hi heuehuwheuehwu hear me out: Fred Weasley x Studious!F!Reader cock warming at the library. Reader is trying to study but Fred really needs to be inside her right now, so why not accomplish both? heueheueheuw
đ Fred Weasley x Reader
đMDNI: Smut, cock warming turns to riding, semi public sex (no one catches them), Fredâs a snug little shit
A/N: The Weasley twins def deserve more content, I have another Fred fic Iâll be working on later, I LOVE writing for him
It starts, as these things usually do, with the soft scratch of your quill and the faint rustle of parchmentâtextbooks stacked like fragile towers around you, each one opened to a different chapter youâre convinced will be on the exam.
Youâve claimed the farthest corner of the library. Not because itâs the quietest, though it is. But because he always finds you here.
And sure enough, you feel him before you see himâwarm breath at your neck, the barely-there graze of knuckles dragging down your spine as he leans over you like he belongs there. Like he owns the air around you.
âStudying again?â Fred purrs, voice low and full of something that makes your stomach flutter. âShame. I was hoping youâd be doing something fun.â
You donât look up. You donât have to. Heâs grinning. You can hear it. That insufferable little smile that always comes before trouble.
âYouâre distracting me,â you murmur, eyes locked on the same sentence youâve read four times.
âThatâs funny,â he says, slipping into the seat beside you. His thigh presses against yours, firm and deliberate. âI was about to say the same thing.â
You donât grace him with a reply. You just dip the quill back into your inkwell and resume writingâyour script a little messier than before, your pulse a little louder.
Fred doesnât move away.
If anything, he settles in, arm slung behind your chair like heâs lounging on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room and not wedged into a desk barely meant for one. His fingers toy with the end of your braid, slow and lazy, twirling it like he has all the time in the world.
âYou know,â he murmurs, voice low and honey-slick, âI read somewhere that physical closeness actually helps with concentration.â
You scoff under your breath, flipping a page with more force than necessary.
âReally?â you say flatly. âIs that why youâre pressed against me like a clingy kneazle?â
âExactly,â he says, completely unbothered. âIâm only trying to help. BesidesâŚâ
His hand drifts. Not far. Just a touch lowerâhis knuckles grazing your waist, thumb resting just under the curve of your ribs.
âThought it might be nice,â he continues, a smirk curling in his voice, âif we found a way to meet each other halfway. You get to study. I get to be inside you.â
Your quill halts mid-stroke. Ink pools into the corner of the parchment like blood.
You stare down at the words that no longer make sense. And then, slowly, you lift your head to look at him.
Fred Weasley looks entirely too pleased with himself.
You exhale through your nose, steadying yourself like youâve just been hit with a gust of cold air and not an indecent proposal in the middle of the library.
Fred watches you, waiting. Not pushing, not quite. Just lingeringâclose enough that you can smell the faint trace of peppermint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body like a second skin.
You set your quill down with quiet precision. Fold your hands atop your notes. And turn your head just enough to meet his eyes.
âIâm not going to let you fuck me in the library,â you say, evenly. âThatâs absolutely insane.â
His smile doesnât falter. If anything, it deepens, like he was counting on that exact answer.
âDidnât say anything about fucking,â he replies, all innocent mischief. âI just want to sit.â
You arch a brow. âSit.â
He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. âI wonât move. Promise.â
Itâs the way he says itâsoft, breathy, conspiratorial. Like a dare disguised as a favor. You hate how your thighs clench at the idea. Hate even more how easily he picks up on it.
âIâll be quiet,â he whispers. âYou wonât even notice me.â
Thatâs a lie, and you both know it.
But your body is already betraying youâheat curling low in your belly, your skin prickling where he touches you, your resolve bending in the weight of his attention like wet ink on a fragile page.
You glance down at your notes. Then at the empty aisle between the stacks. Then back to him.
âFive minutes,â you mutter.
Fred grins like youâve just handed him the bloody crown jewels.
His hand slides lower, resting at the curve of your hip, fingers splayed wide. Possessive. Warm. He watches your face like heâs testing for hesitationâand finds none. Not anymore.
You pretend to keep your eyes on your notes. Pretend to stay still. But you donât stop him.
Not hard, not urgentâjust a subtle pull, guiding you from your chair onto his lap like itâs nothing. Like you belong there.
Your skirt rides up immediately. Of course it does. The way youâre straddling him nowâknees pressed to either side of his thighs, spine perfectly arched to keep your balanceâit leaves you scandalously bare beneath the table. No barrier but him.
You feel itâthick and heavy beneath you, his breath catching the moment you settle your weight into his lap. It makes your cheeks flush, even though you knew exactly what you were agreeing to. He keeps one hand on your waist, steadying you, and the other driftsâlower, bolder.
âStill want to study?â he asks, voice like velvet dragged over skin.
Fred hums. You feel him shift again, hips tilting just slightly as he reaches down, the motion masked by the way you press in close, like lovers sharing a secret. Or a sin.
A moment later and some clothes shuffling, heâs inside you.
Thick and slow, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp you donât let out. Your hands grip the edge of the table like itâll save you.
Fred groans softly against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper.
âFuck, love. Youâre always so warm for me.â
He bottoms out, then stills. Just like he promised.
And youâgods help youâyou try to breathe.
You pick up the quill with shaking fingers.
Ink drips like sweat down the stem as you try to find where you left offâsomething about defensive charm layering, maybe. Youâre staring at your notes, reading the same line again and again, and it still refuses to stick.
But he shifts, ever so slightlyâadjusting his grip on your waist, fingers spreading wider, anchoring you down. And thenâ
A deep, slow roll, barely an inch of motionâand it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Your entire body goes taut, the quill scratching a long, jagged line across the page as your mouth parts in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
You bite it back immediately. Clamp your teeth down on your lip and squeeze your thighs around him like thatâll stop the trembling.
Fred hums, the sound reverberating low in his chest.
âThat wasnât a sound, was it?â he murmurs, lips grazing your neck like a ghost. âBecause you said you could handle it.â
You donât answer. You canât.
Heâs pulsing inside you, hard and hot and perfectly still again, but your body is achingâclenching around him like it wants more. Like itâs begging.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Open them. Force yourself to focus on the textbook, the words swimming like murky water. You pick up your quill again, start writing:
âCounter-spell applications rely onââ
Another roll of his hips.
Deeper this time. Slower.
Your pen jerks mid-stroke. The line splinters. Your breath stutters.
Fred chuckles, soft and sinful.
âYouâre shaking, sweetheart,â he whispers. âNeed me to stop?â
You can feel the smirk without looking. You know damn well heâll keep doing it until you crack. And the worst part isâyouâre not sure you want him to stop.
Your fingers tighten around the quill like itâs the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. You scribble out the half-sentence you just butchered and try again, jaw clenched, back stiff.
âDo that again,â you hiss under your breath, âand I will hex you.â
Fredâs lips brush the curve of your ear, lazy and amused.
âYouâd have to say the incantation out loud, darling.â
You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed, face flushed. âI swear to Merlin, Fredââ
But the rest of the threat chokes off when he flexes his hips againâanother slow, deliberate push upward, grinding just right, and your breath catches so hard it makes your vision blur.
He groans, low and quiet, like heâs savoring you. His hands grip your waist tighter now, thumbs stroking circles just beneath your ribs.
âFuck, I love when you talk like that,â he mutters, nipping your jaw. âSo bossy. So mean. Like youâre not soaking for me right now.â
You make a strangled sound in the back of your throatâone that wouldâve been a moan if you hadnât bit it down just in time.
The parchment in front of you is ruined. Your handwriting is illegible. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying still while he isnât.
You grit your teeth and look straight ahead, breath coming in shallow pulls. âYouâre such a smug little shit.â
Fred grins against your skin. âAnd youâre still sitting on my cock. Funny, that.â
Because right now, your body is tremblingâcoiled so tight with heat and frustration youâre not sure whether you want to slap him or sob into his shoulder.
Fredâs breathing hasnât changed. Heâs not panting. Heâs not desperate.
Smug, unhurried, infuriatingly calm as he brushes your hair aside and presses a kiss to the back of your neck like this is some sweet little moment and not a full-blown test of will.
Youâre still trying to focusâgods help you, you areâbut every word looks the same. You canât think, canât breathe, canât remember what the difference between an incantation and an invocation is, because heâs so deep inside you and every tiny twitch of his hips sends lightning straight to your core.
Another gasp you barely bite back.
âMmm?â he hums, nuzzling your jaw. âSomething wrong, sweetheart?â
You suck in a breath, reach for the parchment again with shaking fingersâand he rolls his hips, slow and deep, just once.
It punches a whimper straight from your throat.
The word slips out before you can stop it.
Barely audible. Raw. Desperate.
You hadnât meant to say that. You hadnât meant to say anything.
Wide. Wolfish. Victorious.
âPlease what?â he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. âGo on, love. Use your words.â
You press your thighs tighter around him, like thatâll somehow dull the acheâstop the pressure building and building with every slow, sinful shift of his hips. But it only makes it worse. Makes him feel bigger. Deeper.
He hasnât even started moving properly, and youâre already unraveling.
Fredâs breath ghosts over your jaw, smug and slow, waiting for you to answer. His cock twitches inside you, thick and perfect, and you swear your vision goes white for half a second.
You clench around him, a broken little twitch you canât stop, and his fingers dig just slightly deeper into your waist.
âPlease what?â he whispers again.
You hate him. Gods, you hate how much you want him.
The quill is long forgotten. Your parchmentâs a lost cause. Thereâs ink on your fingers, your thighs are shaking, and your arousal is slicking his cock so thoroughly he could slide in and out with nothing but your own desperation.
And maybe thatâs what finally breaks you.
Because when you look at the mess of your notes, when you hear the smirk in his voice, when you feel him shift again, dragging against that aching spot inside you with slow, agonizing precisionâ
Your breath shudders out of you, and your hips rock down helplessly.
âJust move, Fred,â you whisper, desperate and cracked. âPlease. I canâtâfuck, I canât focus.â
The silence afterward is deafening.
You feel him still. Hear the pause in his breath. And thenâ
He doesnât wait for another invitation.
Fred doesnât give you a second to brace.
His hips draw backâslow, torturousâand then snap forward, driving up into you with a force that punches a moan right out of your throat.
His hand is on your mouth.
Firm. Gentle. Possessive.
Like he knew youâd be too loud. Knew youâd give yourself away the second he started fucking you properly.
âShhh,â he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the skin just below it. âCanât have anyone hearing how sweet you sound, love. Weâre still in the library, remember?â
You canât remember what you were trying to write.
His hand on your hip pulls you back into every thrust, setting a pace thatâs deep and deliberateânone of the teasing now. No slow grinding. Just the heavy, wet slap of your bodies connecting, over and over again, obscenely quiet beneath the table, hidden in the shadows of the back corner.
And somehow, the way he holds you thereâone hand muffling your moans, the other guiding your hips like youâre something he ownsâmakes it even filthier.
Fredâs mouth doesnât stop moving.
âYouâve been so good for me,â he breathes, voice rough and aching with how much he wants you. âTaking me so well. Stuffed full of cock while pretending youâre still the smartest little witch in the room.â
You whimper against his palm. He groans, deep and desperate.
âBet you like this more than studying, donât you?â
You shake your head. You nod. You donât know anymore.
All you know is the thick, relentless press of him inside you, the slick heat between your thighs, the way your body trembles every time his tip kisses that one perfect spot, again and again.
âGonna make a mess of these notes,â he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. âGonna have you dripping all over your parchment.â
And you will. You know you will.
His pace picks upâstill measured, still careful, but harder now, more urgent. Like heâs chasing something. Like he knows youâre close and wants to bring you with him.
Youâre panting against his palm, your moans muffled and raw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intensely itâs building inside you. Itâs not just the pressureâitâs the heat, the stretch, the words. Fred is still in your ear, voice low and wrecked.
âGonna come for me, sweetheart?â he breathes. âSo tight around meâfuck, I can feel it. Youâre close, I know you are.â
You nod helplessly, trembling in his lap, hips rocking without rhythm now. Your thighs are shaking, your visionâs gone hazy, and youâre so closeâone more thrust, one more whisper, one more anythingâ
He groans into your neck, his grip on your hip tightening as he drives into you with one last deep, devastating roll.
âThatâs it,â he groans softly. âCome with me. Iâve got you.â
Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking over stoneâviolent, full-bodied, unstoppable. Your head tips back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open against his palm as you moan into his skin, thighs clenching around him as your body convulses with pleasure.
Fred comes right behind you, with a choked, guttural sound buried in your hair. You feel him twitch inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you as his whole body shudders beneath yours.
Youâre both breathing hard, slumped together in the chair like melted wax. Your notes are crumpled beneath your knees, parchment spotted with ink and who-knows-what else. The table is skewed. One of the books is halfway to the floor.
For a long, perfect moment, the only sound is your breathing.
Then Fred shifts slightlyâjust enough to press a soft kiss behind your ear.
âWell,â he murmurs, smug and completely unrepentant, âthatâs one way to motivate you.â
You elbow him in the ribs.
He just laughs, arms wrapping around your waist like he has no intention of letting you go.
You groan softly, still slumped against him, every limb boneless, every nerve still buzzing with aftershock.
If anything, he shifts his hold on your waist, snugging you closer like he didnât just completely ruin your ability to walk in a straight line.
Heâs still inside youâsoftening, but not by muchâand the movement pulls a tiny, wrecked gasp from your throat.
âDonât move,â you mutter, breathless.
Fred chuckles, lips brushing your temple. âYouâre the one squirming, love.â
You reach back blindly and slap his arm. âLet me up.â
âMm. You sure?â he asks, far too pleased with himself. âI quite like it here. Warm. Cozy. Smells like sex and ink.â
You shove at his chest until he reluctantly lets you go. Pulling off of him is a messâliterallyâand the way he groans as you do it makes you shoot him a look so sharp it could flay a lesser man.
But Fred Weasley is not a lesser man.
Still seated, flushed and smug, he watches as you tug your skirt back down and reach for your wand with slightly shaking hands.
âScourgify,â you whisper, casting a quick cleaning charm on your thighs, the chair, the floorâeverywhere the scene of the crime mightâve left a mark.
You glance at your notes. A mess.
Ink stains, quill snapped, one page with a streak that could only be described as biological.
You flick your wand again. âTergeo.â
Fred lets out a low whistle. âLook at you. So responsible. So neat.â
You turn to glare at him, cheeks burning. âYouâre not helping.â
âI never help.â He stands, stretches like a smug bastard, and zips himself up with a flourish. âBut I do inspire, donât I?â
Youâre too busy mending your crumpled parchment with Reparo, gathering the remains of your dignity and the notes you now barely remember writing.
Fred slides in beside you again, arm slung lazily around your shoulder, head tilted like heâs admiring your work.
âBack to studying, then?â he asks, as if he didnât just rail you through a library chair.
But your lips twitch anyway.