Young indigenous woman of Kiowa tribe, 1894. Data records show her name is O-o-dee although her blanket indicates "O-o-be".

-Summary: Fred becomes obsessed with your cherry lip gloss, teasing you relentlessly until his charm gives way to something softer. Between laughter, warmth, and a stolen lip gloss, one thing becomes clear: Fred might joke about everything, but not how he feels about you.

-Word Count: 551

-Pairing: Reader x Fred Weasley

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It started with a smell.

Not smoke from a firework, not a whiff of one of Fred’s dubious experiments, but something sweet faintly fruity, warm, familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been distracting but was.

Fred paused mid-sentence as he stepped into the room, nose scrunching slightly. “Alright,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Who smells like dessert?”

You didn’t even look up from your Transfiguration essay. “Hello to you too, Fred.”

He ignored that, wandering closer. “No, seriously, it’s… Merlin, what is that? Strawberries? No. Peaches? No, wait—”

You sighed, setting your quill down. “Cherry.”

“Cherry,” he repeated, as if testing it on his tongue. Then his grin spread — that trademark Fred Weasley smirk that usually meant trouble. “Well, that explains it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Explains what?”

“Why I can’t seem to think straight,” he said, voice light, teasing. “You’re distracting the room.”

“There is no room,” you deadpanned. “It’s just you.”

“Exactly,” he said, dropping onto the sofa beside you with a grin that should’ve been illegal. “And I’m deeply distracted.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously honest, maybe.”

You gave him a look. “Fred Weasley, are you flirting with me or trying to sell me a product from your shop?”

“Can’t it be both?”

You snorted, but your cheeks warmed despite yourself. Fred leaned back, draping an arm casually across the back of the couch, close enough that you could smell the faint traces of fireworks and cinnamon that always clung to him.

He tilted his head, studying you. “You’ve got something on your mouth,” he said suddenly.

You frowned, wiping at your lips self-consciously. “What? Where?”

He grinned. “Never mind. I think it’s just that.”

“That what?” you asked suspiciously.

“The gloss,” he said, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t go around wearing it like that. Someone might—”

“—slip and fall in love?” you interrupted dryly.

Fred blinked, momentarily thrown off then his grin returned, even wider. “I was going to say get ideas, but yours is better.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice softer now, not quite teasing, not quite serious. “Maybe. But I’m your impossible.”

The words hung there for a beat too long. You felt your pulse stutter, your throat suddenly dry.

Fred, of course, noticed immediately. His grin softened, and he looked at you with something quieter than his usual mischief fondness, maybe. A little wonder.

“Alright,” you said quickly, breaking the moment before it could turn into something dangerous. “Enough about my lip gloss.”

“Agreed,” Fred said, but his smile didn’t fade. “Just… do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Maybe don’t wear it when you’re near George. I don’t want him thinking I’ve gone soft.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You were born soft.”

He gasped dramatically. “Take it back.”

“Never.”

You both laughed and for the rest of the evening, Fred stayed sitting too close, “accidentally” brushing your hand whenever you reached for your quill. You told yourself it was nothing. Just Fred being Fred.

But when he left later, you noticed something missing from your desk.

Your cherry lip gloss.

And a note beside it in Fred’s messy scrawl:

“Borrowing this for research. Might need a taste test later. — F”

Festive puppy 🎄