#fw x reader

And he was the one who told you the news. Who—offhandedly, as if it was just some political footnote—mentioned that your father was trying to marry you off to the King of Deverelli. ‘In good faith’ apparently.

So yes, you ran. Slipped through the palace halls like a shadow, packed only what you could carry, cut your hair to your shoulders with the same blade that now rested on your thigh.

And no one stopped you. Because no one suspected a thing.

To the kingdom, the Crown Princess didn’t vanish into the night—she fell “gravely ill,” too weak to be seen. Bedridden. A tragic occurrence in the aftermath of Prince Alic’s death. Oh, the royal family was surely cursed. Poor Crown Prince Halden. First his twin slain, now his twin sister withering away behind silk-curtained windows. The gossip was delicious.

But the truth?

You had slipped into the Riders Quadrant under a false name, a year older than the rest of your year, blending in with a cohort of freshbloods too busy trying to survive to ask many questions.

The leathers chafed at first. The hair against your neck felt foreign without its silk ribbons. But the sword on your hip? The dagger tucked into your boot? Those felt right.

And when your Red Swordtail picked you—when she looked at you and chose you—you knew you’d never go back. Not willingly.

Especially not when Xaden Riorson started looking at you like he saw straight through every layer of disguise.

Not even when you started looking back.

Because if the kingdom ever found out that their precious Crown Princess wasn’t just alive and well but fraternizing with the great betrayer’s son?

It would be the kind of scandal that topples monarchies.

But no one knew. Not even Xaden. Not really.

You hadn’t told a soul your real name. Not the other riders. Not your squad. Not the boy whose shadows curled too close whenever you got too hurt.

Only your dragon knew. She’d seen it all—your grief, your fear, your fury. And she'd kept your secrets with a glint in her eye that promised she'd burn the whole kingdom down before she'd ever let them take you back.

And Xaden?

It really hadn’t been that hard to fall for him.

Not when he spent your first month pretending he didn’t care whether you lived or died—as long as you didn’t drag the rest of the squad down with you.

Not when he coldly pointed out your weaknesses in front of everyone like he was reading a report.

Not when he muttered corrections under his breath during sparring drills, like he couldn’t help himself.

Gods, he was infuriating. And he was right.

Because that’s the thing—Xaden Riorson never wasted time. Not on pleasantries, not on weakness.

So when he started pulling you aside after hours, correcting your stance, showing you how to angle your weight to drive a blade home—

When he didn’t stop you from collapsing on the training mats but crouched beside you afterward, voice low and shadow-laced, saying, “Get up. You’re not done yet.”

That was when you knew.

Because Xaden didn’t waste time on things he didn’t think would survive. And he sure as hell didn’t teach people how to win unless he wanted them alive.

Which meant he wanted you alive.

And for the longest time, you didn’t know why.

Not until you started catching his gaze every time you won a challenge. The way his eyes lingered just a second too long—not impressed, but watching, like he was cataloging every move you made. Like he was memorizing you. Every strength you tried to hide, every weakness you refused to let show.

He never said anything. Never praised you. But his silence wasn’t the kind that dismissed—it was the kind that noticed.

Not until you started seeking him out on purpose. Going out of your way to say good morning, even when he rarely answered. Just to see if you could make him crack the smallest smile. And maybe once or twice, when no one else was looking, you did.

Not until you stopped flinching at the marks inked across everyone’s skin. Stopped pretending you didn’t know what they meant.

Even though you never understood—never could understand—how killing their parents was supposed to prove anything.

Because somewhere in the middle of all that distance and danger, something shifted.

It was in the way his voice changed when he spoke to you—still pointed, but no longer cruel. In the way his shadows hovered just a little closer after you got tossed during sparring, flickering against your wrist like they were checking for broken bones.

It was in the quiet between drills, when he stood closer than necessary. When his gaze dropped—not to assess, but to see.

Not until you found yourself backed against the cold stone of a shadow-laced hallway, breath catching as the air thickened around you.

He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his eyes were molten and unreadable, like he was waging a war inside himself and losing fast.

Then his mouth was on yours—rough and desperate and so careful, like he wasn’t sure he deserved this, but needed it all the same.

He kissed you like he was trying to breathe. Like he’d been holding his breath for months. Like you were the first thing that ever felt real.

And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to be chosen—not for your crown or your name, but for you. For the girl who’d carved herself out of ashes and made a new name fit like armor.

He didn’t know your secrets. Didn’t know your bloodline or your history.

But he saw you. All of you.

And wanted you all the same.

And for a while, it had been perfect.

Not easy. Not gentle. But real—raw in a way that left you breathless and aching and desperate for more.

It started small. Stolen glances across the sparring mats. A hand on your back that lingered half a second too long. Shadows curling like smoke around your ankles when you were too still, too silent, too far away.

But then came the other things. The quiet things.

Xaden Riorson loved chocolate.

Like—actually loved it. Not just tolerated it, but hoarded it. Would trade for it in secret. Smuggled pieces back to you like it was contraband. You’d caught him once, sitting on the edge of your bed with a napkin-wrapped square of dark chocolate and a completely unbothered expression.

“What?” he said, when you stared. “I’m a grown man with stress. Let me have this.”

You learned that he slept with one arm thrown over his face, like he hated being vulnerable even in dreams. That he wasn’t a fan of the cold but would always give you his jacket without comment. That he preferred old books with cracked spines and spent hours sketching things he never let anyone else see—battle formations, dragons in flight, once even you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And gods, the way he touched you—always with control, always with intent. As if he didn’t want to want you, but couldn’t help it anymore.

He never pushed. Never took. Always asked.

But once you gave—once you pulled him in and whispered yes—He was devastating.

All rough hands and low groans, reverent kisses pressed to the hollow of your throat, like he couldn’t believe you were his. Like he needed to prove it with every touch.

And afterward, when you curled beneath the sheets and felt his shadows wrap around the both of you like smoke and silk, he would rest his forehead against yours and whisper things he’d never admit in daylight. Things like you scare the shit out of me and you make me forget I’m supposed to be careful.

Your dragons adjusted without a word. Red and Blue falling into step like they’d always flown together. As if they understood something binding had tethered their riders together.

And it was binding. Because he let you in. Let you see the boy beneath the shadows, the one who still mourned his father, who still carried the weight of a rebellion like it was stitched into his bones. And you—gods, you let yourself be seen. Fully. For the first time.

You weren’t a crown. You weren’t a name. You were just a girl, and he was just a boy who kissed you like you were his last chance at peace.

You should’ve known it couldn’t last.

Should’ve known the world would come clawing for you eventually.

It nearly unraveled when General Lilith’s daughter entered the quadrant. You hadn’t seen her in years—not since she was shoving Halden at court functions when no one was watching. Not since she caught you sneaking pastries and promised to keep your secret if you shared.

Her eyes landed on you like she was trying to solve a riddle she didn’t remember writing. But she never said anything. Just blinked.

Told herself the Crown Princess of Navarre was still bedridden. Still fading.

And your secret stayed safe.

For one more year.

Until Cam crossed the bridge and stepped into your room like the ghost of your past had come to life.

You didn’t even have time to speak before he was pulling you into his arms—arms that had grown stronger, taller, older while you’d been gone—and sobbing into your shoulder.

“Oh my gods,” he whispered, over and over again. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead.”

Your throat burned. “I tried to write,” you said, your voice cracking. “I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry—I had to disappear. They were going to sell me off like a treaty, Cam. I had to go.”

“I thought I lost you too,” he choked out. “I thought I was alone.”

You buried your face into his shoulder then, shaking. Because even after everything—after all the lies, all the nights you cried yourself to sleep trying to remember how your real name sounded—this still felt like home.

But peace never lasted long.

Not in your life.

When Xaden arrived that weekend—under the pretense of Sgaeyl and Tairn needing a mandatory reunification flight—there was something about a book. Something about needing Cam’s help getting part of it. Something that should’ve been normal.

But then Cam’s eyes flicked to where Xaden stood beside you—where his hand had casually settled on your back, familiar, comfortable, intimate.

And something in Cam snapped.

His whole body went still. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Cam’s voice was low, rough. “That’s him?”

You turned, your stomach lurching.

“That’s your little lover?” he hissed. “He’s the reason Alic is dead.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs.

You froze.

And then Xaden—calm, cold, and unaware of the landmine he’d just stepped on—said, “Your brother was a craven, murderous prick.”

The air left your lungs.

Even if a part of you knew it was true—even if you’d known, in the quiet places of your mind, what Alic had become in the end—he was still your brother. And the truth still hurt.

“You…” The word stuck in your throat. “You killed my brother?”

Xaden blinked.

And that was when everything broke.

Violet watching you both like she was watching puzzle pieces slot into place, suddenly inhaled like she’d been struck.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered, wide-eyed. “You’re the crown princess.”

It felt like the entire hallway tilted.

The silence that followed wasn’t silent at all—it rang.

You didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

You just ran.

Stormed down the corridor, every step echoing like a scream, barely holding yourself together. Your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall. Your breath hitched as you reached out with everything—

“Please, come get me,” you whispered through your bond. To your dragon. Your constant. The only one who could carry you far enough away from this moment. “Please, I need you.”

But before you could reach the doors, footsteps thundered behind you. And then his hand—familiar, warm, calloused—closed around your arm.

“Wait—” Xaden’s voice cracked.

You turned.

And gods, he looked as wrecked as you felt.

Like someone had carved him open. Like he didn’t know whether to pull you close or fall apart entirely.

“You never told me,” he said, like it physically hurt. “You—gods, you never told me.”

“I know,” you whispered, your throat burning. “I know.”

His grip loosened, like he couldn’t bear to hold you if you didn’t want him to—but couldn’t let go, either.

You shook your head, blinking fast. “I can’t. Not right now.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate. “Just—tell me why. Tell me it wasn’t all a lie.”

And you almost broke then. Almost told him everything—about your father, the arranged marriage, the masks and how hard it had been to breathe before you met him.

But your heart was already splintering.

“I can’t talk about this,” you said, voice raw. “About Alic. About you killing him, and why, or what your reasoning was. I can’t do this now.”

He flinched. But he nodded.

And you—gods, you swallowed the sob threatening to rise as you stepped back.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you said, barely audible. “I just—I need to breathe.”

Because at the end of the day, even after all of it—

You still loved him.

Were in love with him.

“Where is it?” You mumbled to yourself. You felt the weight of a few stares at that but ignored them. You internally cursed Hermione for her charmed purse skills. It was useful but near impossible to find things you needed in a rush.

You glanced up briefly as you stepped onto the street to cross the road in traffic before turning back down to your bag.

Wait.

You blinked and reached further down into your bag.

There!

You felt your fingers close around the list. A triumphant feeling swelled in your chest.

It all happened in slow motion.

The honk.

The look up.

The feeling of a body wrapping around yours.

The forever uncomfortable feeling of apparating.

When time seemed to return to a normal pace you let out a breath as the arms that saved you pulled away. It took you a second to gather your thoughts before observing your surroundings. You were standing in a small nook Diagon Alley. The oddly shaped and colored buildings filled every inch of your vision.

This was on the other side of London. You looked up at the large clock hanging over one of the stores. You still had time, luckily.

A throat cleared behind you. It was then that you remembered you weren’t the one that apparated. Someone had grabbed you- saved you- simply because you were too busy digging for an irrelevant list.

You slowly turned. Your gaze met a chest covered with a button up and a mustard yellow suit jacket. Your eyes trailed up to see the face of your savior.

You couldn’t believe it.

There stood Fred Weasley. The notorious prankster a year above you back at Hogwarts. The guy you were in love with who barely noticed you. It was understandable. Different years and all, but there he was. Standing in front of you. More handsome than ever.

You bit your lip. “Um. Hello.”

A laugh bubbled out from between his lips. “Hello? That’s all you have to say to the man that saved you?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh! Thank you! Sorry I was looking for this!” You held up the list. “I wasn’t paying attention, but I’m sure that was obvious.”

Fred smiled and it lit up the entirety of Diagon Alley. “So just what is so important on a small piece of parchment that’s worth losing your life over?”

“Well.” You hesitated, glancing down at the list. “It’s a bucket list of things I wanted to do in my last year at Hogwarts…”

He leaned on the building beside him, crossing his arms. “But your seventh year was quite a bit different than you anticipated?” There was a sad look in his eyes. One you recognized in anyone who had been present at Hogwarts for the battle.

You nodded. “It was difficult.” The scars on your body from the Carrows said much more than that.

“Well let’s see this list then!” And before you could blink, Fred had snatched the list out of your hands. Panic set in. You had no idea what was on this list, but you knew you wrote it when you were in love with him. You prayed that there was nothing incriminating as he opened the parchment.

“Hm.”

You pushed onto your tiptoes to try and see what he was looking at. And there the list was. In all its glory. Except it only said one thing. The memory of writing it hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Why is there only one thing-”

“I charmed it so it would appear in the order I wanted to do them in. I guess it was a way of making sure I didn’t skip any of the more difficult ones in lieu of the easier and more enjoyable ones.”

“So the first thing you wanted to do was fly?” Fred looked at you like you were crazy.

You looked away, snatching the list out of his hands, your cheeks heating under his gaze. “I wasn’t like you. I didn’t play Quidditch. Broom Flight was my worst class. When I wrote that I meant I want to fly and I want to enjoy it.” You tugged your bag to be more secure on your shoulder before beginning to walk away, the embarrassment of your first wish settling in.

A hand gripped your elbow before you got far.

“Meet me here tonight at 9.” Fred’s deep voice sounded from behind you.

Your heart skipped, but you shoved it down. “I don’t get off until 11.”

Fred came from behind you and smiled down at you before he began walking backwards towards what you knew was him and his brother’s shop. “I’ll see you here at 6 then.” And with that he winked and disappeared into his shop with a smile so brilliant it stunned you.

Right at that moment, the clock began shouting the time.

You were late. Again.

But as you apparated to St. Mungo’s, you struggled to care.

----

The shift was long. You had dealt with all sorts of maladies stemming from DIY potions, self made charms, and just poorly done magic. You rolled your shoulders as you checked your watch. 11:24 pm. Your heart broke a little bit. Fred was going to think you stood him up. He likely wouldn’t even still be there, but that didn’t stop you from apparating to the same spot in Diagon Alley anyway.

Once you collected your bearings you looked around the darkened alley.

No Fred.

You sighed, pushing your bag further up your shoulder. Even the shop was dark, probably meaning he was asleep.

At least your apartment wasn’t too terribly far.

You turned around heading for the pub where the alley opened up into London, opting to walk home.

You had taken maybe three steps before an arm wrapped around your waist and you were hoisted into the air. You didn’t even have time to scream before you were placed on a broom with a warm body sitting behind you holding you steady. The broom shot upwards and it took all your willpower to hold onto your bag and not freak out.

“Relax.” Fred whispered in your ear. “I’ve got you.”

That did not make you relax. If anything, feeling his breath warm your ear the way it did only caused more panic. But you tried. You closed your eyes and focused on the feeling of your hands gripping your bag. That was solid.

“Open your eyes, Y/N.”

Your eyes opened. Since when did Fred Weasley know your name?

And then you saw.

The two of you were soaring over London. The lights of the city sparkled from the height. The people below were barely specks, the cars being slightly bigger. The night sky beamed above it all. It was breathtaking.

“Wow…” You breathed out.

“Stunning right?” Fred mumbled in your ear.

“Yeah. It is.”

“How do you feel?” His arm tightened around your waist as the broom dipped slightly to bring the two of you closer to the ground. You tried to ignore the way your heart skipped.

“I feel…” You leaned back slightly. “Peaceful.” You turned your head slightly, not quite facing Fred but hopefully he could hear you slightly better. “Is this how it always feels for you?”

You felt him breathe deeply behind you before responding. “No.”

“How does it usually feel?”

A second of silence passed before he responded, his voice an octave deeper. “Not like this.”

And before you could respond, the broom dipped down and the both of you soared back down to the world.

“Where are you?”

“Oh!” You pointed to an apartment block a few blocks away from Diagon Alley. “I live there. Apartment 4C if you ever want to stop by.”

There was no response. Fred just dipped the broom towards your apartment and before long, you were both back on the ground. You looked up at the handsome red head you were quickly realizing you still had feelings for.

“Well thanks for taking me flying, Fred.” You smiled genuinely hoping he could see how much it meant to you that he wanted to help.

His lips curled up into a smile that almost knocked you on your ass. “My pleasure, love.” He nodded at the bag. “So let’s see what the next thing is.”

You nodded, dumbstruck at his attractiveness before reaching in your bag and pulling out the list. Flying was crossed off and the next thing had revealed itself. Skip class. You sighed. You couldn’t do that anymore, considering you didn’t have class. You looked up at Fred who had already read it from over your shoulder.

He had a slight smirk as he looked back at you. “I bet work would qualify.”

“I can’t skip work!” You pushed his shoulder playfully, while meaning it.

He winked. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” And with a loud pop, Fred Weasley was gone.

You leaned back against your apartment door, your heart beating madly and a smile stuck on your lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Fred.” You whispered to the air before turning and walking inside.

-----

The next few months flew by quickly. It wasn’t everyday that Fred came up with some wild scheme to complete one of the items on the bucket list, but the both of you did at least one a week. From walking through the Forbidden Forest to swimming in the Black Lake to starting a food fight to simply stargazing without doing it for an Astronomy class. Fred had accompanied you through every item. No matter how many times you told him, you could do it alone, he insisted on joining you. And everyday your Hogwarts crush began to turn into something substantial. Something real. And everyday you wondered if those feelings were returned.

You were getting to the end of the list and you knew it. There were only two more things if you were guessing correctly. Which meant soon enough your time with Fred would come to an end. And that was the last thing you wanted.

Fred was waiting outside his shop when you arrived in Diagon Alley. He smiled at the sight of you still in your work robes. He tugged you into his arms and wrapped you in a warm hug that drove out the winter’s cold.

“Ready for tonight?” He whispered, pulling back to look you in the eye.

You smiled as you looked up at him. “I guess I’ll have to be.”

“Don’t worry, love. Pranking is sort of my wheelhouse.” He said grabbing your hand and tugging you in the shop.

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.” You laughed, preparing yourself for whatever it was that Fred had planned.

----

The two of you fell back onto Fred and George’s couch in the apartment above the store laughing uncontrollably.

“That was incredible.” You managed to say between bursts of laughter.

“And that’s what it feels like everytime.” Fred nudged your arm with his elbow. You turned your head to see him already looking at you. There was a look in his eyes you’d come to recognize, and yet one you weren’t willing to name in fear that you were wrong. That was a kind of heartbreak you couldn’t take. So you tore your eyes away to look up at the ceiling.

Fred cleared his throat before speaking up again. “So what’s left?”

“What?” You whispered still thinking about the way his lips looked, wondering how they would feel pressed against yours.

“The list.”

Your fingers reached into your pocket pulling out the slip of parchment that had so long ago started this entire thing. You glanced down at it and began reading it out loud.

“Tell Fred-” Your words lodged in your throat as your eyes continued reading the sentence. You stood up.

“Tell me what?” And before you could react, the paper was out of your hands. It felt familiar. Except instead of him reading some dumb wish, this one was- well- incriminating. His eyes looked down and he read. “Tell Fred Weasley that you’re in love with him.”

It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Neither of you moved. Your heart was racing faster than it ever had before.

Fred hadn’t moved, his eyes were still trained on the paper. You didn’t know what that meant. But- if the last few months had taught you anything, it was that bravery and courage is a choice. So you sucked in a breath and looked up at Fred who was standing next to you.

“Fred Weasley, I’m in love with you.” His eyes looked up into yours, that familiar stare back in them but you continued. “I don’t know if what I felt at Hogwarts was truly love because I know the way I feel now is what it’s supposed to feel like. But I love you. You have so quickly become my best friend these past couple months and even if you don’t feel the same way-”

His hands gently gripped your cheeks. “Remember how you asked me how flying felt for me?”

You blinked. That was months ago. You were pouring your heart out and he’s asking about the first bucket list item? “Um… yeah?”

“That night? It felt like this.” And before you could take another breath, his lips were on yours. For a split second, you didn’t know what to do. But as his hands slipped from your cheeks to around your waist, you let your body take over. One hand wrapped around his neck while the other found itself tangled within his red locks. You both became one in that moment. One heart beating in sync as the world slipped away from around you.

He pulled back first. His head rested on yours as you both panted. “Yeah. It felt exactly like that.” Fred mumbled.

You pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, your hands drifting to his chest while his curled further around your waist. “I meant it, Freddie. I love you.”

The smile that overtook his face outshined every other smile you’d ever seen on him. He looked like I had handed him the world on a platter. And as quick as lightning, but gently, he dipped you. The look in his eyes was as strong as ever. You were confident you knew what it was. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting to hear those words from you for quite some time now and I was starting to get impatient.” And as his lips met yours, everything around you disappeared. Nothing existed except the two of you.

Not the apartment around you.

Not the shop below you.

And not even a small piece of parchment lying on the floor with one last thing written on the list.

Love is a ruthless game unless you play it good and right.

“Nope,” she pops the p “pretty,” then kisses his nose, something she knew he hated.

“No, handsome,” he insists

“Pretty,” Y/n sings and Fred raises his hands up in a tickling motion

“Say I’m handsome,”

“Pretty,” she repeats and starts laughing even before Fred’s touched her, and when he does and starts moving his finger around, she laughs louder, kicking about “Stop!”

“Say I’m handsome!”

“Freddie!”

“Say it!” he keeps tickling her and when she starts to struggle to breathe, she shouts out: 

“Fine! Fine! Handsome! I was thinking you were handsome!” he stops and Y/n lays still for a moment, breathing deeply and Fred watches, his elbow squashed into the bed as he holds his head in his hand. 

Eventually, Y/n regains her breath and leans in to whisper in Fred’s ear “Pretty,”. He doesn’t tickle her this time, just smiles fondly as she giggles to herself, staring up at the ceiling. He’d let her have this one, in fact if he himself wasn’t so stubborn, he’d let her win every time. He liked her like this, calm and happy, unable to keep a smile off her face. He wanted to see her like this forever.

“Let’s run away,” 

“What?” Y/n turns to Fred, eyes still glassy from his ‘attack’

“Let’s run away,” he repeats, but he can tell Y/n is still confused “leave here and find a cottage in the woods or something,”

“Fred… are you being serious?”

“Yes!” Fred smiles and excitement floods his voice “Bill and Fleur did it, why can't we?”

“We’re not Bill and Fleur,” Y/n says in disbelief, not sure if Fred was joking or not “they have a baby on the way, your future niece or nephew,”

“Yours to,” Fred gestures to the ring on her left finger proudly. He’d proposed their first year out of Hogwarts, Molly had said it was too soon but when Death Eater attacks became more frequent, she was happy to see her son so happy. She also knew Fred wouldn’t listen to her anyway. He loved Y/n L/n and he would marry her anywhere, anytime. But soon preferably. He adored the idea of being able to say ‘my wife’ and he wanted to call her Mrs Weasley and come up with a whole new branch of nicknames for her based on her new status. But he had to wait, he could do that.

“Our future niece or nephew,” she corrects, “and you and George have the shop,”

“It’s not even open at the moment,” Fred mutters quietly, knowing Y/n was right, but still wanting to believe for a minute more that they could leave “Please?”

“You know we can’t go…” Y/n takes a deep breath as the somewhat jokey conversation becomes serious “we’re gonna be needed…” she looks left and out the window, holding a hand over her stomach.

“I know,” Fred smiles, putting his hand over Y/n’s “Can’t blame me for being in love with ya,”

“Guess I can’t,” Y/n smiles with him as she remembers the last time he said that to her.

It was their last year at Hogwarts and George and Fred had finally grown tired of Umbridge. They haven’t fully told Y/n the plan, but she knew they weren’t coming back. Fred had minutes to say goodbye before him and George had to set the plan into the motion, and he was grabbing Y/n’s hands so tightly she thought the circulation might never come back.

“Come with us,” he whispers and she looks down, smiling lightly

“You know I can’t,”

“Why not?”

“My parents would kill me,” she laughs and presses a kiss to his lips, whispering into them “You would kill me,”

“I would,” he nods “What are you thinking, throwing away your future for a boy?”

“A ginger one nonetheless!” Y/n gasps, playing along

“Oi!” George shouts from behind a door and Y/n laughs as Fred shouts out to him

“Stop eavesdropping you prat!” shuffling is heard and Y/n gazes at Fred again, trying to memorise his face before he leaves.

“Promise you’ll write?”

“Of course. You can hear everything about mine and Georgie’s experiments and how I came up with all of the ideas” Y/n would laugh, but all she can manage is an amused brow raise

“And you’ll be here for graduation?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he nods “Promise,” There’s a knock on the door, a signal Fred needed to go.

“I love you,” Y/n says quickly

“I love you too,” They share one more kiss and Fred whispers into her lips “Come with me?”

“Fred!”

“Can’t blame me for being in love with ya!” with that, he gives her hands a final squeeze before leaving, giving her a wink as he shuts the door. 

“Y/n…” Fred waves a hand over her eyes “you there?”

“Hm?” she turns back to him

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she rolls onto her right side so she can look at him properly “You?” Fred seems to be thinking about his answer and Y/n puts her left hand over his shoulder, rubbing soft circles on the soft cotton of his t-shirt “Freddie?”

“We’re gonna be needed,” he repeats her earlier statement slowly “And when we are, something may happen to me...If I don’t make it -”

“Fred!” Y/n’s eyes widen, completely not expecting such a sombre topic to come up on a Wednesday morning, especially after such a somewhat cheery morning “Can we please not, not now?”

“I need to say it Y/n, I need to get it off my chest, I’ve been thinking about it for days,” he had been acting differently, he’d been quieter at dinner and seemed to want to cling to her and George more, talking about going to the Burrow when it was safe to. So maybe that’s why she gave in, or maybe it was the soft ‘please’ he muttered afterwards that he paired with pleading eyes.  She could never deny him, not when he looked like that, so sad.

“Okay,”

“If I don’t survive…” he keeps pausing and Y/n supposes that if she was talking about the same thing, she would do the same “I want you to remember me, I want you to remember us -”

“Of course, I’m going to remember you!” Y/n couldn’t believe he’d think she’d ever forget him.

“I know! I just need you to promise. Promise you’ll remember me and us. Promise me you’ll remember when we used to wake up at god knows when just to watch the sunrise and when the sun used to set in summer and we’d just lay out by the lake. Because you always talked about how it calmed you. I want you to remember how you used to write crap poetry and dramatically read to me and I could never really tell if you were joking or not, so I didn’t laugh and you always thought I was annoyed with you,”

Y/n feels a bit hot in the face at the mention of that, she was just a tad bit embarrassed. 

“Promise me you’ll remember the sunrises, the sunsets, the parties and the snogging but also promise me you’ll remember this, lazy mornings in bed, cooking together and cuddling. And promise me you’ll see me again, even if it’s in a Quidditch portrait at school or photos around the flat, or memories or dreams. Promise me you’ll remember me?”

“I promise,” she whispers, kissing him slowly “But don’t worry about it too much. Neither of us have to worry, because you’re not dying. Not on my watch,”. Fred smiles and in seconds, the subject seemed to be forgotten as he bops his fiancé’s nose and starts a conversation about what their brunch should be.

Y/n remembered that conversation now as she stood in a graveyard, staring down at what would have been her future husband's tombstone where she’d recently placed some flowers, right next to George’s. 

She remembered the sunrises,

“Freddie...I’m too tired for this…”

“Promise me, it’ll all be worth it love,”

and the sunsets, 

“Are you okay?”

“No... but just, watch this with me,”

 the parties,

“You have had far too much to drink,”

“Y/n! I missed you!”

“I just went to the loo,”

“Yeah, but I love you!”

 the snogging,

“Fred...we cannot be doing this here,”

“Shhhh, tell me you don’t get a little bit of satisfaction from doing this in Snape’s classroom,”

 and the lazy mornings in bed, cooking together and cuddling. 

“I love you,”

“Are you talking to me or the pancakes I just brought you?”

 “Y/n, it’s on fire!”

“What?!”

“Joking…”

“You twat!”

 “We should get up…”

“No! Stay here, just a bit longer,”

 She remembered everything. She would never forget and while she may only ever be able to be with Fred in her dreams, she still loved him more than anything. She’d be with him someday, when it was her time to go. 

 ‘Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your wildest dreams’

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Then you’d climbed straight onto your dragon’s back, whispered a single word—“Fly”—and she hadn’t stopped until the mountains blurred below you like water.

The Swordtail hadn’t said a word at first. Just kept flying. Far. Fast. Away. And you’d let her, curling into yourself as the sky turned from near night to morning.

She didn’t take you back until she felt the Blue Daggertail had left campus airspace the next day. Only then had she banked, circled low, and landed with a bone-shaking thud on the edge of the quadrant cliffs.

“You are being a coward,” she’d said flatly, her voice crackling in your mind like embers on wind.

You shoved the bond aside. Hard.

And she let you. For now.

You didn’t expect to get cornered so soon after. And certainly not by him.

Not Imogen, not any of the other third years.

No, it was Bodhi.

Which felt almost worse.

He caught you just outside the mess hall, grabbed your arm without preamble and yanked you into a shadow-drenched corridor, the one near the war college that always smelled faintly of damp stone and full of suggestive memories.

“Crown princess?” he hissed, his eyes dark and wild with disbelief. “And you weren’t just going to mention that to anyone?”

You ripped your arm from his grip. “How did you—?”

“How do you think?” he snapped. “Xaden. He’s barely said five words before he had to leave and two of them were your name.”

Your heart twisted. A fresh wound over a bruise.

“Look, I didn’t—I never meant for any of this to happen.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just…”

“No,” he agreed, crossing his arms. “But you sure didn’t stop it, either.”

You swallowed hard, guilt clawing up your throat. “Do you think I wanted to be found out like that? In front of him?”

He looked at you then—not with anger, but with something that felt almost like pity. “He loved you. Still does, I’m sure. But you’ve got to know what this looks like to him. To all of us.”

“I never used him,” you said, firmer now, stepping closer. “I never once used who I was to gain anything. I kept it buried so deep I forgot what it even meant. I bled beside all of you. Fought beside all of you. Earned my place like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, voice low. “You did. But now we all have to ask ourselves—was she an ally, or was she a royal pretending to be one?”

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing. “Fix this. Or at least talk to him before he starts thinking it was all a game.”

You stared at the wall long after he left.

Because it wasn’t a game. Not to you.

It never had been.

So really, what other choice did you have?

Your dragon knew before you did. Before your hands even reached for the flight jacket still slung over the back of your chair, before you shoved the nearest things into a pack with little care for what you grabbed. Before your feet started moving—fast, frantic—toward the flight field like the wind itself might carry you there faster if you just begged hard enough.

It was Violet you spotted first.

Tairn’s black form casted a long shadow over the clearing. The outpost rotation. Fourteen days. You’d nearly forgotten. Or maybe you’d tried to.

Fourteen days apart. It had already been that long?

Gods, it felt longer. Like the air had been thinner since the moment he left.

You moved before you could think.

“I’m coming with you.” The words left your mouth as your hand closed around Violet’s forearm.

She blinked at you, startled, brows knitting. “You—what? Are you even allowed to—?”

But the Red Swordtail landed with a heavy thud beside Tairn before she could finish the sentence, the wind from her wings blasting across the clearing like punctuation.

“I’m the Crown Princess of Navarre,” you said, too tired to flinch from the truth now. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact. Mostly. One you’d spent your whole life trying to outrun, and now, for the first time, you were owning it. Because maybe the only way to fix the damage was to stop hiding what you were.

Violet looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to hug you or deck you.

She hesitated, then glanced over at the dragons. Tairn eyed the other like he’d expected this exact kind of trouble, and your dragon simply lowered herself to the ground in a clear, get on with it motion.

Violet turned back to you. “This… isn’t just about the outpost, is it?”

“No.” You met her gaze. “It’s about Xaden.”

“Thought so.” She sighed. “You ready for that conversation?”

You swallowed hard. “Not even a little.”

“Well,” she said, already moving toward her dragon again, “then it’s going to be a hell of a flight.”

And a hell of a flight it was.

Your thighs were screaming by the time Samara came into view, the cliffside outpost jutting from the mountains like a jagged secret. You could already see the dragons circling lazily above, familiar shapes in unfamiliar sky, and—

Gods.

You definitely weren’t expecting to land and be met with the unmistakable bark of Violet’s older sister.

“Princess?!” Mira Sorrengail hissed the moment your boots hit the stone.

You winced.

Violet landed seconds behind you, clearly bracing for impact.

“Mira,” you greeted, barely managing to keep your voice level.

“What in the actual hell are you doing here? Does Command know you’re—”

“It’s a long story,” Violet interrupted, stepping neatly between you both like a shield. “That I will explain. Later.”

You could’ve kissed her. Honestly. If you weren’t already in love with a certain moody, infuriating, shadow-wielding ex-wingleader, you would have kissed her. Right then and there.

But you didn’t have time.

Not when you felt it.

The pull.

That familiar gravity sinking into your chest like a second heartbeat.

Your eyes lifted, and there he was.

Xaden Riorson. Standing in the stone archway of the fortress like some damn storm god had carved him from shadow and control. Arms crossed, jaw tight, unreadable.

And his eyes?

Locked on you.

Seeing you.

Not just looking—seeing.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, walking fast, maybe too fast, trying to play it off like you weren’t practically sprinting. Like your legs weren’t trembling with every step, like your heart wasn’t thundering loud enough to echo.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him say a word.

You reached him and grabbed his arm, the familiar heat of his skin through his leathers nearly undoing you right there. “We need to talk. Now.”

His brow lifted, and you heard the softest huff of breath—almost a snort, like he couldn’t help himself—but before you could yank him toward some direction that only felt right, he moved.

Fast.

His fingers slid down your wrist, trailing fire in their wake before his hand settled low on your back. Firm. Right. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t still make your breath hitch, but gods, it did.

“Wrong way,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly calm. Then he tugged you with him, pulling you against his side like it was how it was meant to be. Like your body belonged right there, pressed to his.

You stiffened, instinctively resisting the pull for half a second—because how dare he still touch you like that after everything? After Alic? After the truth?

But you didn’t move away.

Couldn’t.

Because, saints, you’d missed this. Missed him. Missed being seen and known, even when it hurt.

He guided you through the inner halls of the outpost without another word. No fanfare. No audience. Just the two of you, your steps too in sync for how fractured things were.

And when he pushed open the door, you didn’t even wait for it to close.

It wasn’t a decision. It was second nature.

You reached for him like you were starving. Like the absence of him had left something cracked open inside your chest and only this—only him—could make it stop hurting.

Your lips found his before the door even clicked shut.

There was no pretense. No buildup. Just fire.

Your hands cradled his face, fingers sinking into the dark curls at the base of his skull, holding him like you were scared the world might end if you let go. And maybe it would.

His hands were on your hips, not rough, just there. Holding. Desperate. Like he was terrified you’d vanish again. Like if he let go, it would all unravel.

You felt the shudder in his chest before you heard it, the way he breathed you in like he didn’t believe you were real. Like part of him thought this was a dream, and any second now, he’d wake up cold and alone.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his mouth, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

And still, he didn’t speak.

He just kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, with all the careful reverence of someone trying to memorize every shape and sound of something he thought he’d lost.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged, shadows curling faintly at the edges of your vision like they couldn’t stand to be far either.

His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. “You left.”

You closed your eyes. Gods, that hurt more than it should have. “I know.”

“You ran.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and then—so softly you almost didn’t catch it:

“I thought I ruined it.”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t. I just— I didn’t know how to be everything at once. The rider. The liar. The princess. The girl in love with the one person I should’ve stayed away from.”

His breath caught. You felt it more than heard it.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

“You love me?” he asked, quiet, stunned.

You let the silence hang for just a heartbeat longer, let him feel the truth of it. Then you said it.

Not soft.

Not shy.

But clear.

And honest.

“No,” you said. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes widened, barely perceptible, but it was there. That break in his walls. That flicker of something real and raw.

“Every part,” you continued, voice gaining strength now. “The asshole side, the protective side—even when it makes me want to gut you on the spot. The soft side you pretend doesn’t exist, the one that leaves chocolate on my bed and carries me to the med ward like I don’t weigh a damn thing.”

You stepped closer, if possible, pressed your palm against his chest, right over the heart you weren’t supposed to have. Right over the part of him that you’d fallen for, piece by infuriating piece.

“I love the side of you that growls at anyone who gets too close,” you whispered, your hand curling into his shirt, “and the side that looks at me like I might be the only thing holding you together. I love the way your shadows curl when you’re worried. I love that you care, even when you pretend you don’t.”

He still hadn’t said anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

You gave him a crooked, watery smile. “So actually, yes, Xaden. I love you. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt. But gods help me, I do.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, his mouth crashed into yours again, and this time it wasn’t careful.

It was want and need.

No hesitation. No restraint. Just heat—raw and unfiltered, like a storm finally breaking after holding itself back for far too long.

His hands found your waist again, but this time they didn’t just hold. They claimed. Fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms dragging along bare skin, bracing and igniting all at once.

You gasped into his mouth as he walked you backward, slow and sure, never breaking the kiss. One step. Another. Until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to fall back.

He followed you down, towering over you, shadows curling behind him like wings made of want. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, and he was breathing like he’d just come off a battlefield.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you whispered, even though you’d heard him perfectly.

His hands were on either side of you now, caging you in, his mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your throat—never quite kissing, just close enough to set your skin on fire.

“Say it again,” he said, rougher this time. “I need to hear it.”

You looked up at him—really looked—and felt your chest ache with how much you wanted him to believe it. To feel it. To know he wasn’t alone in this.

So you reached up, slid your hand to the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until your lips barely touched his.

“I love you, Xaden Riorson.” you breathed.

He groaned like the words undid him.

And then he was kissing you again—deep and hungry, like he was trying to memorize every part of this moment. Like he didn’t want to just feel you, but devour you. Like he’d spent weeks trying to forget the taste of your mouth and was punishing himself for ever letting it go.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hands slid under your thighs, shifting you back further onto the bed with ease, his body pressed flush to yours in a way that left no space for doubt—or anything else.

He kissed you like a man losing his grip on restraint, like someone who’d been holding back for too long and had finally decided to let go. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the underside of your throat, where he lingered—breathing you in, brushing his nose against your pulse like he could feel the truth of what you said there.

His hands found the hem of your shirt again, tugging this time—not demanding, but asking. A silent question pressed into your skin.

You lifted your arms without hesitation.

Because this—he—wasn’t something you feared.

His eyes flicked up to yours once the fabric cleared your head, like he needed one last confirmation. And what he saw must’ve been enough, because he exhaled a curse against your collarbone and ran his hands up your sides like he was relearning you by touch alone.

Every brush of his fingertips sent heat racing along your skin, and when his mouth returned to yours, it was slower, deeper—possessive in a way that made your spine arch and your breath hitch.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips, voice frayed and low, like confession and apology wrapped in one.

And you, already left dizzy by his touch, whispered back, “Then don’t let go.”