ear.
“Relax,” you murmured. “I only have eyes for you.”
Robby’s brain shut down for half a second.
The problem?
Hawk was still behind you. Way too close.
“OHHH,” he reacted far too loudly, clutching his chest like he’d been struck. “So it’s official now? Because that sounded very official.”
Miguel turned immediately.
“Dude, was that a public declaration?”
“Did I miss the beginning?” Devon asked. “Because I swear I only blinked.”
Robby didn’t think. He just acted.
He grabbed your hand and pulled you closer, positioning you almost flush against his side, arm firm around your waist — nothing over the top, but clearly territorial.
“Official enough for you to stop talking,” he said flatly.
Hawk’s eyes widened.
“Wow. He pulled her. He PULLED her.”
“That was a boyfriend pull,” Miguel analyzed. “Definitely a boyfriend pull.”
You looked down at his hand on your waist… then at his focused face, jaw tight, eyes sharp like he was guarding territory.
And then you laughed.
Not a small laugh. A genuine one, finally understanding all the chaos of the day.
“Oh…” you said, shaking your head. “So that’s it.”
Robby blinked.
“That’s what?”
You turned slightly toward him, closing the distance even more.
“You’re jealous,” you said, amused.
“No,” he replied way too quickly.
“You are.”
“I’m being responsible.”
“Jealous,” you corrected, taking another small step forward and forcing him to step back half an inch.
Hawk pointed at you.
“He stepped back. He’s definitely losing this battle.”
Robby sighed, defeated, but didn’t let go of you.
“Protective,” he defended. “It’s different.”
“Uh-huh,” you smiled. “And what is this hand, then?”
“Prevention,” he replied, way too serious for the situation.
You tilted your head, teasing.
“Prevention of what?”
“People looking too much.”
Miguel raised his hands.
“Okay, but just to be clear: she’s not doing anything. She’s just existing.”
“EXACTLY,” Robby replied. “That’s the problem.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
“So when I stretch…”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he warned.
“…when I stretch,” you continued anyway, “you get like this?”
“Like what?”
You mimicked his posture: arms crossed, jaw tight, murderous glare at the room.
“My God,” Hawk said. “She’s already figured him out.”
Robby finally let out a short laugh, surrendering.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe a little jealous.”
“A lot,” you corrected.
“A little a lot.”
You stepped closer once more, whispering so only he could hear:
“Relax. I like that you care.”
He lowered his voice too.
“I care because it’s you.”
Silence lingered for half a second.
“Ugh,” Hawk complained. “Now it’s too cute. It physically hurts.”
You rested your forehead against Robby’s shoulder for a moment, comfortable.
“I’ll try to be less… eye-catching.”
Robby thought for a second.
“Don’t promise that.”
“No?”
“Just…” — he squeezed your waist lightly — “stay close to me when you do those things.”
You smiled, satisfied.
“Deal.”
Miguel shook his head.
“Incredible. He complained all day and now he’s completely proud.”
And for the first time since they started dating, he realized he didn’t care at all about the teasing.
Because in the end, you chose to stay by his side.
Even without realizing the effect you had on the rest of the dojo.
Can you do a Brayden x reader where they’re dating and decide to make a routine with ‘Halo’ by Beyonce? Idk, maybe them just feeling everything during the performance and making their relationship official for the first time
# YOU KNOW YOU'RE MY SAVING GRACE, BRAYDEN ELLIOT
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× You and Brayden are an ice dance duo secretly dating; when the official choreography no longer reflects what you feel, you create a new performance that turns the stage into a public confession and reveals your relationship for the first time.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 2.0k
No one suspected a thing.
To the rest of the team, you and Brayden Elliot were just two talented athletes sharing exhausting practices, the same noisy house, and a competitiveness far too intense to be mere coincidence. On the ice, the partnership worked because it looked objective—almost cold. Professional. Controlled.
That was what Brayden was known for.
Intense. Sharp. Unshakable.
On the rink, he carried that careless posture of someone who pretended not to care about anything. Not the pressure, and certainly not the people around him. Off the ice, he bore a reputation that was impossible to ignore: too handsome, too confident, always surrounded by half-told stories and curious looks. A player, they said. Someone who never took anything seriously for long.
You were the opposite.
Where Brayden improvised, you calculated. Where he provoked, you focused. Your presence on the ice was defined by precision, discipline, and an almost surgical calm. You rarely let emotions slip—during practice, in competition, or outside of it. To anyone watching from the outside, you were absolute control.
And maybe that was exactly why no one noticed.
What no one saw were the quick touches in the empty hallways of the house, when you passed each other pretending to be in a hurry. Fingers brushing lightly, almost by accident—just enough to remind you that you were there. That you were real.
No one noticed the looks that lingered half a second longer than acceptable. Looks exchanged over shoulders, reflected in glass, held too long to be simple distraction. Looks that said everything your mouths couldn’t.
And even less did they notice the hands that found each other in the dark—far from the rink, far from the lights, far from any witnesses. Hands searching for one another in silence, as if that contact were the only possible anchor in the constant chaos of a crowded house.
Dating Brayden in secret felt like living in suspension.
As if the world were always one step away from collapsing—and still, every second was worth it. It was beautiful in an almost painful way. Dizzying, like skating too fast without knowing if you could stop. And dangerously fragile, because all it took was one wrong look, one misstep, for everything to surface.
But even so, you stayed.
Because in the middle of all that, Brayden was there with you.
The idea for the new choreography came on a quiet night, in the rehearsal room nearly dark, when the rest of the house had already gone to sleep. The wooden floor reflected the dim light of the spotlights, and the mirror covered an entire wall, returning tired, repeated, imperfect images.
You were rehearsing the old choreography.
The official one. The one that had been polished for months, designed to impress judges, meet criteria, secure high scores—and, with luck, take you to Worlds.
But something was wrong.
You ran through the entire sequence without missing a single step. Technically perfect. Precise. When the music ended, the silence that followed brought no satisfaction—only the uncomfortable certainty that something was missing.
Brayden stood behind you, arms crossed, staring at the reflection of the two of you in the mirror. Jaw tense. Eyes far too focused to be simple evaluation.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s off.”
You nodded in silence.
The music was right. The movements were right. But the choreography felt… empty. Like you were telling a story that no longer made sense to either of you.
“We’re doing everything right,” you murmured, running a towel over your neck. “But it feels like it’s not saying anything.”
Brayden stepped closer, stopping just behind you. In the mirror, your bodies almost touched. He hesitated—too aware of the risk, even though you were alone.
“Because we’re pretending,” he said quietly. “Pretending this is just work.”
The silence stretched.
You’d been dating in secret long enough for that pretending to start weighing on you. Outside the room, it was averted gazes, hands that didn’t touch, carefully measured distance. Inside, even alone, your bodies still carried the habit of restraint.
Brayden ran a hand through his hair, restless.
“What if we tried it a different way?”
You turned to him.
“How?”
He took a deep breath, as if about to cross an invisible line.
“Dancing for real. Not for them.” A half-smile appeared. “For us.”
You were the one who suggested the song. Halo.
Brayden smiled—small, almost vulnerable.
It was your song. The one that played too softly through shared headphones, during stolen moments, on nights when no one could see.
When the music started, everything changed.
There was no rigid counting. No exact marks. Just his body finding yours, far too familiar.
Every time Brayden held you, there was absolute attention. Presence. And every time you leaned into him, there was a quiet trust you already shared far from there.
The rehearsals began to feel dangerous.
Lingering looks reflected in the mirror. Shared breaths too close. Hands that waited a second too long before letting go.
Then came the performance.
The rink was packed. Bright lights. Anticipation thick in the air. When the music began, the world seemed to shrink until there was only the two of you left.
The first movement was restrained, almost distant. As if you were still hiding something.
Then, little by little, the choreography opened up.
Brayden pulled you closer. You spun, trusting him without thinking, feeling the ground disappear as he lifted you with ease. There were moments when your faces came so close the audience held its breath.
And then came the end.
The music softened, the final notes echoing through the arena in expectant silence. The world seemed suspended, as if even the air had learned how to wait. You knew exactly what the last movement was—you had rehearsed it dozens of times, until your body memorized it.
But Brayden didn’t follow it.
The moment your feet touched the ground, he didn’t let go as planned. Instead, he brought both hands to your face, with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of the performance. His thumbs brushed your skin as if he needed to be sure you were still there.
Time slowed.
His forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling, the sound of the music already too distant to matter. There was no audience anymore. No judges. No team. Just that minimal space between you—too small to remain silence.
And then Brayden kissed you.
His hands slid from your face to your waist, firm and steady, as if anchoring you there—as if the world could disappear at any second and only that touch would stop it. His fingers tightened with both care and urgency, pulling you closer, erasing the last trace of distance.
You took a deep breath.
Then you brought your hands up into his hair.
The strands were slightly damp with sweat, warm beneath your fingers. You held them without thinking, as if that gesture had always been there, waiting for permission. It wasn’t a pull—it was a silent request for him not to step back.
The arena froze for half a second.
Then it erupted.
But you barely heard it.
His hands were still holding your face when the kiss ended, foreheads resting together again, eyes closed for one second longer—as if Brayden were engraving that moment into memory.
And when he leaned in and whispered in your ear:
“Now they know. And I’m not backing down.”
You smiled.
BONUS:
You just wanted water.
It was a simple plan. Walk into the kitchen, grab a glass, leave without being seen. No risks, no detours.
Brayden was the mistake.
He appeared behind you in silence, leaning against the counter, close enough to be far more than coincidence. In the dark reflection of the cabinet glass, everything was obvious: the excessive closeness, the attentive way he watched you when he thought no one else could see.
“Brayden… you’re going to get us both caught one of these days,” you whispered, not daring to turn around.
“You’re going to pretend you don’t like it,” he teased, his voice low, before leaning in and kissing you with enough intensity to make the rest of the world disappear.
You let yourself get carried away for one second longer than you should have.
When you realized it, you let go of the refrigerator door without care. The sharp click of it closing echoed far too loudly through the quiet house.
“Did you guys hear that?” someone asked from the other side of the hallway.
Your heart dropped.
Brayden reacted fast. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind the kitchen island. You crouched together, so close your knees nearly collided, breath trapped in your chest.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you murmured, trying to hold back a nervous laugh.
“This is your fault,” he whispered back. “You look way too good at two in the morning.”
Footsteps approached.
The kitchen light snapped on—too bright, too exposing.
“Adriana?” another voice called. “Did you get up?”
Your stomach twisted.
Adriana Russo wasn’t stupid. She never had been.
You held your breath as her feet appeared on the other side of the island. She stopped there for a few seconds that felt far too long, as if she sensed something out of place.
“Is someone there?” Adriana murmured.
Brayden squeezed your hand hard, firm enough to anchor you.
The silence stretched.
Then Adriana sighed.
“That’s weird… I could’ve sworn I saw someone,” she said, before turning the light off.
Her footsteps faded away.
When the door finally closed, Brayden rested his forehead against yours, letting out a slow breath.
“She almost caught us.”
“She knows,” you replied, your voice too shaky to hide it.
“Of course she doesn’t,” he said, though his tone wasn’t nearly as convincing as before.
Brayden went quiet for a few seconds, as if weighing his own words.
Then he took a breath and pulled back just enough to look at you in the dark.
“Okay… maybe not everything,” he corrected in a whisper. “But she doesn’t have any proof.”
You let out a short, nervous laugh, running a hand over your face.
“Brayden, she literally stopped right in front of us.”
“She stops in front of everyone,” he shot back, trying to sound casual, though his fingers still laced through yours betrayed the tension. “It’s her favorite sport.”
You shook your head, but didn’t let go of his hand.
Silence settled over the kitchen again, heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. Slowly, the adrenaline gave way to awareness—of how close you were again, bodies still pressed together, breaths evening out in sync.
“This is getting impossible,” you murmured.
Brayden tilted his head, resting it lightly against your shoulder.
“I know.”
For a moment, you thought he’d joke, tease, brush it off. But he didn’t. His voice came out low, too honest.
“I hate pretending I don’t know you when people are around. I hate letting go of your hand when someone walks in. I hate having to calculate every step.”
You swallow hard.
“Then why are we still hiding?” you asked, not looking at him.
Brayden took a while to answer. When he did, it was careful.
“Because if we get caught now, it won’t just be about us.” He paused. “It’ll turn into a distraction. Everyone will talk about it. And I don’t want any of that falling on you.”
You finally looked at him.
There was something there you didn’t see in the Brayden the team knew. No arrogance. No careless confidence. Just someone trying to protect the most precious thing he had, without quite knowing how.
“I’m not that fragile,” you said.
He smiled faintly.
“I know. But still.”
You stayed there a few more seconds, until Brayden reluctantly let go of your hand.
“Go,” he murmured. “Before someone decides to come back for water too.”
You took two steps, then stopped.
“Brayden?”
“Hm?”
“Next time… let’s go to your room.”
He laughed softly—that laugh only you knew.
“Promise.”
You left the kitchen with your heart still racing, knowing the danger hadn’t passed, it had only been postponed.
hi! Hope you're doing well! I'd love to request some College!Mike Wheeler fluff :) I can't stop imagining him coming home after along day to his and the reader's dorm, just like collapsing against her and wanting to be babied. And reader's confused because he doesn't usually act so clingy, but she obliges anyway.
Hope you have a lovely day and drink plenty of water!
# HOME IS YOU, MIKE WHEELER
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× After a difficult day at college, Mike reaches his limit and seeks comfort in your arms.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 1.1k
Mike Wheeler was never exactly… clingy.
Affectionate, yes. Attentive, definitely. But he had always been the kind of person who showed affection in small gestures: bringing you coffee without you asking, remembering silly details from your stories, sitting a little too close on the couch and pretending it was a coincidence. Long hugs and openly asking for affection were never really his style.
So when the dorm room door opened that night and he dropped his backpack on the floor without saying a word, you immediately knew something was off.
“Hey,” you said, closing the book on your lap. “Rough day?”
Mike didn’t answer. He just walked over to you, where you were sitting on the bed, and without any warning, he leaned forward and pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist as if he’d spent the entire day holding himself together and had finally fallen apart.
You froze for a second.
“Mike…?”
He let out a low sound, almost a grumble, and tightened his hold.
“Just… stay,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your shirt.
Your heart ached.
Carefully, you ran your hand through his wavy hair, feeling the tension in his body slowly begin to ease. Mike let out a deep breath, the kind that felt like it carried weeks of exhaustion with it.
“Are you really okay, baby?” you asked softly, now tracing slow, comforting circles on his back.
“I don’t know,” he admitted after a few seconds, as if choosing his words carefully. “Today was… too much.”
He took a deep breath, still hiding his face near your shoulder, his voice low and tired.
“The exam was awful. I studied, I swear I did, but nothing made sense once I sat down in that room. Then there was the group project… no one did their part right, everything fell on me, and in the end it still felt like it was my fault.” He let out a humorless laugh. “And that professor… I don’t know what I did to him, but sometimes it feels personal.”
You felt his grip tighten for a moment, as if he were holding the rest of the day right there between his arms.
“And in the middle of all that,” he continued, even quieter, “all I could think about was coming home. To you. Lying here and not having to be anything other than tired.”
Home.
It was funny how that word sounded different when it came from him. Even sharing a small dorm room, with walls that were too thin and constant noise in the hallway, Mike said it with quiet certainty. As if that place only made sense because you were there. As if the whole world became a little more bearable the moment he walked through that door.
Mike slowly lifted his head, just enough to look at you. His brown eyes were tired, honest, a little unsure — a kind of vulnerability he rarely ever let show.
“Sorry if I’m being weird,” he said. “I know I’m not really… like this. Asking. Needing.”
You smiled softly, feeling your heart tighten as your thumb traced distracted, gentle circles on his arm.
“Like this how?”
“Needy,” he replied, with a crooked half-smile. “Normally I can hold it in. But today I just… couldn’t.”
You felt something warm spread through your chest.
“Mike, you don’t have to ‘hold it in’ with me,” you said softly. “You never have.”
He blinked, clearly processing that, and then let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh.
“I know. I mean… I think I know. I’m just not used to needing this much.”
“Everyone needs it sometimes,” you replied, pulling him back close. “Even you, Mike Wheeler.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. He settled in more comfortably, resting his head against your chest, one arm firm around your waist, as if that contact was exactly what was keeping him upright. You felt his breathing slow, his body truly relaxing.
“This is nice,” he murmured. “Really nice.”
“I’m glad,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
The room slowly fell quiet. The voices in the hallway sounded distant, muffled by the thin walls, and the only sound that truly remained was Mike’s breathing, calm now, rising and falling against your chest. The weight of his body no longer felt tense, just tired, comfortable, as if he had finally found a safe place to rest.
You kept stroking him without any rush, your fingers tracing lazy paths along his back and arm. Mike let out a deep sigh, long and content, the kind that gave away just how much he needed this, even if he had never admitted it before.
After a while, when you thought he might have fallen asleep, his voice came again, low and soft, almost drowsy.
“Promise you won’t laugh at me?”
You tilted your head slightly, surprised, but the seriousness in his tone made you smile gently.
“I promise.”
There was a brief silence before he continued, as if gathering courage.
“If I do this more often… like, coming home tired and wanting to stay like this.” He tightened his arm around your waist for a second. “Without pretending I’m fine.”
Your heart clenched in the best way, warm and full, and you answered without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tenderness.
“I’ll be here. Every time.”
Mike went quiet for a few seconds after that, as if absorbing every word. Then he moved slowly, carefully, lifting his head from your chest. His brown eyes met yours, still tired, but calmer now, warmer.
Without saying anything, he brought a hand up to your face, his fingers brushing your cheek with hesitation, as if asking for permission without words. You didn’t pull away.
The kiss was soft and unhurried, filled with everything he hadn’t been able to say throughout the day. There was no rush, no overwhelming intensity, just the quiet certainty that this was the right place to be. A lingering, comfortable kiss that made the world outside feel far away.
When he pulled back, still resting his forehead against yours, Mike let out a small, almost shy smile.
“I love you,” he said quietly, like a confession meant only for you, no drama, no hurry—just truth.
You didn’t hesitate for a second.
“I love you too, Mike.”
He smiled against your skin, his body completely relaxed now, as if the weight of the world had shrunk enough to fit inside that embrace. There was no rush, no pressure, no expectations—just the quiet comfort of being there together.
And for the first time in a long while, Mike allowed someone to take care of him without fear, knowing he didn’t have to be strong all the time.
hi!!! can i request a miguel diaz x reader friends to rivals to lovers imagine?? like, they used to be friends until reader joins ck while miguel's in eagle fang or smth and reader builds walls around her n stuff but miguel stays smitten and trying to put some sense back into her?? happy ending please🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 just a lot of angst and yearning but fluff (maybe smut? its up to u) in the end <333 :)
# WHY CAN'T WE BE FRIENDS? ㅤㅤ MIGUEL DIAZ
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× You and Miguel were best friends… until Johnny left Cobra Kai to Eagle Fang and you chose not to go with Miguel.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 2.9k
You and Miguel had always been the two of you against the world.
Not because the world was especially cruel, but because everything felt simpler when you were by his side. Before the dojos, before the uniforms, before any imaginary line dividing people into opposing sides, there was only the two of you and the time you found in each other.
Before the dojos.
Before the sides.
Before Kreese and Silver.
Miguel was the one who waited for you after class, leaning against the pole in front of the building, pretending to scroll on his phone while watching you walk out. He was the one who complained about being hungry but always split his last snack in half to share with you. The one who put an earbud in your ear and let you choose the music, even when he disagreed with every single song.
He knew when you were struggling before you ever admitted it.
He knew by the way you zipped your backpack a little too hard. By the silence that lingered longer than usual. By the way your shoulders tensed, as if the world felt too heavy that day.
In those moments, Miguel didn’t ask questions. He just stayed.
He walked beside you, slowed his pace to match yours, told some silly story until your breathing evened out. And it worked—always worked—because with him, you never had to explain yourself.
It was friendship.
It was care.
It was something neither of you had the courage to name.
That’s why, when you stayed in Cobra Kai, Miguel didn’t understand.
He tried to find logic where there was only fear, pressure, and the wrong voice telling you that strength was the only way out. He tried to believe it was just a phase, that you would come back to being yourself.
But every day made that harder.
You began to close yourself off. Your answers grew shorter. Your smiles became rare. That familiar spark in your eyes seemed dimmed, replaced by something hard and defensive.
Colder.
More distant.
Harsher.
Miguel tried to respect it.
He tried not to push. He tried not to show how much it hurt. He tried to pretend he didn’t miss you—even when you were still there, only a few feet away.
Or at least, he tried.
Until the day he saw you on the other side of the mat, at the regional tournament.
The black gi looked heavy on you. Your body was tense, fists clenched, eyes sharp as if everything around you was a threat. You didn’t look happy. You looked ready to fight at all times.
Miguel smiled at you. Instinctive. Automatic. The same smile as always, the one that said, it’s okay, I’m here.
You didn’t smile back.
Your eyes passed over him as if he were just someone else. An obstacle. A past that no longer mattered.
Miguel’s chest tightened.
In that moment, he understood it wasn’t about dojos. Or sides.
It was about you pulling away to survive.
And that hurt more than any blow he had ever taken.
“You don’t have to pretend I don’t exist,” Miguel said later, standing at the entrance of the women’s locker room, his hands shoved into his pockets as if that were the only thing keeping him there.
You didn’t look at him. You kept tying your bag, your fingers trembling too much to go unnoticed.
“I’m not pretending.”
The answer came out low, controlled. Rehearsed.
“Then why does it feel like you are?”
The hallway went quiet. The distant sound of footsteps and voices faded until there was only that heavy, almost suffocating silence.
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a second longer than usual, as if you were gathering all the pieces of yourself before they fell apart.
“Because if I stop… I’ll fall apart.”
Miguel swallowed hard. The knot in his throat burned.
“I wouldn’t let you fall. Never. That’s why I asked you to come with me to Eagle Fang.”
The sincerity in his voice hurt more than any accusation could.
You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“That’s exactly why I need to step away.”
You walked past him, feeling the air shift as you got too close. Miguel turned his head, following every step like he was watching something slip away without being able to stop it.
“Sensei misses you,” he said, almost like a last attempt, watching you disappear down the hallway. “I miss you too.”
You stopped.
For a brief, painful moment, everything seemed suspended. The whole world held its breath with you.
If you looked back, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep going.
So you didn’t.
You took a deep breath, your chest burning, and kept walking away from Miguel—leaving behind the only place where you had ever felt safe.
And as you walked away, Miguel realized that losing you like that hurt more than any rivalry ever could.
At the tournament, the quarterfinals would be decided the following day. The gym was full, loud, buzzing with anticipation. You would fight Sam. If you won, you would advance to the finals to face Tory.
That was what everyone saw.
What no one saw was the weight in your chest.
When you stepped onto the mat, the noise of the crowd dissolved. The gi felt heavier than it should have, clinging to your sweaty skin, as if every step required extra effort. Your eyes met Sam’s for a brief second. There was no hatred there. Only tension. Only unspoken things.
Across the bleachers, Miguel was looking for you.
And he found you.
His heart tightened when he saw the expression on your face. It wasn’t confidence. It was anger. A contained, sharp, dangerous anger. That wasn’t the you who laughed after training, who complained about being tired, who leaned on him without even realizing it.
The referee gave the signal.
You fought with anger.
Not explosive anger, but the quiet kind that settled into your muscles, your clenched teeth, your short breaths. Every strike felt like a warning. To Sam. To the crowd. To yourself.
Don’t get close.
Don’t try to reach me.
Don’t see what I’m hiding.
Sam tried to talk during the fight, tried to break your rhythm, but you didn’t answer. Your body spoke for you. Fast. Precise. Relentless.
When the final point was awarded in your favor, the gym erupted in applause.
You won.
But you didn’t smile.
You didn’t raise your arms. You didn’t look for anyone in the stands. You just took a step back, breathing deeply, as if trying to keep something from spilling over.
Miguel realized the truth before anyone else.
You weren’t happy.
He watched you leave the mat without looking back, without celebrating, without acknowledging what everyone else would call a victory. And in that moment, he understood that the fight hadn’t been about Sam.
It had been about pain.
After the match, he found you behind the bleachers. The sound of the crowd didn’t reach there. The air was colder, heavier, almost too intimate for two hearts so tangled.
You were leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, breathing as if you were still in the middle of the fight.
Miguel stopped a few steps away.
He didn’t know if you would let him come closer.
But he knew he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.
“You won,” he said, breaking the silence carefully, as if any louder word might make you shut down completely.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
Your answer came automatically, emotionless, as if the victory had been left on the mat along with what little energy you had left.
You finally looked at him.
Miguel’s eyes were tired. Hurt. There was no accusation in them—only an old, accumulated sadness, like someone who had been waiting for far too long.
“You don’t recognize me anymore, do you?” you asked, your voice low, almost a plea disguised as a statement.
Miguel took a deep breath, running his tongue over his dry lips. You looked away and let out a humorless laugh, short and broken.
“Kreese says feelings are weakness.”
You repeated it like a mantra, something you needed to say out loud to keep believing.
“And do you believe him?”
The question hung in the air.
You hesitated.
It was only a second, but heavy enough to say everything you didn’t have the courage to admit. Your shoulders dropped slightly, and Miguel noticed. He always did.
“I believe that if I let myself feel… I’ll lose everything.”
Your voice faltered at the end, almost imperceptibly, but Miguel heard it. He always heard you.
He took a cautious step closer, like he was entering forbidden territory.
“You’re already losing.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his words break through the walls you had worked so hard to build.
“Miguel…”
His name came out weak, both a warning and a plea.
“I never stopped loving you.”
The words landed like a direct hit—too strong to defend against.
You felt the ground disappear beneath your feet. The air grew heavy in your lungs, and for a second you were afraid you might cry right there, collapse in front of him.
“Don’t do this to me,” you whispered. “Not now.”
Miguel didn’t step back.
“I do it every day,” he replied, his voice steady despite his teary eyes. “I wake up and I choose you. Even when you push me away. You have no idea how hard it is to stay away from the person you love, even when they reject you.”
The last sentence came out lower, almost breaking at the end, as if he had been holding it in for far too long.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything you had both been avoiding saying for too long.
And in that moment, you realized that the hardest fight hadn’t been on the mat.
It was against what you felt for him.
Your name was announced for the final.
The crowd cheered again. The gym vibrated. Tory was already on the other side of the mat, stretching her shoulders, sharp-eyed, ready for the war everyone expected.
But you didn’t move. You stayed seated in the women’s locker room.
Miguel’s words still echoed in your head like a blow that wouldn’t heal.
“I wake up and I choose you.”
Your chest tightened in a different way. It wasn’t fear of the fight. It wasn’t insecurity. It was exhaustion. A deep exhaustion from fighting everything, everyone… and especially yourself.
You looked down at your clenched fists.
They were shaking.
Not from physical weakness.
From emotional exhaustion.
The loudspeaker crackled before the announcer’s voice echoed through the gym.
“The finalist has two minutes to present herself on the mat. Otherwise, she will be disqualified.”
You didn’t move.
Miguel noticed first. His heart raced when he didn’t see you enter.
You took a deep breath, your eyes burning, and began gathering your things. You had to leave.
The gym fell into confused murmurs.
The referee approached, his voice echoing through the microphone.
“There has been a withdrawal.”
The silence was immediate.
“Due to the competitor’s withdrawal, the winner of the final is… Tory Nichols. From the Cobra Kai dojo.”
The crowd exploded, but the sound reached you muffled, distant, as if you were underwater.
You walked toward the exit of the gym with your heart racing and the strange feeling of losing and freeing yourself at the same time.
Miguel ran after you, ignoring everything around him. The noise of the gym faded as you crossed the side exit, the cheers becoming distant, irrelevant.
“Hey,” he called, his voice breaking. “Hey, wait.”
You only stopped when you felt his hand gently grab your arm, as if he were afraid of hurting you, as if you were still something too precious to touch without permission.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, his eyes full of concern. “You could’ve won.”
You took a deep breath before turning around.
And for the first time in a long while, there was no anger in your eyes. No defense. No hardness.
Just truth.
“Because I can’t fight anymore,” you said, your voice trembling. “Not against them… and not against what I feel for you.”
Miguel let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it since the day you pulled away. His shoulders relaxed, and the hardened look gave way to something more fragile.
You felt the tears fall before you could stop them.
Miguel didn’t try to stop them. He didn’t tell you to be strong. He just stayed there, close enough that you didn’t feel alone.
And while the tournament went on without you, something inside your chest finally stopped bleeding.
Because in that moment, for the first time, you chose yourself.
And maybe… Miguel too.
“Miggy… I…”
Your voice broke halfway through, as if all the right words had gotten stuck along the way.
“I know,” he replied, without rush, without pressure.
“I’m sorry.”
Miguel shook his head, stepping a little closer.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He lifted his hand to your face gently, wiping away a tear with his thumb.
“You did the best you could with what you had.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself feel the touch, the presence, the comfort you had avoided for so long.
“I was afraid of losing you,” you confessed.
Miguel smiled softly, sad and tender at the same time.
“I was afraid you’d never come back.”
He rested his forehead against yours, slowly.
“But you came back.”
And there, without applause, without trophies, without official winners, you realized that had been the most important fight of your life.
And finally… you weren’t alone.
BONUS:
Miguel insisted on taking you home.
Not like someone who commands.
But like someone who cares.
The drive was quiet at first. Not an uncomfortable silence, but the kind filled with unspoken things that no longer hurt. One of his hands stayed steady on the wheel, the other resting close to yours, like he wanted to touch you but was waiting for you to decide.
You were the one who laced your fingers with his.
Miguel glanced sideways for a second, surprised, then smiled that small smile he always wore when he was trying not to show too much.
When you arrived, you dropped your bag on the couch and kicked off your shoes without rushing. Miguel did the same, unsure of where to put his hands, until you pulled him closer by his shirt.
No words.
You settled onto the couch, a random movie playing on the TV. Neither of you was really paying attention. You curled into his chest like that had always been your place—and maybe it was.
Miguel wrapped an arm around you slowly, respectfully, like he was still learning that he was allowed to be there.
Time moved differently.
You laughed at a silly scene. Commented on another. At some point, you were lying with your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating—steady, constant.
Safe.
Miguel absentmindedly played with your fingers, tracing invisible circles over your hand.
“I missed you,” he said suddenly, low, like a secret.
You lifted your face to look at him.
“I missed you too,” you replied. “Every day.”
His gaze turned serious—intense, but soft. The hand at your waist tightened slightly, like he was gathering courage.
“I was scared to say this,” Miguel confessed. “Scared of ruining everything.”
You moved closer until your noses almost touched.
“You never ruined anything with me.”
Miguel looked at you for a few seconds, like he was afraid of breaking something too fragile. His hand rested on your waist, steady, warm, real.
You felt his breath hitch as you leaned in a little more.
Your noses brushed lightly, almost by accident. Miguel closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, like he was preparing for something too important to mess up.
“Can I…?” he murmured, his voice low, unsure in a way you had never seen before.
You answered without words, lifting your hand to his face, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingers.
The kiss started slowly.
It was soft, careful, like you were both learning that moment together. His lips brushed against yours like a question, like a test, and when you responded, Miguel let out a breath like he’d been waiting for that for far too long.
There was no rush.
It was a kiss that said I’m here more than anything else.
His hand slid slowly up your back, pulling you a little closer, like he needed to make sure you weren’t going to disappear. You felt his heart race beneath your hand, fast and honest.
The kiss deepened gradually—still calm, but more certain. Miguel tilted his head slightly, and you followed, fitting together perfectly, like it was familiar even though it was new.
When you pulled apart for air, you didn’t really move away.
Your foreheads stayed together. Your breaths mixed.
Miguel smiled—that small, emotional smile he always had when he was feeling too much.
“I waited a long time for this,” he whispered.
You smiled back, brushing your thumb over his cheek.
“Me too.”
He kissed you again, just a long, gentle, almost reverent peck, before pulling you into his chest and holding you tightly.
Safe.
Warm.
Home.
“I love you.”
There was no drama.
No doubt.
Just truth.
Your chest warmed, and you smiled with teary eyes.
“I love you too.”
Miguel laughed softly, relieved, and pulled you closer, holding you like he had finally found something he had been searching for for a very long time.
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hiii can u write smth about sensei wolf from cobra kai where reader is basically trying to join his dojo cs she gets bullied at school and wants to defend herself and she’s lowk all shy and scared at first and then a few weeks into her training sensei wolf asks her why she joined so she tells him that she gets bullied at school then he gets kinda protective IDK it’s lowk corny but yeaa it’s okay if u don’t wanna write ts 😭😭
# SALVATORE, SENSEI WOLF
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× You start training martial arts to defend yourself from bullying. After standing up for yourself during a situation of harassment at the school dance, you find support and protection in Wolf, realizing that you are not alone.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× School bullying, an attempted non-graphic physical assault, coercion and boundary violations, mild non-graphic violence in self-defense.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 2.6k
You almost didn’t go in.
You stood on the other side of the street, fingers gripping the straps of your backpack as if you might disappear if you let go. The sign above the dojo door was harsh. Aggressive. Nothing about it felt welcoming. Everything about it screamed this place devours people like you.
You swallowed hard.
If I don’t do this now, I never will.
The bell rang when you pushed the door open. Instantly, the air felt heavier—loaded with sweat, leather, and something sharp you couldn’t quite identify. The sound of fists hitting pads echoed through the space. Every movement was precise. Controlled. Violent in the cleanest way possible.
And then you saw him.
Sensei Wolf stood at the center of the mat, arms crossed, posture straight like a blade. His presence alone made the room feel smaller. His eyes scanned the students with brutal focus—until they landed on you.
You froze.
“Why are you standing there?” he asked.
His voice wasn’t loud. That made it worse.
“I–I…” your throat locked up. “I wanted to… join.”
Silence.
A few students glanced in your direction. You felt their stares like needles against your skin. You fought the urge to turn around and leave.
Sensei Wolf walked toward you slowly. Every step felt calculated, like he was circling prey. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at you.
“You don’t look like a fighter,” he said flatly.
Your face burned.
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
You hesitated, then forced the words out.
“Because I want to learn how to defend myself.”
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
“Step onto the mat,” he said. “Training starts now.”
The first week was hell.
Your body wasn’t used to any of it. Your arms shook during push-ups. Your legs burned after drills. You flinched whenever someone trained too close to you.
Sensei Wolf noticed everything.
“Again,” when your stance failed.
“Eyes up,” when you stared at the floor.
“Don’t apologize,” when you made a mistake.
You barely spoke. You arrived early, stayed quiet, and did everything you could not to draw attention—despite knowing he always noticed.
Sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, you’d catch Sensei Wolf watching you. Not with disappointment. Not with mockery.
With focus.
Weeks passed.
You stopped shaking during exercises. Your punches started landing harder. The fear was still there—but now you moved forward despite it instead of freezing.
One night, after class ended and the dojo emptied out, you stayed behind to clean the mats. Your movements were slow, exhausted.
“Why did you really join?” Sensei Wolf asked from behind you.
You stiffened.
“I already told you.”
“That wasn’t the truth,” he replied calmly.
You turned around. He wasn’t angry. Just… waiting.
Your fingers tightened around the cloth.
“I get bullied.”
The words weighed more than any strike you’d ever thrown.
“At school,” you continued, voice low. “They push me. Laugh at me. Call me names.” You shrugged, pretending it didn’t hurt, even as your chest tightened. “I thought if I learned how to fight, maybe they’d stop. Or at least… I wouldn’t feel so powerless.”
Silence filled the dojo again.
Sensei Wolf’s jaw tightened.
“How long?” he asked.
You hesitated.
“For a while.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was holding something back.
“Do they touch you?”
“…Yes.”
That was the limit.
His expression changed—subtle, but impossible to miss. The same intensity he had during fights sharpened into something darker. Protective. Dangerous.
“No one has the right to touch you,” he said firmly.
Your eyes widened slightly.
“You came here to learn how to defend yourself,” he continued. “Not to become violent. Not to prove anything to them.” His gaze softened just a little. “That takes strength.”
You swallowed.
“I don’t feel strong.”
“Because strength isn’t loud,” he replied. “It’s built.”
He stepped closer, close enough for you to feel his breath.
“And you’re building yours.”
Your chest tightened—but this time, it was warm.
“They won’t hurt you forever,” he added. “And until the day they can’t anymore…” his voice dropped. “…you won’t be alone.”
You nodded, eyes burning.
“Thank you, Sensei.”
He straightened, professional once more.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we start sparring.”
Your eyes widened in panic.
“Tomorrow?”
One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
You believed him.
And for the first time in a long while, you left the dojo with your head held a little higher.
🥋
The school dance felt like a parallel universe.
Colored lights flashed across the gym, the music was too loud, making the floor vibrate, and everyone seemed so… comfortable. You weren’t.
Still, you went.
You stood beside your best friend, who smiled and joked around just to distract you. You were wearing a simple but pretty dress—something that made your stomach twist when you noticed him looking at you from across the room.
The boy you liked.
When his eyes met yours, he smiled. Easy. Confident. Your heart sped up.
“Hey,” he said, walking over. “Do you wanna come hang with us? My friends are back there.”
You hesitated, then nodded. Your best friend gave you a if anything happens, call me look, and you took a deep breath before going.
For a few minutes, it was… nice. They laughed, talked loudly, included you in their conversations. For the first time, you felt like maybe you actually belonged there.
Then someone suggested a game.
“Seven minutes in heaven.”
Your entire body went tense.
Before you could refuse, laughter exploded, people shoved you forward, and suddenly you were being pushed into a small, dark room, the door closing behind you.
It was just you and him.
The silence felt heavy.
“Relax,” he said, stepping way too close. “It’s just a game.”
“I… I don’t want to,” you said quietly, taking a step back.
He laughed, like he hadn’t heard you.
His hand tried to touch you, to trap you there. Your chest tightened, the air vanished. For a second, that old fear tried to freeze you in place.
But it didn’t.
You remembered the mat.
The stance.
The strength you had built.
Your fist clenched.
The punch came fast. Instinctive. Strong.
He stumbled back with a surprised cry.
You didn’t wait.
You ran.
Down the hallway. Through the gym. Into the street. The lights faded behind you. The music disappeared. The world became nothing but shaky breaths and uncontrollable tears.
When you stopped, you didn’t even realize where you were.
Until you looked up.
The Iron Dragons dojo.
Your legs gave out. You sat on the sidewalk, hugging your knees, the sobs finally breaking free—loud, broken, desperate.
You felt dirty. Guilty. Shaking.
The dojo door flew open.
“Hey,” a firm, alarmed voice called out. “What happened?”
Sensei Wolf.
He saw you there, curled in on yourself, crying—and didn’t hesitate for a second. He ran over, dropping to his knees in front of you.
“Look at me,” he said, softer now, holding your face in his hands. “Hey. Hey. Breathe.”
You tried to speak, but all you could do was shake your head.
“You’re here,” he said. “No one is going to hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”
That was enough.
You leaned forward, and he wrapped his arms around you—firm enough to hold you together, gentle enough not to scare you. One hand rested on your back, steady. Protective.
“He tried to…” your voice broke. “I said no.”
Wolf’s body went rigid.
“You did the right thing,” he said immediately. “You listened to your boundaries. You defended yourself.”
“I punched him…” you sobbed.
“And I’m proud of you,” he said without hesitation. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”
He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his eyes intense but full of care.
“You did nothing wrong,” he repeated. “Nothing.”
You took a deep breath, trying to match his pace.
“Stay with me for a bit,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
He stood first, extending his hand, waiting for you to choose.
When you took it, his grip tightened—strong. Steady.
And as you stepped into the dojo, you realized something for the first time that night:
You weren’t weak.
You weren’t alone.
And no one would ever walk over you without consequences again.
Days later, while resting in the corner of the dojo, your phone vibrated in your hand. You checked it without much thought—until you read the message from your best friend.
The boy was in the hospital.
Multiple injuries. A broken nose.
Apparently, no one in particular was responsible.
Your thumb froze over the screen.
You didn’t feel relief. Or guilt.
You slowly lifted your head.
Sensei Wolf was on the mat, teaching Axel and Zara a few moves. He corrected their posture with the same controlled calm as always, like nothing had happened. Like it was just another normal night.
Then he stopped.
He turned his head toward you.
His eyes met yours. Steady. Watchful. There was no anger there. No pride.
Only certainty.
And in that moment, everything clicked.
The way he had gone tense that night.
The way he said no one had the right to touch you.
The low, almost dangerous promise that you wouldn’t be alone.
Sensei Wolf tilted his head slightly. A brief smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Not for the students.
For you.
It was enough.
Your cheeks warmed as you returned the smile—small, quiet, complicit.
Hiiii I hope youre not too tired with request and everything, the most important part is to listen to your body and mind😆😆
I'd like to request something, its doesn't matter when you will write jt take your time but I would've loved if you took it bc ive been loving you fanfics recently like your one of main accounts where I read fred weasly fanfics and I eat them up every time!!
So, reader and fred are fake dating and I mean REAL fake dating, its beneficial for the both of them in the friend group everybody is making fun of fred for not having a gf and the reader is a very uptight girl so they dont really expect for her to have a bf, and they actually fake date like with snapping behind close door and fred still teasing her. They only start actually dating when asshole like mclaggen or drake pressures the reader of fred and her not actually dating and tries to kiss her and then fred comes to save the day! They start fighting like fighting fighting bloody noses and everything until Snape stops it and then reader cleans up his wounds and hes still half drunk so he teases her and everything until they get into a really big fight until fred randomly confesses with anger and they kiss and ifykyk 🤫🤭
# THE PROPOSAL, FRED WEASLEY
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× Fred Weasley proposes a fake dating to the most responsible girl in Hogwarts.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘
word count: 2.6k
Everyone at Hogwarts had some opinion about Fred Weasley.
Too loud. Too handsome. Too immature.
And, curiously enough, far too single.
There were bets running through Gryffindor about how long he’d stay that way. A month? A term? Until the end of the school year? No one really took it seriously.
Fred Weasley seemed like the kind of boy who would never stay alone for long. He laughed too loudly, winked too easily, and seemed to have too much fun with absolutely everything. Everything except, apparently, the idea of commitment.
“It’s almost sad,” Angelina commented once, laughing as she watched Fred get mocked by half of Gryffindor after yet another prank that had ended in collective detention. “Fred Weasley, defeated not by tyrannical professors or final exams… but by the complete absence of a girlfriend.”
Laughter echoed through the common room. Fred gave an exaggerated bow, as if accepting an invisible award, and replied with something far too witty to be remembered later. He always did that—turned every comment into a spectacle.
You, sitting a few seats away, pretended not to hear. Pretending was practically your special talent.
Responsible. Proper. Organized. The girl who handed in assignments before the deadline, who took notes on flawless parchment, and whom professors mentioned as an example. The girl no one would ever imagine laughing at one of Fred Weasley’s double-entendres—let alone sitting beside him by choice.
And yet, your eyes betrayed you for a second. Just one. Long enough to notice how Fred seemed different when no one was paying attention: less theatrical, more focused. As if behind the jokes and easy smile, he was calculating something.
Maybe that was why the proposal came from him.
In an unlikely moment of silence, when he approached you with that same familiar smile—only this time with something new behind it.
Something far too serious for Fred Weasley.
“So…,” Fred said, leaning against the frame of the common room door as if this were just another casual remark, not a potentially catastrophic idea. His mischievous smile was already in place, rehearsed far too well to be innocent. “What if we solved two problems at once?”
You slowly lifted your eyes from your book. Too slowly, maybe, buying time. You crossed your arms, creating an automatic barrier between the two of you.
“Explain slowly, Weasley,” you warned. “Your ideas usually end in detention. Or explosions.”
“Sometimes both,” he agreed cheerfully, leaning forward a little. “But this one’s clean. I promise.”
That should have been the first warning sign.
“Fake dating.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. As if your brain refused to process the words in that order.
“…What?”
“Fake relationship. Pretend. Just for show.” Fred made exaggerated air quotes, watching every microexpression on your face with suspicious attention. “We pretend we’re together.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel physical.
“Did you hit your head?” you asked at last.
“Only a little,” he replied casually. “But hear me out before you kick me out.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Fred was faster.
“Everyone stops teasing me for being single,” he continued, counting on his fingers. “And you stop hearing that you’re going to end up alone with a pile of books and a grumpy cat. Double win.”
“I’ve never heard that,” you shot back immediately.
Fred tilted his head, his smile fading slightly.
“Not out loud.”
That hit deeper than you wanted to admit.
Because it was true. The comments never came directly. They were giggles, sideways glances, phrases disguised as jokes. She’s amazing, but… There was always a but.
You took a deep breath, trying to cling to logic.
“This is absurd,” you said.
“Totally,” Fred agreed far too quickly.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Absolutely.”
“And it won’t work.”
He smiled even wider.
And that was what made it worse.
Because despite every part of your common sense screaming at you to walk away, there was an uncomfortable sliver of understanding there. A strange math that, against all logic, added up.
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
And, against all logic, it made sense.
Fred watched your reaction with far too much attention for someone who had just suggested something so idiotic. There was no rush in his smile, no immediate mockery. Just anticipation.
“You’ve lost your mind,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you intended.
“Possibly,” he agreed, far too enthusiastic. “But think about it. It’s brilliant.”
“That’s never a good sign.”
Fred pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few steps toward you, closing the distance in an almost strategic way. Not invasive. Just… close enough to be unsettling.
“You’re untouchable,” he continued. “Responsible, brilliant, impossible to criticize without getting scolded by a prefect or a professor. If you’re with me, no one questions it. They’ll assume I finally grew up.”
“And you?” you shot back. “What stops people from thinking I’ve lost my mind?”
“My irresistible charm,” he replied instantly, winking.
You rolled your eyes, but it was impossible to ignore the strange knot forming in your stomach. Because as absurd as it was, Fred wasn’t wrong.
“And what exactly would the rules of this… play be?” you asked, more to buy time than out of curiosity.
Fred’s smile widened, far too victorious for someone who hadn’t heard a yes yet.
“Oh, I thought about that.”
Of course he had.
“No real feelings,” he began, raising a finger. “No real jealousy. No expectations.”
“Kissing?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Fred hesitated. Just for a second.
“Only when necessary,” he replied, far too casually. “To keep the story convincing.”
You took a deep breath. It was a terrible idea. The kind Hermione would absolutely disapprove of with a severe look and a ten-minute lecture. The kind you would normally refuse without a second thought.
But Fred Weasley wasn’t laughing now. He was waiting.
“For how long?” you asked.
“Until the end of the term,” he suggested. “Or until someone quits.”
You looked around the common room. The laughter, the noise, life going on as always. Safe. Predictable. Exactly how you liked it.
And maybe that was what made the idea so tempting.
“If you tell a single living soul—”
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Fred interrupted, raising his hand.
You sighed.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“So…?”
You held out your hand, your heart beating far too fast for something that was supposed to be just pretend.
“One term, Weasley.”
His smile was slow. Genuinely slow.
“It’ll be the best pretending of my life.”
The agreement was simple.
Perfectly simple.
No feelings.
No expectations.
No… complications.
Clear, objective rules—almost comforting. You clung to them like a protective charm, repeating to yourself that it was only a well-rehearsed play. A silent contract between two very different people with a shared goal.
And to the outside world, you pretended very well.
Fred held your hand in the corridors with far too much ease, his fingers lacing with yours as if they had always belonged there. He kissed your cheek when someone was watching—quick, seemingly innocent gestures, but calculated enough to spark whispers and curious glances. Sometimes he leaned close to your ear and murmured low, unnecessary provocations just to watch you lose your composure for half a second.
He found it all far too entertaining.
Behind closed doors, however, he was still Fred.
Insufferable.
Provoking.
Incorrigible.
“You look adorable when you’re irritated,” he commented once, leaning far too close to the library table, his arms braced on either side of your book—an entirely intentional invasion of personal space.
“Fred,” you warned, without lifting your eyes from the parchment.
“Just observing,” he replied, amused, as if he weren’t dangerously close.
You hated it.
The way his presence seemed to fill the air around you.
The satisfied smile when he managed to distract you.
And, most of all, you hated how your heart sped up for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with pretending.
Because the agreement hadn’t accounted for that.
But the real problem began at the party.
Music too loud, echoing off the stone walls.
Too many students crammed into narrow corridors.
Too much butterbeer spilled across the cold dungeon floor.
Torches cast uneven shadows across the low ceiling, and the air felt heavy—damp, stifling, vibrating with laughter and overlapping voices. The sound didn’t rise; it bounced, trapped down there, making everything more intense, closer, harder to ignore. Fred had been pulled away by George minutes earlier, disappearing into bodies and laughter, and you took advantage of the brief moment of space near a stone archway, trying not to draw attention.
That was when Cormac McLaggen appeared.
The smug smile came first, lit by torchfire—the kind of expression that made you want to hex him on principle alone.
“So you and Weasley,” he said, stepping too close in the already tight space. “I know it’s a lie. You don’t really like him.”
The chill of the dungeon seemed to crawl up from the floor to your feet.
You stepped back. “It’s not a lie.”
“Oh, please.” He laughed, easily blocking your path. “You’d never be with someone like him.”
The words echoed ugly down there.
“Back off, Cormac,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.
Cormac didn’t listen—or pretended not to. His hand closed around your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt as he tried to pull you toward the side of the corridor.
The noise of the party suddenly felt far away, as if the dungeon had swallowed the sound. Your heart raced.
“Let go. Now.”
Fred’s voice cut through the corridor like a sharp crack.
Cormac turned slowly, laughing, far too confident.
“What are you going to do, Weasley?”
Fred didn’t answer.
The punch came first. Cormac’s body slammed into the stone, making him stagger and brace himself against the wall. Someone screamed. Cups shattered on the floor. Fred lunged before you could react, and Cormac struck back.
Fists. Shoves. Shouts muffled by the low ceiling. One bleeding nose—then another.
The chaos consumed the dungeon in seconds, bodies scrambling back, someone knocking over a torch, shadows dancing wildly across the walls.
Until a cold, cutting voice sliced through it all:
“DETENTION. NOW.”
Snape.
Silence fell, heavy and almost oppressive. The professor emerged among the students as if he had always been there, his black cloak brushing the stone floor, his sharp gaze passing over you, over McLaggen, over Fred—lingering a second longer on him.
Later, in the empty dormitory, the silence felt strange—almost deafening after the chaos of the dungeons. The lined-up beds were empty, curtains drawn, and the only light came from a weak lamp casting soft shadows on the walls.
You sat facing Fred, legs crossed on the floor, a clean cloth and a simple potion in your hands. Your movements were overly careful as you cleaned the dried blood from his lip, as if one wrong move might break something too fragile to name.
Fred winced when you touched the cut.
“Sorry,” you murmured automatically, even knowing it didn’t make sense to apologize.
He let out a low, crooked laugh that ended in something like a sigh.
“You should see the other guy,” he murmured, his voice slurred—half drunk, half exhausted—smiling despite the injured lip.
You looked up at him for a moment. The smile was familiar, but there was something different behind it now. Less provocation. More raw honesty.
“That’s not funny,” you said, returning your attention to the cut, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest.
“I disagree,” Fred replied softly.
Your hands hesitated for a second before continuing. The cloth moved gently, and you realized how still he was—a rare, patient Fred, allowing himself to be taken care of.
“You’re an idiot,” you said automatically, too focused to meet his eyes.
“Your idiot,” he corrected, with a proud smile.
You sighed, the weight of exhaustion settling on your shoulders.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Fred laughed quietly, a short sound that faded into a breath.
“Of course I did.”
You stopped. The cloth hovered in the air for a second.
“It was all pretend, remember?”
He grew serious. Just for a moment—long enough for you to notice. Then he laughed again, looking away.
“Funny you’d say that now.”
Something broke.
“You cross the line all the time!” you snapped, standing before you even realized it. “You never take anything seriously, you never think about the consequences—”
“Oh, and you pretend you don’t feel anything!” he shot back, standing too, his voice firmer than the alcohol justified. “You pretend this is all just a play!”
“Because it wasn’t real!” you replied too quickly, anger tangled with something far more dangerous, something that made your chest ache. “It was an agreement. Clear rules. Pretending.”
“Then why did you stay here with me?!”
The question wasn’t a taunt.
It was raw. Direct. Almost desperate.
Silence fell heavily between you.
So dense it seemed to fill every inch of the empty dormitory. The distant sounds of the party had long since faded, leaving only Fred’s uneven breathing—and yours, far too fast for someone who claimed not to feel anything.
You opened your mouth to answer—anything—but the words refused to come.
Because there was no safe answer.
Because libraries didn’t clean wounds.
Because agreements didn’t explain why your hands still trembled when you remembered the way he shouted at McLaggen to let you go.
Because no amount of pretending justified you being there, holding his face so carefully, tending to the cut with such attention.
Fred didn’t look away. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes shone—not just from the alcohol, but from something raw, exposed, impossible to hide now.
“I’m not pretending. I… never was, really.”
The words hung in the air, simple and devastating.
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly it seemed to echo in the empty room.
“Damn it…” Fred ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen. “I tried to keep this fake. I swear I did. But you come into my life, organize everything, actually pay attention to me—” He laughed without humor. “You look at me like I’m more than just a bad joke.”
He stepped closer, slowly, anger and truth tangled in every movement.
“I like you. Really.”
You didn’t answer with words.
Maybe because none would be enough.
Maybe because the pretending had ended a long time ago.
You grabbed his shirt before you could think better of it—and this time there was no hesitation. The fabric wrinkled under your fingers as you pulled him closer, and Fred reacted instantly, as if he’d been waiting for it all along.
The kiss was hot from the very first second.
Nothing careful now. Nothing restrained. Your lips met with urgency, pressure, and need, as if all the accumulated self-control had finally given in. Fred let out a low, almost surprised sound before fully returning it, leaning into you, closing what little space remained.
His hand slid to your waist, firm and present, keeping you there—making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. The world seemed to slow as the kiss deepened, intense and unrestrained, heavy with weeks of provocation, lingering looks, and silently crossed boundaries.
You felt his breath falter for a moment, his smile vanishing completely. There was no teasing left. Only truth.
When you finally pulled apart for air, you didn’t really step away. Foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling, hearts pounding too loudly to ignore.
# I'LL SHOUT IT OUT LIKE A BIRD SET FREE, BRAYDEN ELLIOT
ㅤㅤ★ SUMMARY !
× Camille’s daughter is paired with Brayden for ice dance — and the ice is about to crack.
ㅤㅤ★ WARNINGS !
× None.
ㅤㅤ★ NOTES !
× Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog to help with visibility! I’d also be thrilled if you followed the account 💘 Commissions open for finding her edge!!
word count: 1.5k
The ice always knew who you were.
Since childhood, you learned to glide before you even understood the weight of your own name. Growing up as Camille St. Denis’s daughter means living surrounded by expectations, discipline, and silence. On the rink, no one asks how you feel—only whether you can stay on your feet.
You’re sitting on the bench, tightening your skate laces, when you hear the unmistakable sound of a blade touching the ice behind you. Confident steps. Too light for someone ordinary.
“Y/N? I want you to meet someone.”
Your mother’s voice calls you, firm as always. You stand and turn.
And then you see him.
His light blond hair reflects the rink’s white lights. The blue of his eyes looks almost unreal—cold, attentive, alive. He watches you with open curiosity, making no effort to hide it. Tall, with a posture far too relaxed for someone in a competitive environment.
Your body reacts before your mind does.
Your heart speeds up. Your breath falters for a second.
“This is Brayden Elliot,” Camille says. “Starting today, he’ll be your partner in ice dance.
For a moment, you feel the ground disappear beneath you.
Brayden steps closer, far too calm for someone who’s just entered your life. When he extends his hand, you hesitate for an almost imperceptible instant—the kind of hesitation only you notice.
When your fingers finally meet, the shock is immediate.
His hand is warm. Firm. Steady in a way that doesn’t squeeze, but leaves no room for doubt either. It’s strange to feel so much warmth in a place where everything is cold. Where you’ve always stayed in control. For a second, you catch yourself thinking that if you slipped now, he would actually hold you.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice low, almost intimate, as if the entire rink had disappeared. The smile comes slowly, lazily, heavy with confidence. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”
The comment is simple, but the way he looks at you makes it feel like something else. As if he weren’t talking only about skating.
You let out a short laugh, more nervous than you’d like to admit, and pull your hand back before he notices how much that touch affected you.
“You’d better not make promises you can’t keep, Elliot.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you like an interesting challenge. His blue eyes narrow, amused, and his smile widens—not arrogant, but dangerously confident.
“I usually keep my promises.”
You don’t give him the chance to continue. You push off with your skate blade and glide forward, feeling the cold wind hit your face in a useless attempt to cool whatever has just ignited inside you.
Behind you, you feel his gaze follow.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
From the very first practice, everything between you feels… too alive.
The rehearsal room is spacious. The smooth floor creaks softly under your steps, different from the rink’s cold silence. The air is warm, thick with focus and expectation. Bird Set Free by Sia plays softly in the background, yet still fills every corner of the space.
You move with the count, feeling your body respond almost automatically to the commands. Brayden follows with complete attention. He watches your posture, the way you tense your shoulders, how you hold your breath without realizing it.
“Wait,” he says, raising a hand.
The music keeps playing, but you stop.
He approaches without hurry. This close, you notice details that had gone unnoticed before: the attentive blue eyes, the almost too-focused expression.
“You anticipate the movement,” he comments, positioning himself behind you. “That makes you stiff.”
Before you can respond, his hands settle on your waist, making your body react to the firm, warm, unexpected touch.
“Relax,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low enough not to echo through the room. “You’re too rigid. Try to loosen up a little.”
Your reflection in the mirror betrays the closeness. The two of you there, aligned a little too perfectly. His breathing matches yours. You inhale deeply, letting your shoulders slowly give in.
“Like this?” you ask, almost in a whisper.
“Like this,” he replies, adjusting your posture slightly. “Now trust me.”
You close your eyes for a second—something you never do—and let your body follow the command. The movement flows more lightly. When he steps away, the absence of contact is immediate, uncomfortable.
“See?” Brayden says, a subtle smile appearing. “You don’t have to be in control all the time.”
You turn to him, trying to regain emotional balance before physical.
“And you do it on purpose,” you shoot back.
He shrugs, feigning innocence.
“It works, doesn’t it?”
You don’t answer. You simply return to your position as the music continues. In the mirror, you catch his gaze still fixed on you.
And you understand, with a mix of nerves and anticipation, that this partnership is going to be far more difficult outside the choreography than within it.
Weeks later, you begin to notice the details: the way he always looks at you first before executing a move, how he adjusts your posture without asking permission, how he holds your hand a second longer at the end of every sequence.
Sometimes you stand still at the center of the rink, breathless, so close you can count his eyelashes.
And he notices.
“Do you always get this serious when you’re focused?” he asks one time.
“And do you always talk this much when you should be training?” you reply.
He smiles—that crooked smile that disarms you.
“Only when I’m with the right person.”
That’s when you understand.
You’re falling in love.
But then there’s Elise Russo.
You see her in the hallways, in parallel practices, always confident, always a little too close to Brayden. You try not to care. You tell yourself you have no right to. After all, she’s Elise Russo, a figure skating star.
Until one night.
The dorm is silent, lit only by cold lights. You’re on your way to grab something you forgot in the kitchen, too distracted to notice—until you stop, before even reaching the stairs.
You see him.
Brayden.
He’s standing in front of a specific door. Relaxed posture. One hand in his pocket. The same air of someone who belongs there.
You recognize the room.
Elise.
Your chest tightens.
You watch as he knocks. Waits. When the door opens, Elise appears, smiling. Brayden smiles back—that smile you thought was only yours.
He steps inside.
The door closes.
The sound echoes inside you like a brutal fall on the ice.
For a moment, you can’t move. The air feels too heavy. Your throat tightens. The anger comes next—hot, humiliating, impossible to contain.
“Idiot…” you whisper, unsure whether you’re talking about him or yourself.
You turn and leave before the tears decide to fall right there.
If Brayden Elliot thought he could flirt, provoke, get close, make you believe… and then simply walk through that door—
He was wrong.
Because now, what lives inside you isn’t just pain.
It’s fury.
And you know better than anyone.
The ice may look calm, beautiful, and silent… but when it cracks, it cuts without asking permission.
Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?
Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.
Best friends, even.
“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.
Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.
In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.
And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.
Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.
Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.
You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.
You looked hot.
Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.
Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.
He stared at you.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”
You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”
Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.
You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”
“It’s a postage stamp.”
“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.
“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”
Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”
Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”
You rolled your eyes.
Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."
You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."
Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"
He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"
That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”
"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.
"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."
You blinked again, "For what?"
He paused, "To supervise."
"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."
Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."
"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.
Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”
You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."
Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.
He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.
“You’re like a little sister to me.”
He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.
And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.
Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.
But you noticed.
So did everyone else.
And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.
And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.
Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground.
Every duel, a performance.
Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.
Today was no different.
You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.
But you simply smiled.
Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.
You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.
It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.
Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.
“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.
His face was a picture of panic.
Your internal grin was feral.
He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.
“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.
He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.
"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”
You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)
“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”
Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”
Little sister.
Right.
You tried not to roll your eyes.
Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.
No, it was different when it was you.
When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.
You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”
He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.
You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.
As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.
You’d get him eventually.
You were patient.
And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.
It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.
You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.
Until it wasn’t.
A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.
“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”
You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”
“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”
You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”
Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”
You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.
Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”
You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”
“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”
You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”
“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”
You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.
Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”
You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”
Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”
You blinked, “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”
“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”
“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”
“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”
He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”
You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”
He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”
That shut you up.
He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.
“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”
He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”
You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”
He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”
Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.
He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”
You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”
He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.
“You do?”
You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”
Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.
“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.
You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”
“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”
You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.
It was nothing and everything.
Just a moment. Just a feeling.
But it was these moments that truly made you believe.
You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.
The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.
You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.
A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.
“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”
Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?
It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.
You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”
You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.
But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.
So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.
The small detail you’d failed to factor in?
Your friends hadn’t come alone.
So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.
You weren’t bitter. Not really.
…Okay. Maybe a little.
You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.
Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.
He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.
Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.
You looked up as he stopped in front of you.
“Fred?”
“You look like a lemon.”
You blinked. “Charming.”
He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”
You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”
He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”
You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”
You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.
“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”
“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”
“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”
“You won’t.” You said smugly.
You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.
You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”
You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.
“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.
The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”
Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”
The boy hesitated, then walked away.
You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”
Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”
You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”
He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”
The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.
“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.
“Fred—what are you—?”
Then he dipped you.
Dramatically.
One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.
“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”
“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”
He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”
Your breath caught.
He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.
You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.
Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.
You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.
So you said nothing.
You let him hold you a little too close.
Let his fingers linger at your waist.
Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.
And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.
At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.
The both of you just lost in your own world.
Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.
Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”
You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”
He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”
“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”
He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.
“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.
Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”
He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.
“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.
“Angelina, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”
Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”
She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”
His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”
“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”
Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.
Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.
Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.
Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.
Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.
Oh.
Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.
He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.
He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.
“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.
Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”
But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.
“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”
Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”
“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”
Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”
George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”
“I didn’t—”
“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”
“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.
“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”
Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”
George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”
Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”
George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are in love with her.”
Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”
George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.
Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.
The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.
He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.
He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.
Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.
So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.
You’d gone all out.
Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.
So you did.
The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.
George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.
“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”
They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.
And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.
The real one.
Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.
And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.
When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.
“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”
He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”
You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.
Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.
He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.
Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.
His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.
“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”
Fred stared at it.
Then at you.
His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.
You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”
Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.
There was no warning.
No hesitation.
Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.
“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”
You opened your mouth.
He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”
You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.
Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.
The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.
A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.
“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”
George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”
Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.
You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.
His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.
“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”
Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.
You just winked.
And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.
He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.
And he always had been.
Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.
Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.
Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.
At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.
George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.
“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”
Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”
“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”
Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.
This went on for days.
He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.
It was, frankly, kind of adorable.
George was having the time of his life.
On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”
Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.
Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.
Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.
Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.
Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.
You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.
When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.
Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”
Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.
“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.
Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.
Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.
“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”
You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.
“Moi?”
Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”
You just winked, utterly unapologetic.
You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.
The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.
He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.
He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”
That was when you snapped.
You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.
For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.
He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.
Again and again and again.
But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.
You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.
“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.
Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.
Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?
Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”
You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.
“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.
Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.
And now? Now he was properly wrecked.
Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.
“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”
He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—
“Oi!”
The door slammed open.
George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”
Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”
George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”
“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”
George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.
Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.
“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.
You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”
Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”
You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.
Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”
“You do.”
He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”
You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”
Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”
You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”
He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”
Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”
He did.
This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.
Bonus:
It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.
Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.
You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.
He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.
“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.
“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.
“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.
You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”
His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.
Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”
“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”
Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.
“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”
Fred blinked, “What is that?”
George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”
You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”
“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”
Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”
You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”
He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”
Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”
“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”
Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.
“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”
Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”
Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.
Bonus Bonus Scene:
It started innocently enough.
(Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)
You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along.
“You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.
Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.
By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.
Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.
You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.
You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”
“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.
You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.
Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.
You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.
Until—
“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”
You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.
Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)
Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.
For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.
Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.
Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.
Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.
Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.
“How long has this been going on?!”
Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”
Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”
You winced. Fred winced.
Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.
Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.
Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.
Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.
“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”
The room fell utterly silent.
Even George stopped laughing.
You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.
Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.
And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.
“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”
You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”
He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”
Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)
The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.
“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”
“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.
You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”
“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”
You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”
“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.
“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”
“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.
“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”
At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.
“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”
You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.
Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.
You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.
“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”
“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”
“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.
Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”
“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.
And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.
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Sorry for disappearing, life got a little hectic, but I’ll be back here in December and ready to write again! ✨ Christmas requests are now open! For now, I’m focusing on Cobra Kai and Harry Potter, but if you want something from another series, feel free to send it and I’ll gladly take a look.
Summary: You only asked Fred Weasley for one thing — a quick lesson in kissing before your date with Cedric Diggory.
But the moment his lips touch yours, the “lesson” slips completely out of your control… and his.
Warnings: Mild sexual content / sensual kissing / Suggestive themes / Some flirtatious teasing / Light language
The Gryffindor common room hummed with late-evening chatter, firelight flickering against old stone walls. Someone had smuggled in a bag of Honeydukes sweets, someone else debated which Quidditch captain was the most dateable, and the conversation had drifted—inevitably—toward relationships.
“…and apparently Cho Chang kissed him behind the owlery,” Lee whispered dramatically.
Fred gasped. “The owlery? Risky. A bit smelly, but it adds character.”
Laughter broke around the circle. You sat cross-legged on the sofa, pretending to focus on the Exploding Snap cards in your hands, but the conversation kept tugging you in.
“And Cedric Diggory?” Angelina smirked. “Did you hear he likes girls who are… confident?”
Fred shot you a look—one eyebrow raised, trouble already sparkling in his eyes. “Confident, huh? Y/N, you might want to take notes. That Hufflepuff hero isn’t just going to fall into your arms.”
Your face went hot. “I never said I liked Cedric!”
“No, but you blushed when his name came up, love,” Fred teased, bumping your knee with his.
More laughter. You tried to smile it off, but the teasing lodged somewhere deeper, sharper. Cedric Diggory. Confident girls. Kissing behind owlery walls. Merlin—how were you supposed to even go on a date with someone like him when you’d never kissed anyone?
The thought followed you upstairs later, gnawing at you until it turned into something else. A terrible, brilliant idea.
Which was how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself standing in the doorway of the Weasley twins’ dormitory, heart thundering.
Fred looked up from his bed, wand in hand, clearly working on some new disaster.
“Y/N? You planning on joining us for a late-night prank or did you lose a bet?”
You swallowed. “I need your help.”
His grin was instant and dangerous. “Always happy to assist.”
“No, I mean—help with something… specific.” You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. Merlin, why did it feel suddenly hot in here?
Fred sat up, curiosity sharpening. “Alright. What’s the mission?”
The words came out in a tumble. “I need you to teach me how to kiss.”
Silence.
Then Fred’s eyebrows shot so high they nearly left his forehead.
“You—what?” He laughed under his breath. “Very funny. Good one.”
You didn’t smile. “I’m serious, Fred.”
His grin faded—slowly, carefully—replaced by something unreadable.
“Why me?”
“Because you… know things.” You cringed at your own wording. “And if I’m actually going to have a chance with Cedric, I need to not be a complete disaster.”
Something flickered across his face. Not amusement. Not mockery. Something deeper.
He leaned back on his hands, eyes dragging over you, assessing.
“So you want lessons.”
You nodded. “Just… the basics.”
Fred chuckled softly. “Nothing about this is going to stay ‘basic,’ sweetheart.” But after a beat, he patted the space beside him. “Come here.”
You sat beside him—close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough that your knee brushed his.
Fred noticed. Fred always noticed.
He angled toward you, one arm draping casually over his knee, posture relaxed but eyes… not. His gaze skimmed over your face with a focus you’d never seen from him before.
“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and almost annoyingly gentle, “first lesson.”
His hand came up slowly—giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
Fingers brushed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Almost careful.
Then he tilted your chin up with his thumb, and your breath caught.
“Just follow me,” he whispered.
Fred leaned in and kissed you—soft at first, like he was checking if you’d spook. But you leaned in.
The kiss deepened when you did, his lips warm and sure, guiding yours in slow, patient movements that made your stomach twist in hot spirals. His thumb stroked along your jaw, steadying you, coaxing you.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, your cheeks were burning.
Fred smirked.
“Don’t blush, love.”
Your breath stuttered. “I— I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”
The teasing should’ve embarrassed you. Instead, it made something snap in your chest—something bold, reckless.
Fred saw it. You watched his expression shift, eyes darkening with a heat that stole the air from the room.
“Not bad for a first kiss,” he murmured, voice low and sincere in a way you weren’t prepared for. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Actually… you kiss better than not bad.”
Your heart hammered.
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Fred breathed. “Good enough that I need… another sample. For research.”
This time, he didn’t wait.
His hand slid into your hair as he kissed you again—deeper, slower, with a warmth that spread through your chest and curled into your fingertips. You kissed him back, instinct guiding you more than thought, and Fred made a soft sound against your mouth, a pleased one, like you’d surprised him.
Your fingers curled into his shirt. He smiled into the kiss—mischievous, delighted—and tugged you a little closer by the waist.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your lips. “Just like that.”
He kissed you again.
And again.
Each one steadier.
More sure.
More Fred.
His other hand slid around the small of your back, steadying you when you swayed forward into him, pulling you deeper into the kiss without even thinking.
You weren’t thinking about Cedric anymore.
You weren’t thinking about anything except the way Fred Weasley kissed you like he was teaching you and losing himself at the same time.
And when you pulled back for breath, cheeks warm, lips tingling, Fred looked at you like he’d just discovered something dangerous.
“Merlin,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your lips, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you did.
You leaned in—hesitant for half a heartbeat, then with surprising certainty—your fingers sliding into his hair before you could second-guess yourself. Fred inhaled sharply, a sound that hit you low and deep, and you kissed him again, firmer, bolder.
“Oi—” he murmured into your mouth, amused and breathless all at once. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. A slow, wicked smile unfurled across his lips.
“Is that how you want to play?”
You didn’t even have time to form a thought.
Fred’s hands caught your waist, warm and sure, and in one smooth motion he tipped you backward, guiding you onto the mattress with such ease it made your breath catch.
Your back hit the blankets softly, and before you could blink, Fred was above you—braced on his elbows, knees sinking into the bed on either side of your hips, holding himself just close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek.
The world shrank to the inches between you.
Fred’s eyes swept over your face, slow, deliberate, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble.
“You look better like this,” he whispered.
You didn’t trust your voice enough to answer.
He didn’t wait.
Fred dipped down again, kissing you—deeper this time, stealing the breath right from your lungs. His hand slid from your waist to your ribcage, stopping just beneath your arm, a warm anchor that held you exactly where he wanted you.
Then his lips left yours.
Not far.
Not for long.
They brushed the corner of your mouth.
Your cheekbone.
The line of your jaw.
“You drive me mad, you know that?” he murmured against your skin, voice lower than before.
He kissed the spot beneath your ear—slow, lingering—and your breath hitched.
It was tiny. Barely a sound.
But he heard it.
Fred smiled against your neck.
“Oh, I felt that,” he whispered, amused and pleased and something else entirely.
He pressed another kiss, lower now, just at the curve of your throat.
Your hand slid instinctively into his hair—fingers tightening for balance, for him—and the quiet sound that escaped you wasn’t a gasp, wasn’t a moan, just—
“…Fred…”
His name.
Soft.
Unplanned.
Pulled straight from somewhere you didn’t know existed.
Fred froze for a heartbeat.
Only a heartbeat.
Then he lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.
“Say that again,” he breathed.
You shook your head, mortified—and that made him laugh under his breath, a low, warm sound that rolled right through you.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours, “you’re going to ruin me.”
And before you could protest, before you could hide your face, before you could think—
Fred’s lips were back on yours.
Not careful.
Not soft.
But sure.
Certain.
Like he’d finally stopped pretending this was just a lesson.
His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your face up to him as he kissed you again and again, each one warmer, deeper, pulling you under and holding you there.
Like he never wanted to stop.
His hips nudged yours—accidental, unplanned, but unmistakably intimate.
The breath rushed out of both of you at the same time.
Fred tore his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale, bracing himself harder on his forearms, because if he didn’t he might—
“Bloody—” he whispered, blinking hard. “Right. Okay. That’s—Merlin.”
He swallowed, like he was trying to drag himself back to reality—
But reality didn’t wait.
“FRE-EED? YOU IN HERE?” George’s voice echoed up the hallway.
You froze instantly.
Fred didn’t move. His chest rose and fell steady. His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to you—dark and smoldering. A faint, amused smile tugged at his lips. Calm. Collected. Watching you panic like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.
He leaned in, brushing his lips once more against yours in a quick, soft kiss—a last, deliberate contact.
You pushed him off yourself, cheeks burning, heart still racing. “Move,” you whispered.
You stood, smoothing your skirt, brushing back your hair, trying to regain composure. Fred’s eyes followed every movement.
Then another voice joined—Lee’s. “George, wait—no, listen! It wasn’t my fault the mannequin exploded—”
The footsteps stopped.
You exhaled shakily, turning to Fred. “Well… wish me luck, then,” you murmured, trying to sound casual, still flushed.
Fred blinked slowly, that faint, mischievous smirk lingering. “For what?”
“My date,” you said softly, brushing your hair back. “…With Cedric.”
The moment shifted instantly. Fred’s eyes darkened, posture tightening slightly. “After that?”
You tried to scoff, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pulse raced. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
You turned to leave.
His hand caught your wrist firm and certain. “I’m not being ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere with Cedric Diggory.”
You glanced back. Fred’s gaze held you, unwavering, impossibly steady, chest rising slowly, smoldering eyes fixed on you.
Before you could respond further, the door swung open.
George came in. “Fred, Mum wants—oh, hi, Y/N. Didn’t know you were up here.”
“I was just leaving,” you said quickly, wiggling your wrist free from his grasp and steering yourself toward the door.
Fred was still watching you.
You stepped into the hallway, heart racing, breath uneven—
but just before the door closed, you heard him behind you.
Soft. Low. Certain.
“Y/N… I’m serious.”
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly you weren’t sure whether you were walking toward your date with Cedric—
or straight into something much, much more dangerous.
Is it okay to request something with Sanji where reader has a huge baby fever? She would be all cute and whiny clinging to him during random moments when he’s cooking or reading talking about the most random things ever. I think Sanji could get a small inside heart attack but he would mostly try to explain you that right now he’s cooking or doing something important but he would be melting from sweetness while saying that. It would be cute fluff where reader would be literally this emoji: 🥺 (Sorry if this is a weird request but I’m so crazy for Sanji to the point where I’m giggling and kicking my legs AT SCHOOL while showing my best friends moments where Sanji is with kids 😔 I just love him so much and he’s such a cutie who wants kids so much too [long ring long land Sanji moment])
Thank you for requesting this. I hope you enjoy it! <3
Sanji x Reader
The sizzle of oil in the pan is sharp, rhythmic, and oddly soothing. Sanji moves with practiced ease—knife chopping in a steady, clean rhythm, the scent of garlic and herbs wafting through the kitchen like magic.
You, however, are the opposite of calm.
You’re sitting on the counter in one of his shirts, swinging your legs, arms stretched out toward him with a pout that could rival Chopper’s.
“Babyyyyyyy,” you whine.
“Mm?” he doesn’t look up—he’s in cooking mode. Focused. Precise. Gorgeous.
You don’t care. You need him now.
You scoot closer on the counter, lower lip jutting out dramatically. “Sanji. Babyyyyy.”
He exhales a soft laugh, finally glancing over his shoulder. “What’s the matter, mon amour?”
You point at him accusingly. “You’d be such a good dad.”
Sanji chokes on absolutely nothing.
The knife stops. He blinks at you like you just told him you were pregnant with triplets.
“P-Pardon?” he says, turning fully now, one eyebrow raised.
You swing your legs more and hold your arms out like a child begging for attention. “You would,” you insist, voice all gooey and full of love. “You’re so sweet and caring and gentle and warm. Kids would love you. I mean, they already do!”
Sanji’s hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing it slowly as the blush creeps in.
“M-Mon cœur, that’s… thank you,” he says, clearly flustered but trying not to show it. “But right now, I’m in the middle of—”
“You’d pack the cutest bento boxes for our kids.”
He freezes again. You’re fully ignoring the food, clinging to his sleeve now with the softest pout known to mankind.
“Shaped like bears and rabbits,” you add dreamily. “Little rice balls with nori faces. Their friends would cry with jealousy.”
“Chérie—” His voice cracks slightly, and he coughs to cover it up. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m holding a knife. Do you want me to cut off a finger?”
You smile, completely unbothered. “You wouldn’t. You’re too talented. But also, that’s not the point—Sanji. Baby.” You tug his sleeve more insistently.
He sets the knife down, finally surrendering with a sigh and turns to face you fully, arms crossed but lips twitching into a small, helpless smile. “Okay, fine. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours now?”
You kick your feet, tugging him closer until he stands between your legs.
“I just keep thinking about you with a baby,” you say softly, hands resting on his chest. “You’d be the sweetest thing. Carrying them around in one arm while cooking with the other. Holding them while they nap. Letting them tug your hair and crawl all over you…”
Sanji’s ears are red now.
“You’d cry the first time they said ‘papa,’” you add, grinning.
He groans and drops his forehead onto your shoulder. “You’re going to kill me.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and hum happily. “You like it. I know you want that future, baby. Don’t even pretend you don’t.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just exhales softly, arms slowly wrapping around your waist as he melts into your embrace.
“…I do,” he says, voice quiet.
You blink. You weren’t expecting him to actually say it.
“I want it more than I can ever say,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along your neck. “But not just any future. Only if it’s with you.”
Your heart flips. You pull back just enough to look at him, cupping his face.
“You mean that?”
He nods, lips twitching into the softest smile. “I’ve thought about it more than I probably should. Blame it on the way you cling to me like a koala while I’m doing anything remotely domestic.”
You pout. “Because you’re warm and nice and you smell good.”
“And that makes you want to give me children?”
You grin. “Yup.”
He laughs—a real, belly-deep laugh that makes your whole chest fill with love. He leans in, brushing his lips gently against your forehead.
“You’re insane, you know that?” he whispers.
You nuzzle closer. “Insane for you.”
He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your lips.
“…Let me finish lunch,” he murmurs against your skin. “And then, if you cling to me like this again later, I might start telling you just how many kids I want with you.”
You freeze. “…Wait, how many do you want?”
He pulls back with a mischievous smirk. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
Later That Night…
You’re curled up in bed, head on his chest, tracing idle circles on his stomach.
“…Four,” he says quietly.
You blink up at him. “Four what?”
“Kids I want four.” He kisses the top of your head. “4 girls or maybe three girls and a boy. Or any mix, really.”
You’re quiet.
Then:
“Sanji?”
“Yes, mon cœur?”
“I am so in love with you.”
He smiles. And for the first time, he lets himself imagine that future fully—holding your hand, a child on each hip, your smile next to his. Laughter. Bento boxes. Small feet padding across the floor.
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word count: 2.2k
The first time you realized you liked Fred Weasley, you were fourteen.
It was a fleeting moment, in the middle of a casual conversation in the Gryffindor common room. He threw his head back, laughing at some silly joke his brother had told, his eyes shining under the firelight. And that was when it happened. Something in your chest tightened slightly, a cold sensation filled your stomach, and suddenly, Fred Weasley wasn’t just a mischievous friend with whom you shared classes and pranks. He was someone who made your heart beat differently.
But Fred was… well, Fred. He flirted with everyone, threw careless winks at girls in the hallway, and pulled pranks that left professors on the verge of a breakdown. He didn’t see you that way. At least, that’s what you told yourself every time you saw him sprawled on the Gryffindor couch, his arm lazily draped over the shoulders of some other girl.
So, you buried the feeling. Moved on—or at least tried to.
But Fred fell in love later.
It was at the beginning of fifth year that he realized it. At first, it was subtle, almost imperceptible. Small details he ignored or attributed to coincidence. Like the fact that your eyes always seemed to find his first in the Great Hall. Or how he missed your laughter on days when you didn’t spend as much time together.
But then came the moment that really hit him—the one that knocked the air from his lungs and made his stomach twist.
You were in the courtyard, sitting with your friends, and someone cracked a joke. He laughed, of course. But then he looked to the side and saw you laughing too. And it wasn’t just any laugh. You tilted your head back slightly, your eyes shining, your shoulders relaxed. A light and genuine sound, carefree. Something inside him clenched. Hard.
And in that instant, he knew.
You were no longer just the friend he joked around with and talked to without a care. You were the girl he searched for in a crowd without even realizing it. The one who made his heart race when you smiled that certain way, in a way only he seemed to notice.
And that’s when fear set in.
Fred Weasley was never afraid. He faced teachers, rules, even magical creatures with a grin on his face and a wild plan in his head. But when it came to you, he had no idea what to do. Because what would happen if he crossed that line and lost you?
So he hid it. Kept winking at other girls, kept telling jokes as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
George noticed before Fred could even admit it to himself.
“You’re screwed,” George casually commented one night while organizing products for their next prank.
Fred frowned. “What are you talking about?”
George chuckled, his gaze mischievous. “You, idiot. You stare at Y/N all day and don’t even realize it.”
Fred scoffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but you do.” George tossed a Chocolate Frog at him. “The great Fred Weasley, feared by teachers, master of pranks… in love.”
“I’m not in love with Y/N, she’s my friend.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then why do you scowl every time you see her talking to another guy?”
Fred opened his mouth to protest but found that he couldn’t.
George laughed even harder. “You’re absolutely screwed, mate.
Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew George was right. But admitting it out loud? That was another story.
And then came that night.
The tavern in Hogsmeade was lit by floating candles, the air filled with the scent of butterbeer and carefree laughter. It was one of those cold nights packed with teenagers, where nothing seemed to matter except the present moment. Students were scattered in groups, occupying tables and speaking loudly to be heard over the background music.
Fred was in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by George and their friends, immersed in the whirlwind of jokes and teasing that filled the room. The atmosphere was light, the typical Weasley energy mixed with their friends’ excitement. The game had started off playful—rounds of embarrassing questions, stupid bets, and dares that grew bolder with time. The classic truth or dare, which Fred loved. Until the next question came, cutting through the fun.
“Well, I’ll go with truth this time,” Fred said, trying to keep his tone relaxed, though his eyes gleamed with suspicion.
Angelina, with that mischievous smile he knew all too well, leaned forward slightly.
"Have you ever thought about kissing Y/N?" she asked, her voice laced with playful mischief.
The question hit Fred like a blast of cold air. He laughed—a knee-jerk reaction, almost instinctive. Laughing was his defense, his shield against anything that made him feel too much. And there, in front of everyone, it was easier to pretend nothing special was happening. He simply smiled, carefree, as he always did.
“She’s my friend, why would I?” he replied.
The answer came before he could think. Light, casual. As if it meant nothing. As if he wasn’t burying something deep inside his chest.
But then he saw you.
You were there. Close enough to hear.
For a second, he couldn’t quite read your expression. It wasn’t anger. Not even obvious sadness. It was something worse. It was silent acceptance.
It was the way you looked away, let out a quiet sigh, and returned to your conversation as if it didn’t matter. As if, in that moment, a part of you had given up waiting.
And that was when Fred realized he was screwed.
Because something inside him screamed in protest. Something in him wanted to run to you, to say it was a lie, that he only said it because he didn’t know how to admit the truth. But how could he? He had spent years pretending he felt nothing. Now, when he finally understood what he truly wanted, maybe it was too late.
And then he saw you with someone else.
Fred couldn’t explain why that moment hit him like a punch to the gut. Maybe it was the way you tilted your head back to laugh, your eyes shining with something genuine. Maybe it was because, for the first time, that laugh hadn’t been caused by him.
He was walking through the corridors of Hogwarts, surrounded by the usual noise of students going back and forth, when he saw you there. Leaning against a wall, arms crossed in a relaxed way, while some guy—a random guy, one that wasn’t him—said something that clearly amused you.
His heart clenched.
Maybe it was just a conversation. Maybe that smile of yours meant nothing beyond politeness. But, for the first time, Fred had to face a possibility he had never truly considered: that you might move on.
The first time you didn’t seek him out to talk about your day, he missed it. His eyes scanned the Great Hall, expecting you to appear at his side as usual, ready to share some silly story or complain about an impossible History of Magic assignment. But you didn’t come.
The first time you didn’t laugh at his jokes, he wanted to punch himself. He told one of those stupid jokes that always made you roll your eyes before laughing for real, but this time, your expression remained unreadable. And in that small instant, he realized he might have gone too far.
He loved you.
And it wasn’t just any love. It was a consuming love, one that burned in his chest and made his breath falter. A love that made him want to go back in time, undo every poorly chosen word, every laugh thrown into the wind as if nothing mattered. He wanted to go back to the exact moment he said you were just a friend and slap himself.
Because now he saw.
Now he understood.
The night at Hogwarts was steeped in mystery and a quiet melancholy. The sky, burdened with clouds, unleashed its fury in a symphony of cracks and rumbles, echoing against the glass windows and the castle’s cold stones. The wind cut through the narrow corridors, carrying with it the feeling that time, somehow, was running out.
Fred Weasley hurried up the dormitory stairs, his breath heavy and his mind racing. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the words he needed to say were weighing down his chest, piling up until he could no longer bear the burden. The rain, now forming small streams along the steps, made him feel more alive, more aware of everything at stake. He knew he couldn’t wait any longer.
The door to his dormitory was just ahead, and with a near-desperate impulse, Fred knocked, his cold, trembling hands striking the solid wood with a firm and determined sound. One, two, three knocks—a rhythm that seemed to stretch into eternity. Inside his mind, echoes of doubt, the “what ifs” and “maybes,” tangled with the certainty that he had no more choices. He couldn’t turn back now.
There was a moment of deep silence, a second of absolute tension, where the fear that he might already be too late tried to creep in. But then the door opened, and there you were, eyes wide with surprise. Your hair was slightly tousled, the fatigue of the day mingling with the confused expression of someone who hadn’t expected a visit from someone so… caught in the storms of his own heart.
Fred stood there, drenched to the bone. His red hair stuck to his forehead, his shirt and rain-soaked cloak clinging to his body. But what stood out the most wasn’t his physical state—it was the look in his eyes. Something there was different. He wasn’t just standing in that hallway; he was deep inside himself, in a place only the purest and most sincere feeling could have led him to. And in those words, he could no longer hide what he felt.
“Fred?”
He took a step forward—there was no hesitation. He knew he needed to speak, to pour out everything he had kept inside for so long. His chest burned, but not with anger or frustration—with a tense, repressed love that was finally finding a way to be spoken. The words escaped in a rush, with no room for filters, no room for disguise.
“I was an idiot.” He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours as if searching for a thread of hope to hold on to. “I took so long to realize… to see what was right in front of me this whole time.”
His voice was low, rough, marked by the intensity of his confession. He looked vulnerable, a little lost, as if, for the first time, he was truly seeing what had been around him all along.
“All the times I pretended everything was fine… that I didn’t care… all the times I lied to myself… They were lies.”
Rain streaked his face, but his gaze was clear—clear of any doubt. “I know now. I know that… I fell in love with you long before I even realized it. And if there’s still a chance… if you give me a chance, I will do everything I can to prove how real this is.”
The space between you felt smaller, drawn together by the weight of his words. And as he spoke, the words seemed to dissolve into the air, leaving everything clearer than ever. He wasn’t speaking just for himself anymore—he was speaking for both of you, for everything that could be, for all the things that had been hidden between you, waiting for a moment like this.
You stood there, motionless, your heart pounding in your chest. Your mind echoed with the sound of all those turbulent nights, the moments of pain, the frustration, and the challenges that had kept you apart. But now, facing Fred, his soul as exposed as yours, there was something else. A new feeling—something you didn’t yet know how to name—but it spread between you, filling the empty spaces.
There was hope.
Fred took a hesitant step forward, his eyes searching yours, almost pleading. His hand, cold from the rain, reached out for yours, as if trying to touch the only thing that truly mattered now—what existed between you. The gesture was simple but carried an immense longing, a vulnerability he had never shown before.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath, “let me show you that I can be more than I was.”
You felt the weight of his words, the sincerity overflowing from them, and something inside you broke—an invisible barrier you had built around yourself. The love he had kept hidden, the words he was finally saying, all of it resonated deep within your soul. You had known from the beginning that something existed between you. But now, with words and feelings finally aligned, you couldn’t deny what had always been there.
With a soft smile, you reached out, your fingers barely touching his, your breathing slowing as if, finally, the two of you were breathing in the same rhythm. “I was waiting for you, Fred,” you whispered, your voice nearly breaking with emotion.
Fred smiled—a small, hesitant, but genuine smile, as if, at last, he had found his peace.
And then, your lips met. The rain still fell, the wind still howled through the stone corridors, but now, nothing else mattered. You were there, in the same space, in the same moment, finally understanding that what had always been inevitable… was happening.
× At a college party, you and Sam share an undeniable chemistry that quickly grows intense, sparking a connection neither of you can resist.
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× None.
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The college party was packed that night, full of loud laughter and music booming from the giant speakers. The smell of beer mixed with cheap perfume lingered in the air, as students danced carefree, losing themselves to the rhythm of the pounding beat. Flashing colored lights blinked frantically, reflecting off the walls and sticky bar floor. You shouldn’t have been there, but Jess and a few other friends dragged you along, insisting you needed some fun.
At first, you resisted the idea, preferring a quiet night at home, but the promise of good laughs and a possible distraction from academic stress was too tempting to refuse. As you walked into the hall, the vibration of the music overtook your body, and despite your reluctance, you allowed yourself to be swept away by the chaotic, contagious atmosphere.
And that’s how it happened: a light dress that danced with every movement, a sip of cold drink sliding down your throat, and a glance exchanged in the middle of the crowd. Your heart skipped a beat when your eyes met his – a brief moment, but one full of intensity.
It was just a moment. You bumped into him in the middle of the swirl of sweaty, energetic bodies, a tall guy in a white jacket, with eyes too intense for any girl to ignore. He seemed out of place there, as if the party wasn’t exactly his scene, but at the same time, there was something magnetic about him that drew attention effortlessly.
“Sorry,” you murmured, but he was already staring at you with a curious look and a half-smile on his face.
Sam Winchester. His name came quickly, as Jess made sure to introduce you both before disappearing onto the dance floor. His handshake was firm, warm, and the way his eyes seemed to scan every detail of you made your stomach flutter. The noise around you seemed to fade for a moment.
“Do you always use this approach?” You asked, joking, after a few minutes of conversation, when he looked at you as if trying to figure something out.
“What approach?” Sam raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“The look that says you’ve just won a whole pack of beer.”
He chuckled softly, taking a sip of his beer before replying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you want, I can look lost.”
“That wouldn’t suit you.”
Sam tilted his head slightly, his intense eyes locked on yours, and his smile widened, full of carefree charm. “Oh, really? And what would suit me?”
You tilted your head, holding his gaze without hesitation, a silent game of challenge and desire growing between you. “Confidence. That certainty that makes anyone around you realize you know exactly what you're doing.”
He let out a laugh through his nose, lowering his cup and leaning a little closer, closing the distance between you. His woody cologne mixed with the air thick from the party, making it impossible to ignore his presence. “Well, what if I told you I’m never sure of anything?”
Your heart skipped, but you kept your composure, feeling the heat grow between you. “Then I think this is your best performance so far.
Sam’s eyes slid slowly over your lips before returning to your eyes, a playful and dangerous glint in them. “Or maybe you’re just too good at reading me.”
The air between you was electric, with a tension in the air, like a spark ready to ignite everything around you. It only took an hour of conversation to realize he wasn’t like the others. Smart, engaging, and a voice... My God, that voice did something inside you, making you feel things in a nearly indecent way.
As the night went on, the glances became more intense, loaded with something that needed no words. The connection between you was inevitable, a silent storm waiting to break.
“What if we left here?” The question came in his carefree tone, but his eyes told a different story.
You felt the heat rise in your body, biting your lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Where to?”
Sam shrugged, leaning in closer, his voice low like a promise. “Somewhere I can keep listening to you... without having to compete with this awful music.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Without hesitation, you took his hand. The touch was firm, warm, as if it had always belonged there. And then, without needing anything else, you went.
At the door to his dorm, nervousness crept in, a sudden spark that almost made you hesitate. But before any thought could form, Sam pulled you close with a gentle urgency, his lips pressing against your neck, and everything that was confusing and hurried disappeared. In place of doubt, something stronger emerged – a heat that spread from the inside out, blurring everything around you.
The chemistry between you was so intense it seemed to consume the air. He knew exactly where and how to touch you, each movement impeccably calculated, yet with the same wild intensity that left you breathless. His lips, his tongue... Each touch felt like an unspoken promise, as if he knew what you needed, even before you realized it yourself.
The kisses began soft, exploring the space between you, letting your bodies meet and communicate through proximity. But soon, as desire and passion grew, the kisses became more intense, each one carrying a repressed urgency. Sam’s mouth found yours fiercely, deeply, as if he wanted to prove this wasn’t just a moment – it was something burning inside him too.
Sam’s fingers, once lazy and slow, now traced hot lines across your body, exploring your skin with a need that made your stomach flip. Every touch of his seemed to make the air around you grow warmer, as if he had the power to burn away any doubt, any resistance left. He touched you with a disconcerting confidence, each movement purposeful, aiming to make you lose yourself. Your skin burned under his fingers, the heat spreading through every part of you as he traced the outline of your neck, moved down to your collarbone, and back to your lips, invading you with a kiss that was beyond passion – it was almost a silent obsession, a constant search for more.
Sam pulled back briefly, just enough to look into your eyes, and the intensity in his gaze made your heart race. He pulled you in again, now with a fierceness that made it clear there was no room for hesitation anymore. His mouth descended to your neck, trailing kisses with increasing pressure, while his hands moved slowly, but surely, as the space between you narrowed.
Your bodies fit together so naturally, as if they already knew where they were meant to be. He pulled you closer, the intensity of the kiss now burning everything around you. The touches grew bolder, his hands rising up your waist, exploring the curves of your body with a fierceness of someone who no longer wanted to wait, who couldn’t control the desire anymore.
When he pulled you even closer, your bodies so close you could swear you were becoming one, the kiss deepened, growing even hotter, more urgent. Every touch, every kiss felt like a promise of something more, and you didn’t want it to end. It was as if the world around you had vanished, and all that existed was the passion that surrounded you, limitless, endless.
And then, as if time had stopped, you found yourself in his arms, your body pressed against his, as the heat of his presence enveloped you completely. There was no more room for insecurities or doubts. It was just you and him, together, lost in the calm that followed the storm of emotions.
Sam pulled you closer, his chest against yours, and as you rested there, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath, his fingers began to lazily trace your skin. The sensation was almost electric, as if the simple touch of his hand could awaken something deep inside you. He wasn’t rushing, but every movement was full of intention, making you sigh, each touch deeper than the last.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the feeling. You didn’t need words, explanations. With him, everything felt natural, as if the world had aligned for this moment, and nothing else mattered. All that remained was the sensation of the heat spreading between you two and the peace that came with the certainty that, for now, you belonged to each other, with no rush for time to pass.
“That was... unexpected,” he murmured, a satisfied smile on his face.
You laughed, tracing circles on his chest. “But it made sense.”
He held your chin, making you look at him. “It made a lot of sense.”
You didn’t know what would come next. If he was the type to disappear in the morning or call you the following week. But at that moment, none of that mattered. Because it had been intense, it had been right.
And you were sure that, if he called you again, you wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.
