It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

"Honestly, if either of you would just— oh! There you are." She beams at you, setting her bag down across from your walls. "You don't mind if we join? I'm making them study whether they like it or not." She shoots a pointed look at the redhead slouching behind her.

Ron Weasley. You've exchanged maybe six words with him. He always looks at you like he's waiting for something, and you never know what, so you look at your books instead.

"Brilliant," he mutters, dropping into the chair farthest from you after you smile and nod at Hermione’s question. "Nothing says fun like a Saturday in the library with Hermione's scary Ravenclaw friend."

You blink. And then your face goes hot with shame. "I'm scary?"

Ron's ears go pink. "I didn't mean—I meant like… smart-scary. Y'know. Like a dragon that does homework."

Harry snorts. Hermione sighs.

You huff—almost a surprised laugh. A small, surprised sound, pressed behind your hand. You thought you’d be more offended. You weren’t. The way he said it so embarrassed and earnest made it seem like being compared to a dragon was a compliment.

Ron stares. His blush deepens, but a grin tugs at his mouth, slow and delighted.

"Hang on. You've got a laugh.” He says. “And here I thought you hated me." The ginger adds weakly.

Your cheeks heat again. You drop your eyes back to your essay. "I don't hate you. I'm just… quiet."

The weeks that followed back in your second-year were when you learned the most about Ron Weasley. He collected laughs the same way he collected Chocolate Frog cards. And you had easily become his rarest find.

It started small. A whispered comment about Professor Snape's greasy hair during double Potions. Fake back to back loud sneezes timed to interrupt a particularly long winded Flitwick lecture.

Then it escalated—a genuinely terrible impression in the library that made you choke on your water. Harry began placing bets with Hermione on how long Ron could keep it up before you cracked and started snorting. 

You're not sure when it happened, but somewhere between the terrible impressions and the way he lingered after study sessions, to him, "Hermione's quiet friend" became just Y/n. 

He says your name like he's been saying it for years.

You remember one day in third year where he watched you eat at lunch like he was solving a puzzle. You had spent the five minutes dissecting your shepherd's pie, excavating it with your fork like an archaeologist.

"You do that every day, y'know," he says. "I've been keeping track. You always eat around the... whatever that is." He points at a suspicious chunk. "Is it a mushroom? You allergic to mushrooms too?"

"Not allergic," you mumble, cheeks warming. If you were allergic you wouldn’t be eating that pie. You’d told him about your many allergies and reasoned that’s why you were a picky eater. "It's just... the texture."

Ron's eyebrows climb. "The texture." He says it like you've just told him you speak fluent Mermish. Then he leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, my mum's cooking is about texture. If it's not crunchy, it's not real food."

A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ron's face lights up like a Christmas tree.

"Got it," he crows. "That's number forty-two."

"Forty-two what?"

"Laughs," he says, grinning. "I'm keeping count. My personal record for you is gonna be in the Hogwarts history books one day. Only git in the school whose gotten you to laugh."

You can't help it again—a laugh bubbles out of you, at the absurd thought of him counting your laughs, and your face feels like it's been held over a candle. You duck your head, hiding behind the curtain of your hair, but it's too late. Ron's already got that grin, the one that says he's won something.

"There is no way you’ve actually keep count."

Ron's grin widens. "Forty-two. Swear on my mum."

"You're making it up." You press, unconvinced.

"Am I?" He counts off on his fingers, unbearably smug. "There was the Snape one—that was a good one, that was, one of the firsts. The owl impression, that got a proper giggle. That time we were by the lake. I made you laugh before the twins could."

Your cheeks burn hotter. You press your lips together, trying to compose your face, but your eyes keep betraying you, crinkling at the corners.

Harry looks up from where he’s cramming for a Potions exam—the one Ron is currently ignoring by paying attention to you instead—exchanging a look with Hermione that you pretend not to see. Hermione's smile is small and knowing. She's been watching this unfold ever since the day you two met—the careful, quiet girl and the boy who collected her laughter like treasure.

Ron leans back in his chair, satisfied. "Anyway. You need to finally try a treacle tart at dinner. I’m telling you you’ll like it. No weird texture or anything you’re allergic to."

He says it so casually, like he's been planning your dinner menu and thinking about what you'd actually eat. The thought lodges somewhere warm in your chest, and you have to look away before he catches you smiling at him instead of laughing.

"Fine," you huff. You hated trying any food you hadn’t been eating since you were 7. But you agree because you hate saying no to him. "I'll try it."

When it’s finally dinner, Ron slides a piece onto your plate with the reverence of a man handing over something sacred. You take the smallest forkful, pushing up your glasses nervously, fully prepared to find a reason to put it down—but… it's warm and sweet, and there's no hidden texture lurking inside. It's... good.

Ron watches you take the second bite with barely contained glee. "Yeah? Good?"

"It's good…" you admit begrudgingly.

"Told you." He says it like he's won the Quidditch Cup.

Four years later, he still says it like that.

Now it's a cold Saturday in seventh year, and Ron's leading you through the crowded Three Broomsticks with a hand on the small of your back, steering you toward a corner table he's already scoped out. He pulls out your chair dramatically like a proper gentleman before flopping into his own, reaching for the menu.

"Right," he says, scanning it like it's a battle plan. "I dunno what’s exactly in this soup but I could ask Rosemerta for you. Hm. This pie has nuts. Oh, steak should be safe." He looks up. "Unless you fancy the roast?"

"I'm fine with Shepard's Pie, Ron.” You shrug sheepishly. He’s always like this when you two are eating together. To comfort him you add, "Last time Madam Rosemerta said she’d make a separate pie for me in case of cross contamination."

Last time you were here with him your throat had started itching a little. It was no big deal. You had taken your allergy meds right away. But Ron saw it as the opposite. Still, he gave in seeing the look on your face that said you weren't going to budge on this.

"Pie it is." He flags down Madam Rosmerta with practiced ease. "One steak and a Shepard’s Pie, no mushrooms? And sorry, habit—she's allergic to…” He goes on to list all your allergies.

Rosmerta nods, knowingly, scribbling notes. "I remember from last time, dearie. I'll make sure to make it separately."

Your face burns just a little. "Ron."

When she leaves he shrugs, unbothered. “What? It doesn’t hurt to make sure. Don’t want you dying on my watch.”

“You sound like my mum.” You mumble.

The pie arrives, perfect, no mushrooms. You eat more than half successfully before you slow down, pushing the plate away with a quiet sigh of defeat. Full. Ron glances at it, then at you, and wordlessly reaches over with a grin, dragging the plate toward him.

He always ate your leftovers. You loved it for it, hated wasting food.

You watch him eat your leftovers, red hair falling over his forehead, and something in your chest goes soft and warm. Five years ago you'd barely spoken. Now he knows your allergies better than you. And he always, always saved you the last slice of tart.

He catches you staring and pauses mid-bite.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say, with a grin.

He finishes the last bite of your pie and sets the fork down with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The treacle tart hasn't arrived yet and Ron's already eyeing the kitchen door like it owes him money.

From his side of the table, he watches you fiddle with the edge of your napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. 

He's got a whole catalogue of these, he realizes. The napkin folding. The way you press your lips together when you're deciding whether to say something. The way your eyes go bright and you hum then do a tiny dance in your seat when you take the first bite of something you actually like.

He does anything to see it. He knows this the way he knows his Quidditch plays, the way he knows the taste of his mum's treacle tart. He's spent years collecting those reactions, and he's never going to stop.

You look up and catch him staring. The same exact way you had been watching him eat your leftovers. Your face goes warm, and you immediately drop your gaze back to the napkin.

"What?" you ask, the word barely a mumble.

"Nothing," he says, which is a lie. It's never nothing. "Just—you've got a bit of..." He gestures vaguely at the corner of his own mouth.

Your hand goes up, patting at your face. "Where?"

"Got it." He leans across the table and wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb. 

There's nothing there. You both know it.

His grin is unrepentant.

Your face goes impossibly warmer. You're about to say something, to scold him or hide or both, when Madam Rosmerta arrives with a plate of pie and his steak. Ron's whole attention snaps to the food like a compass finding north. 

He thanks her before declaring, "There it is! Eat up."

The fork's barely at your lips before the warmth hits—soft and buttery on the top, savory on the inside. Your eyes go bright and a soft hum escapes you, a sound you don't even register making, and do that little bounce in your seat without realizing.

Then you look up.

Ron's watching you with a grin so wide it's a wonder his face doesn't split, steak half chewed in his mouth. He's not even pretending to be subtle about it. The smugness radiating off him could light the whole village.

You raise a brow, the hum dying in your throat. "What?"

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and leans back in his chair with the self-satisfaction of a cat that's found the cream. "Nothin'. You just did that thing you always do. I was waitin' for it."

Your brows raise. "Huh? What thing?"

"That thing when you eat something you actually like. It’s cute. You know, the one where you—" He mimes a little wiggle in his seat, poorly and dramatically.

"Ron!" Your voice comes out strangled, half-mortified, half-laughing. "Stop."

"Never," he says cheerfully, and takes another huge bite of tart. Around the mouthful, he adds, "You're my favourite thing to watch eat. And that's saying something because I should be focusing on the food."

You open your mouth to retort, but the laugh escapes anyway. 

A week passes in a blur of NEWT revision and stolen moments. You spend most of it in the library or your dorm. You have your own room to yourself as Head Girl. It feels enormous when it's just you, and you find yourself thinking about a certain redhead more than you should while staring at Advanced Runes.

The knock comes Thursday night, after curfew. You don't even ask who it is—you just open the door, and Ron slips inside with a grin and a bottle of butterbeer he's clearly snuck in.

"Hullo, my favorite Ravenclaw Head Girl. Figured you need a break from all that studying," he says, setting the butterbeer on your desk.

Before you can retort you’re the only Ravenclaw Head Girl—he's kissing you—one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist, backing you toward your bed. His mouth is warm and insistent, tasting faintly of the peppermint he always pockets from the Great Hall, and he kisses you like he's been saving it up all week.

"Missed you," he says against your lips.

You laugh against his mouth. “Ron— We saw each other at dinner 2 hours ago.”

“Exactly.”

You don't get a word out before he's kissing you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until your knees hit the mattress.

Oh. 

You’re quickly realizing which mood he’s in. 

You sink onto the duvet, and Ron follows, settling between your legs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

He moves your oversized t-shirt up slowly—possibly one you stole from him—pressing open mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, then the underside of your breast making your breath hitch. His hands map your skin like he's memorizing. Way more attention than he’s given any of his studies over the year, you think to yourself with amused disappointment.

"Been thinkin' about this all week," he says, voice gone rough. "About how you sound."

You make another embarrassing noise as his hands slide up your thighs.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts and drags them down your thighs. 

When he looks up at you from between your legs, there's that same delighted grin he gets when he sees a treacle tart—the one that says he's about to get exactly what he's been craving.

A whine escapes you before you can stop it. He eyes your panties, a wet patch having formed on them just from his sweet words and even sweeter kissing. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as he finds your clit through your panties and rubs lightly. Ron pauses and looks up at you through his lashes. There's that grin. That bloody grin.

"Don't you dare," he says, low and bemused. "I've been waiting all week to hear you. You’ve been so busy, smart girl."

You shiver. You love when he calls you that, too. He presses a kiss to the damp cotton, deliberately slow, and your hips twitch. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still.

He pushes the soaked fabric aside with his thumb. The cold air hits you and you gasp into your palm.

"Go on, then. Silence yourself if you want. But I'd much rather hear it."

He lowers his head and drags his tongue flat and slow through your slick folds, and your whole body jerks, the whine behind your hand turning into something broken and wanting. He hums against you, pleased, and does it again.

"Ron—" His name comes out as a whine, pitching high in the middle, and your hands find his hair. The soft, fiery strands slipping between your fingers like spun silk. You fist them, not hard enough to pull, just to hold on. Anchor yourself.

The silencing charm sits on the tip of your tongue, half-formed. The walls are thin, and the portraits in the halls of the girls dormitory definitely gossip. But Ron's mouth is doing something devastating to you and all coherent thoughts are currently abandoning you.

You manage it anyway eventually, a wandless Silencio and the room goes muffled—the crackle of the common room fire and the distant noise of the castle dropping away until there's only the sound of your panting and the wet sounds of his mouth.

Ron pauses. Lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips slick, grin sharp with drunk delight, "Shame. Wanted everyone to hear the pretty noises you make too."

You want to retort at the crude insinuation, but he lowers his head again, and the thought evaporates. You make a sound louder than you'd ever let out before and Ron hums against your obscenely wet cunt like it's the best thing he's ever heard.

"There it is," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes your toes curl. "Keep makin' that noise for me."

He seals his mouth over your clit, and you stop thinking entirely. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your back arching off the duvet.

One particularly hard suck hits you like a hex—your whole body seizing, a cry tearing out of you as your thighs slam shut around his head, trapping him there.

"Sorry— sorry—" The apologies spill out of you in a breathless, broken string, mortification and pleasure tangled so tight you can't tell them apart. Your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back, to give him air, to make him stop—or maybe to pull him closer, you're not sure anymore.

Ron doesn't move. He makes a low, muffled sound against you, and you feel his head shake—nose grinding against your clit, teasing, like he's saying no, I'm not going anywhere.

The vibration of it shoots through you like lightning. Your thighs clench again, harder this time, and a keening whine escapes your throat. You can feel his grin pressed against you, wide and unapologetic, and then he does it again—shakes his head slower, more purposefully, nose working against your clit, his tongue massaging your entrance leaking with honeyed arousal. Sounds of your slick feel the room. So incredibly lewd.

"Mmph—" he lets out against you, and the sound buzzes through your whole body yet again. "Always tastes s’good."

You're drowning. Your fingers are twisted in his hair, brows knitted, your legs shaking around his head.

"Ron!" His name tears out of you, broken and desperate. "It's— hah! It's too much!"

He hums against you, and this time that vibration alone nearly undoes you. Then his hands are moving, and you feel it—two fingers pressing inside with an ease that makes your eyes roll back. He curls them, easily finding the spot that makes your whole body jolt.

"S'okay." His voice is muffled against your mound. "I know you can take it. Ya always do. Just let yourself feel good, yeah?"

You want to argue. Want to tell him you can't—but he's already moving, fingers pumping in a rhythm that matches the lazy circles his tongue draws on your clit, and the protest dies in your throat. With every curl of his fingers, you hear a wet squelch that makes your body burn even hotter.

He works you like he's got all the time in the world, like he's memorizing every twitch and gasp, the way your hips chase his thick fingers, calloused from Quidditch. 

His free arm hooks around your thigh, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wants you. You whine, feeling so exposed—too dazed to do anything about it. Not wanting him to stop.

"There you go," he says, and you feel him smile softly against you. "That's it. Let go for me."

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, eyes teary. Your fingers twist in his hair, heels of your feet digging into his back, and you're trembling everywhere, all at once, right on the edge. You can't stop whimpering and whining his name, all other thoughts gone.

"My smart girl's completely gone, hm?" He says, saccharine sweet words coming out hoarse.

It only takes one last curl of his fingers for your vision to white out as you cream around his fingers. The warning you usually give never makes it out. One moment you're teetering, the next you're gone—body bowing off the mattress as you clench around his fingers. Coming undone with a full body shiver with a sound that's half moan, half sob, cracked and raw in a way you'd be mortified about if you could think at all.

Overwhelmed to the brim, the tears finally spill over, sliding into your hairline and smudging the lenses of your glasses that you haven't even noticed sit awfully crooked on your face. You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head, fingers twisted so tight in his hair you're probably pulling it now.

Ron doesn't pull away. He becomes gentler, mouth softening to slow soothing kisses, fingers easing into a slow rhythm, pumping you through the aftershocks like he's cradling you through every wave. His free hand strokes your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles into your skin.

"That's it," he says thickly against you. "That's my sweet girl. You did so well, pretty."

You make a small content sound at the praise. Ron waits until your trembling slows, your thighs to relax, before he lifts his mouth away leaving one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

He surfaces, licking his lips then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face is flushed a pretty pink, eyes dark and soft. He crawls up the bed, settling beside you, and pulls you into his chest before you can curl away.

"Alright?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice is hoarse, pleased. "You with me?"

You hum in confirmation against his shoulder, breathing still shallow. You wrap your hands around his lean middle and you can feel a soft smile pressed into your hair.

"Good," he murmurs. "Because I wanna see you cum again."

You whine suddenly, shaking your head against his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can second guess them.

"No— I can't. I just came. S'too much," You let out pitifully.

He softens instantly. When you look up at him, you see the eager heat in his eyes turn to something warmer. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, thumb brushing your temple. "Hey. That's fine Y/n. We don't have to do anything you don't want."

"Let me—" You swallow, the words you’ve been wanting to say for a while tumbling out as you hide your burning face against his chest again. "Let me suck you off."

Ron's eyes widen. His hand stills in your hair.

You look at him as you fix your crooked glasses nervously, pushing them up your nose, scared you said the wrong thing. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. There's a beat of silence where you can feel his heartbeat speed up under your cheek. "You've never— I mean, you don't have to?" He says quickly. "I've never minded, you— you know that."

"I know." Your voice is tiny but steadier than you feel. "But I want to. I’ve wanted to try for a while. You're always been the one doing things for me. I haven’t done anything for you yet…”

Ron lets out a slow breath. When he speaks, his voice is still rough but gentler than you've ever heard it. "Y/n. Look at me." You lift your head. His face is flushed, eyes softer, still blown. "You sure?" he asks quietly.

You nod.

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him, and leans back against the headboard, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.

He's hard. He has been for a while. Seeing him palm the hefty bulge makes your stomach flip. "Alright. Just… go slow, yeah? No rush. And if you want to stop, you tell me, and we'll stop."

He doesn't move to undress himself, he just waits, letting you set the pace. His hand finds yours, squeezing once. He shifts back against the headboard as you sit up, giving you room. His hands stay loose at his sides, but his eyes are dark and watchful, drinking you in.

You're suddenly shy again as you reach for the button of his trousers. Your fingers fumble once, twice, and his hand covers yours—steadying you.

"Slow," he reminds, voice strained. "There's no rush, love."

You bite your lip. Slightly steadier at the reassurance, working the button of his trousers loose then tugging the fabric down his hips. He lifts his arse to help, a little awkward, a whole lot eager, and then you pull his boxers to follow.

When you free him, you completely freeze.

He's big. So big.

You gulp. You imagined he would be. Ron was tall, after all. Lean. Long limbs and long fingers that made you drool—of course it meant he was big down here too. But seeing it is different from imagining it.

He's longer than he is thick, curving slightly. Blue-green veins decorating his length. His tip is an angry red, slick with a bead of moisture. And it's pretty in a way that surprises you. Your mouth waters. You feel feral.

You stare at his cock for another moment too long. Ron's ears have gone scarlet, followed by his cheeks, then his whole neck. He shifts under your gaze like he doesn't know where to put himself.

"Y/n," he says, voice strangled. "You're starin'."

You can't help it. 

"You're—" You stop. Swallow. Whisper, "You're really big."

His blush deepens impossibly. "Yeah, well. S'pose that's— that's a good thing? Or—" He winces at himself. "Sorry. That was— I'm nervous too…"

That makes you look up, meeting his eyes.

Ron Weasley was nervous. Because of you.

Your hand moves before you think, fingers wrapping tentatively around him. He's warm, and he twitches alive in your grip, a shaky breath hissing through his teeth.

"Oh." You breathe out at the sight of him. "Okay?"

"Yes." He says too quickly. "Yeah, that's— very okay."

Your hand is small around him. You can't quite close your fingers. That gap feels intimate and telling. Before you can hesitate, you pump him experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him.

Ron's head falls back against your headboard. His eyes flutter shut, lashes pretty against his flushed cheeks, and a shudder rolls through his whole frame. A sound escapes him—low, punched out, barely a breath.

"Y/n," he groans, and your name comes out wrecked.

You like that. You like watching him fall apart under your hand, the boy who made it his mission to make you laugh. A strange, heady warmth blooms in your chest, and you feel your thighs press together—slick all over again, wet and wanting despite what he just did to you.

Your thumb drags over his tip, spreading the bead of pre there. His hips jerk, a broken noise catching in his throat. His hand finds your wrist—not to stop you, just to hold on, fingers trembling.

"S'good," he manages, eyes still shut. "That's— that's so good. Where'd you learn—" He cuts himself off with a shuddering exhale. "Never mind. K-Keep goin'."

His other hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it, and he guides you down. Not pushing, but a question. A gentle pressure that says please. When you lean closer, his breath catches, and his eyes open, dark and glazed and full of you. The stunning blue you know all but gone.

You let him guide you down with a soft smile on your lips. His hand is gentle in your hair, an invitation you choose to follow.

You inhale sharply, mouth wrapping tentatively around just his tip. He's warm and hard and the taste surprises you. It's not bad at all. Almost good. Salty, faintly musky, human and him in a way that makes your stomach flip with something between nervousness and want.

Ron's breath catches. His hips twitch, a barely restrained jerk, and his fingers tighten in your hair.

"Oh fuck," he breathes shakily. "Oh, that's—"

You don't move, just holding him there, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his tip, learning the texture. He shudders, whole body trembling. You feel a bead of precum on your tongue salty and sharp.

"Y/n," he says, wrecked, and the sound of your name, broken like that, sends a pulse of heat through you. Your thighs press together beneath you, slick and aching.

His hand strokes your hair, shaky. "You can— you don't have to—" He swallows. "If you want to take more, go slow. And if you don't want to, that's— that's fine too."

But his voice is thick with wanting, and the way he says your name makes you want to give him everything.

You answer with a hum, a muffled sound that vibrates through him. It's meant as a yes, a small one, but Ron curses loudly, the word punching out of him like a hex, his hips jerking against his own control.

Encouraged, you take him deeper. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming, his thickness pressing against your tongue and then the back of your throat. You gag, a reflexive spasm that makes your eyes water, and your hands fly to his thighs, gripping the lean muscle there to steady yourself.

And then you look up.

It's the first time you've met his eyes from down here, lips stretched around his cock, tears pricking at your lashes. Ron's head is tipped back, but the moment your gaze finds his, he drops his chin, and his eyes glazed with wanting—lock onto yours.

For a long second, neither of you breathe.

His throat works. His hands, fisted in the sheets at his sides, are white knuckled. You feel the shudder run through him, the barely leashed urge to thrust into your warm little mouth. His whole body strains toward you and holds itself back with visible effort.

"Look at you," he voices, wreck. "Lookin' up at me like that. You're so—" He swallows. "So good. So bloody perfect. Doin' so well for me, Y/n."

You hum around him again, your throat easing, eyes staying on his because you want to see all his reactions.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."

You bob your head slowly, a tentative rhythm building as you take him deeper, hold it, then breathe through your nose. Your eyes are teary, glasses starting to fog with the warmth of him. You can feel the sting of it, the ache in your jaw already settling in—but you don't stop. You clench your fists against his thighs, steadying yourself, and take him as deep as you can manage swallowing down the gags that threaten to choke you.

Ron's head falls back. A moan escapes him and then it breaks into something higher, almost a whine. The sound of it shoots straight through you like a spark. You've never heard him sound like that. Ron, who's always joking, always grinning—undone, because of you.

He sounds so pretty.

You look up again, through the fog of your glasses, and he looks even prettier—head tipped back, throat working, freckles stark against flushed skin, chest heaving under his rumpled shirt. His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, every line of him straining toward restraint.

"Y/n," he chokes out, voice cracking. "Y/n, I'm— I'm not gonna last—"

His hips twitch and he groans in frustration at himself, forcing himself still. His hand finds your hair again, trembling, stroking. You rub your thighs together, and hum wanting him to cum, trying to tell him it's okay through the look in your eyes.

He shakes his head, "You don't gotta—" He swallows hard. "If you keep doing that I'm gonna—" The sentence dies into a shuddering exhale.

You don't pull off. You answer with your mouth, bobbing deeper—a promise made of heat and salt and the ache in your jaw. Ron makes a sound like he's been struck, a broken, desperate noise that vibrates through him and into you.

"Y/n—" His voice is barely there. "I can't— I'm gonna—"

You hold his gaze, tears blurring your vision, glasses fogged, and you keep going. He thinks you look so unfairly hot like this. You take him as deep as you can, and hold, breathing through your nose, throat working around him. His hands find your hair, no longer gentle, gripping, trembling with the effort of not thrusting.

He fails.

His hips jerk, once, twice, and a shudder wracks his whole frame. "I'm sorry— I'm sorry—" he chokes, but you don't pull away. You hold him there, eyes wet and wide. You let him fall apart, still inside your mouth. His cock twitches on your tongue and then he's cumming. It's warm and salty and strange, flooding your tongue, and you swallow through the shock of it, gagging slightly, but you don't pull off, swallowing every drop.

You stay with him until his grip in your hair goes slack and his body sags against the headboard, chest heaving. You pull off of him gently and he hisses at the cold air hitting him.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then his hands find your face from where you're resting on his stomach, cupping your cheeks, tilting your chin up as he catches his breath. You realize his eyes are wet too and you blush. His freckles are stark against the flush on his cheeks, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the whole world.

"Y/n," he breathes, hoarse, reverent. "You—" He laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "Merlin, I love you. I really bloody love you."

Both your eyes widen. The three words hang in the air between you. You watch the realization hit him in real time—the way his mouth opens, closes, the way the flush on his freckled face deepens to something close to panic.

"Shit. I didn't mean to say it like this—" He scrubs a hand over his face, mortified. "I meant— I was gonna do it properly, y'know. Candles, or— or a nice walk by the lake, or somethin'. Not—" He gestures vaguely at the state of you both. "Not like this."

Something in your chest aches helplessly. You wrap your arm around him, pulling yourself into his side, and your face is so hot that it feels as hot as his looks.

"I love you too, Ron." Your voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw from more than just what you just did. You say it before he can spiral any further. "I've loved you since second year."

He goes very still. Then he looks at you like you've just told him he's won the Quidditch World Cup, the lottery, and every last piece of treacle tart in the world all at once.

"Yeah?" he says, small and disbelieving.

"Yeah."

Ron's face splits into a grin so wide it's almost stupid, and he pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tight you can feel his heart hammering against your cheek. He laughs a disbelieving sound.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek, and the wonder in his eyes is the same as it was in the library four years ago—the boy who thought you hated him, who found out you were just shy, who's been trying to make you laugh ever since.

"Love you," he says again, deliberately, like he's testing the weight of it. "Love you, Y/n."