Inspired by Sabrina Carpenter arresting Joe with those fuzzy pink handcuffs, because I haven't quite moved on from it yet if i'm being truly honest
Warnings - Reader Handcuffs Steve to the bed, slightly switch/sub leaning Steve (idk what he is in this tbh), Maybe slightly dom reader? Kissing, Whiny Steve, Handjobs, Blowjobs, I think that's it but as always if there's something you want tagged then don't hesistate to shoot me a message
*not proof-read so if you saw any mistakes no you didn't :)
Word Count -1,344
*dividers by @strangergraphics
Steve Harrington Masterlist // Masterlist
The pink fuzz felt enticingly naughty on his skin as you secured each cuff around his wrists with an eager quirk of your lips. Steve pulled at his restraints, only to be met with the resounding ‘clink’ of their metal chain against the headboard.
“Just remember, this was your idea big boy, okay?” you smile, before pressing a reassuring kiss to Steve’s lips. He gets lost in the kiss for a moment, as he often tends to do, moaning slightly as he tries to slip his tongue between your lips just because kissing you is, above all else, his favourite thing to do.
Steve had never been harder than this in his whole life. Bound to the headboard of the bed by a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs, stripped down to his already tented boxers, of which the light grey material of them were darkening with an obvious spot of his keen arousal. It was a secret that had spilled from his lips one night when the both of you had gotten back from a date night a little more tipsy than either you had planned, that he had always liked it when you were on top, that it gave him the perfect vantage point with which to watch you take you pleasure from him all for yourself. The handcuffs were just the perfect icing on the cake to have him completely and utterly at your mercy.
“Trust me, Honey, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Okay, and you’re absolutely sure you don’t want me to blindfold you, because you know I picked up that nice silk blindfold I saw you eyeing up. I picked it up whilst you were picking out the cuffs you wanted..”
It’s true, the night that Steve had confessed to you about his little fantasy, you had both driven down to the little tucked away store in downtown Indianapolis where they sold all manner of sexual toys and equipment.
“Maybe we’ll save the blindfold for another time, who knows maybe I’ll even use it on you? Right now I just want to look at my pretty girl.”
And so that’s what he did. Laid back with his hands chained up to the bed frame, his bright, honey hazel brown eyes fixed on you, and just how pretty you look sat up on his hips, with his thick thighs splaying open underneath you. You’re sitting straddling him in a soft baby blue lace set that you also nabbed from the sex shop whilst Steve wasn’t looking, wanting something to surprise him with when the moment came. His eyes raked over how the delicate lace cups perfectly framed your chest, and the almost indecent and scandalously small scrap of material barely covering your pussy.
“God, you really know all the right words to make a girl blush, don't you, Harrington?” You shy slightly as you flush warmly under his praises.
“What can I say, I'm a charming sort of guy?” He laughs in that effortlessly easy and boyish way of his.
“Well, how about I charm these pants off you?”
“I thought you'd never ask.”
Quick as a flash you manoeuvre yourself to begin digging your fingers into the band of Steve’s boxers, dragging them down until he’s left flushed, and naked before you.
Settling down between Steve’s legs, your hands skating up the inside of his thighs, watching how his cock twitches with piqued interest at your exploratory touches.
You offer up your hand to his pink lips, raising your eyebrow upwards in such a way that he knows exactly what you want from him. Sure enough his lips part to let a string of drool pool into your awaiting palm, and you take your now spit-lined hand and use it to glide up the length of his cock.
The chained links of the cuffs clink as Steve pulls against his bonds, you know he wants you to put your mouth on him, his hands longing to find their way into your hair to not-so-subtly push you down to take his cock down your throat, but being frustratingly tied up.
You give him a few quick teasing pulls, gliding your fist over his sensitive, reddened tip, your thumb swiping over the gathering pool of sticky pre cum already beginning to spill from his tip.
“Honey…please…want your mouth…” He whined with an already glassy and pleading look in his hazel brown eyes.
Steve should be embarrassed about how whiny he is already, about how needy he is for you, but he isn’t ashamed in the slightest. He wants this. He wants you.
You lower your mouth on to him, swirling your tongue around the glistening mess at his tip and gliding down the length of him before swallowing down as much of his thick cock as you can. His tip bumps against the back of your throat and still there’s the few remaining inches that you have to work with a dedicated slick fist.
His hips are wriggling around, desperately trying to bury himself deeper down the back of your throat, spurred on by the salacious cacophony of sloppy sounds coming from your mouth.
Steve’s moaning shamelessly, and you hollow out your cheeks around the thick intrusion, working as much of his cock as you can, letting your tongue glide and trace over every little vein and freckle it can find. Your free hand comes between his thighs to roll his full and heavy balls, knowing that it drives him crazy to see you playing with him when he’s so completely under your control.
“..Fuck..honey..you always make me feel so fuckin’ good, swear you were made to take my cock in that perfect mouth of yours…”
You pull off him for a breathing moment, although not without hearing a little whine of disappointment from Steve first.
“Hnng..baby please..suck my dick, please I want it so bad..” he babbles, tugging at his cuffs as if he would much rather be tangling his hands into your hair, bunching your hair in a strong fist to push you back down to where he most wants you.
“Don’t worry Stevie, you’re my good boy aren’t you?” you ask coyly
Steve nods wordlessly, the floppy fringe of his luscious hair falling over his eyes.
Sweetly you kiss the softest part of the inside of his thigh.
“..And good boys deserve to come..” you smile deviously, before swallowing down his thick cock once more, stroking and sucking him until he’s on the edge of a dizzyingly delirious and earth-shatterting high.
His hips buck up from the mattress to meet your lips, practically forcing you to take his slick cock all the way down your throat, and you do so, breathing through your nose to take him down to his very base, not stopping until the coarse smattering of dark hairs tickle your nose.
And in a frantic rush of slick hands, dedicated mouths and eagerly bucking hips Steve is growling out his release, spilling hot ropes of his seed down your throat.
Pulling away from him, enough to let his slowly softening cock slip from between your lips, you swipe away the spilled dribble of cum with your finger before sucking it clean just to tease Steve.
“I think it’s about time I uncuffed you now, Stevie, you have been such a good boy for me after all.”
You free him from the cuffs, kissing the inside of each of his wrists after unlocking each one.
Once unbound by his restraints he is quick to pull you up and wrap you in his arms, kissing you with a giddy fervour, his tongue slipping between your lips as he lets slip a little moan.
“Thank you for doing this for me, Honey.”
“You don’t have to thank me for this Stevie, I liked it too, and who knows, maybe I can get you to use the cuffs on me next time?” you say leaving the question hanging in the air as you give him your best hopeful smile.
do you ever just read something that pisses you off? i was reading a fic and the author used “ofc” in dialogue…yes write whatever you want its your piece but like…
DAY ONE ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ sexy drunk phone call / steve harrington
Steve Harrington was no stranger to drunk phone calls, and every time he was drunk, he called you. He would usually yap about whatever happened to him that night, or something he saw on TV, but this time, Steve couldn’t stop talking about wanting to see you. Every sentence ended with a plea to come over. And after five minutes of talking him down from his drunk rambling, every sentence ended in a shudder or a strained ‘mhm’. It didn’t take long to realize what Steve was doing, and how needy he was being.
“C’mon baby…” he groaned. “Let me see you.” he begged, you could hear how heavy his breathing got, as if he was picking up the pace. You bit your lip. “Steve…” you started. “Honey, I have work in the morning. If I let you come over, you’ll keep me up all night.” You expressed, your cheeks burning with lust as your eyes wandered over to the clock.
A huff left Steve's lips. “Fuck baby, please.” he tried to speak, actively holding back moans just to keep your attention. “I’d do anything to see you, just stroking my cock isn’t…enough, fuck.” you could feel him speed up the pace, imagining his perfect cock twitching and pulsating for you, precum dripping from the tip, wanting to feel Steve Harrington rearrange your insides. You never knew he felt this way for you, you two were just friends, but the pet names and the moans and the need slipped past the tongue so naturally. As if you were always meant to hear him be horny for you. “I just-just wanna feel how perfect you are f’me…” he stammered.
Your eyebrow raised slightly. “You’d do anything?” you challenged.
“Anything.” Steve whimpered. “Fuck, I’d pin you down and finger-fuck you til’ you’re a-all fucked out for me, sweet girl, fuck-I-I’d spit on that pretty cunt of yours and-and press my cock up against your clit. God it must be throbbing for me right now, baby.” he rambles, already pussy drunk just thinking about the idea of you letting him come over. “Fuckin’ force my cock in you and break your pretty pussy in until you cum on it like the good girl you are. Get you sleeping just to wake you up with my cock in you. Just-just the perfect doll f’me.” his groans getting more and more intense.
You blush hard, feeling your thighs squeeze with every word that falls out of Steve's mouth, how reckless he was being with his words, how hot it was that he wanted you this bad. You bit your lip. “And what else?” you questioned. Steve chuckled softly. “Just showin’ you ho-how perfect my cock fits in you, like it’s meant to be in you, fucking you…fuck, baby, please. God I’ve never wanted someone so badly in my fucking life, please-”
You cave. “When can you get here?”
You could feel Steve smirking through the phone. He gulped. “I can take a cab there…” he suggests. “I need you, y/n. I need to kiss ‘n touch you and feel your cunt suck in my cock til you cum for me-prettiest girl I’ve ever seen-” he mumbles. “Wish you could see how hard I got just by thinking about you.” He confesses, slurring a bit. You squeeze your thighs harder as you grip tightened on the phone. “Get here, now.” you ordered.
George Weasley x fem reader (established relationship)
Summery: George has been talking about wanting a camera, so you get him one. His favorite photos, are of you, his muse.
You and George have been dating for a couple of years now, George invited you over to the burrow for Christmas your 6th year at Hogwarts. You were trying to find the perfect gift for Georgie, it was getting harder now that you have spent several holidays with him and have used up all of your best gift ideas. It took a while, just looking around, but something finally clicked. George has been talking about how he wishes he could capture the moments you two have spent together, and there is nothing better to do that with than with a camera.
…
Christmas Day*
The energy rushed around the burrow like a rocket, everyone rushing downstairs to open presents. Eventually, it started to calm down, Ron and Fred already ripped through their gifts and now it was your turn to give George his gift. You were nervous, hoping he would like it. You gave him the gift with a slight shake in your hands. “Here, I hope you like it.”
He grinned at you, in the way that made your heart skip a beat. “I know I’ll love it, it came from you and that’s meaningful enough.” He slowly started to unwrap the gift until the box was revealed. He looked up at you with shock written all over his face. Your heart dropped thinking that he didn’t like it. Then he smiled and tackled you into a hug. “Oh sweetheart, thank you. It’s too much though, this is an expensive camera.”
“It’s not too much. You just got me the best gift I have ever gotten. I wanted to give something just as meaningful. Oh I got you one more thing,” you said, handing him another gift.
“You out did yourself this year, love.” He opened the gift it reveal an empty photo album, “I think we should take our photo for our album.”
He handed the camera to Ginny, trusting she would take the best photo out of his siblings. And there it was, the first polaroid, of you and George under the Christmas tree, printed out and put into the album.
Through out the day photos were taken, family photos, photos of you and George, photos of dinner and the hot chocolate you made. There were photos of everything and anything. Molly even grabbed the camera and took a photo of you and George playing in the snow. The first two pages of the album was filled with the best Christmas you had ever had.
 George preceded to use the camera all the time. And you were his favorite thing to photograph. He had so many photos of you that he looked liked a full blown stalker. Every date you two went on, he would take a photo. But also in the simple moments he would take a picture, you sitting by the fireplace reading, your smile, you and George going to the lake together, and so many more.
…
Next summer at the burrow*
George had brought you to the lake near by the burrow. It was a hike away, but it was worth it. You and George have been here before, although you usually have the other Weasley siblings tagging along, but it never gets old, every time it feels magical. The lake looked straight out of a fairy tale, it was private and you haven’t seen anyone else there before, and the water was crystal clear. There were the most beautiful plants all around, including a stunning willow tree. The lake was a light teal to green color, it looked just as refreshing as it was.
You and George drop off your bags before running down to the water. For a while you just slashed around and playing games, then eventually you ended up floating around the lake in George’s arms. After an amazing time in the lake, it was almost time to head back and that’s when George got out, “I’ll be right back, you stay right there, okay?”
“Okay?” You were confused but just let him do his thing and decide to take this time to swim around and enjoy being in the water. In less than a minute, George was back, but this time with his beloved camera. “One would think you have enough photos of me to last you a lifetime,” you joked.
“Oh love, no amount of photos would ever be enough. You, my muse, are so painfully beautiful that I would be doing the world a disservice to not take as many pictures of you as I can.” He was cheeky with his reply, yet he was also all to serious with it as well. He truly believed that you were the most beautiful thing in the world, “ alright now just swim around like you were.”
You did just as he said, you swam around and floated on your back, and George snapped away on his camera. Even continued to take photos of you laid out on a towel in the grass.
You really didn’t think much of George taking all those photos at the time, you really just thought it was no big deal. It was cute and that was all.
…
15 years later*
You and George are now married with kids, and a whole bunch of nieces and nephews. One day your daughter stumbles upon the first photo album from years ago. Since then you and George have filled up several more. Your daughter asked to go through it with you and George, and of course your two sons wanted to join in.
That night was the first night you have looked at that album in quite some time, probably a couple of years now. So when flipping through the memories, you were brought to tears. Not sad ones of course, but ones of gratitude, you have never been so happy that you got George a camera, or that George takes photos anytime he gets a chance. Now all those little moments that you never think of got resurfaced. The day at the lake, or that first Christmas, or even just playing board games in the living room, all those memories that felt like everything at the time came rushing back.
You took a look over at George and caught his eye. You both looked at each other with so much love. You have been in love for so long, but looking at these photos reminded both you of what it was like to fall in love that very first time.
“Even after all these years, you are still my muse that keeps inspiring me,” George whisper to you, like it was oath, something sacred.
“Oh Georgie, you are our photographer that makes sure our memories are never forgotten, I love you so much.”
“I love you too, and thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the camera, for this life, for our kids, and for loving me all this time.”
You and George have had adventures and built a life and now it has been, and continues to be, documented for the family to always see what a amazing life they live.
When Fred notices you’ve taken a liking to his brother, he formulates a plan to wingman you.
CW: Gryffindor reader (sorry)/ fluff/ slow-burn for the length?
While all of your friends had moved on from their childhood crushes and found true, meaningful connections with their peers, you stayed fixated on George Weasley. Romance hadn't been something you really fed much, but you still fell asleep with fantasies of what it might be like to hold his hand.
How silly.
The older you grew, the more it seemed the girls in your year favoured Fred over George. You couldn't see why. With the same appearance, the difference lay within their words. Why anyone would ever want the loud, boisterous one seemed to escape from your mind. Even though the loud, boisterous one was your friend.
"You're holding it wrong," Fred jeered as he made an exaggerated show of your throw, letting the Quaffle nearly slip through his arms before catching it at the last second.
"I am not!" you shot back, swerving close enough to swat at his arm. "You're just rubbish at catching." In the late afternoon, you and Fred took up the Quidditch pitch, tossing a quaffle back and forth hardheartedly, floating just a few feet off the ground on your respective brooms.
Fred clutched his chest in mock horror. "Rubbish? Excuse you, I'm the best Chaser Gryffindor's ever seen."
You snorted. "That's a bold claim coming from a Beater."
"Some people are multi-talented!"
"And you're not one of them."
"What?!" Fred was taken aback in faux shock, steering his broom in a wide, offended circle. "I'll have you know, I take great offence to that. Please enlighten me about my job. What could I possibly be doing so wrong?"
"You're like three inches from the ground," You gesture to the small gap between him and the grass, his feet nearly grazing it.
"You don't even-" he started to fire back, but then his gaze flicked over your shoulder. His grin widened. "Well, well, well..."
Your broom wobbled slightly as you followed his look and saw George striding onto the pitch, bat slung casually over his shoulder. Just like that, every clever retort dried up in your throat.
Fred noticed immediately. Your silence was deafening compared to the snark you'd been throwing at him seconds ago. He smirked, tossing the Quaffle lazily from his hands into yours.
"Blimey," Fred said loudly, eyes flicking between the two of them, "She hasn't gotten off my back in an hour and all of a sudden she's got nothing to say." You glare at him, "What? Silencing charm got your tongue?"
You grip the Quaffle tighter, wishing the earth would swallow you whole. George only quirks a brow, gives Fred a bemused shake of the head, and stoops to grab the broom he'd left lying in the grass.
"Forgot whatever this is," he says simply, flashing you both a quick grin before heading back toward the castle.
You can still feel the ghost of his smile long after he's gone.
And Fred-smirking, insufferable Fred-nudges his broom closer. "So," he drawls, "Was it the devastating good looks? It's the Weasley charm. Don't worry, I'll put in a good word. Brotherly discount."
Your face burns hotter. Without thinking, you hurl the Quaffle straight at his head. It smacks him with a very satisfying thunk. His broom wobbles, then tips- and with a yell of protest, Fred tumbles right off, crashing into the grass below.
Hovering above, you can't stop the grin tugging at your mouth. "Best Chaser Gryffindor's ever seen, was it?" you call down sweetly.
"Worst friend Hogwarts has ever seen," His hand instinctively reaches for the point of impact. "And I was only going an act of kindness."
"Act of kindness," You dismount your broom, holding it in your hand, staring down at Fred on the ground.
"And if you like him so much, why don't you ever actually talk to him? He's not going to bite- well, unless you ask nicely."
Your face flares with heat. "Fred!"
He cackles, utterly delighted. "So you admit it, then?"
"I don't like him, I barely even know him, and he's a replica of you. Wouldn't want to snog you ever in my life."
"Well, now I know you're just lying," He rises to his feet. "Seriously, it's not the secret you think it is."
"What isn't?" You furrow your brows once more, acting clueless as ever.
"You think he's got the best broom-handling in the family."
"I've never said that!"
"Oh, but you thought it."
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. "Fred—"
He leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Come on. Just admit it. You like him. You've liked him for ages. I'm not that dense, contrary to popular belief."
Your chest tightens. The words are there, pressing against your tongue, but saying them feels like getting waterboarded. You shake your head stubbornly. "No."
Fred narrows his eyes, mock-serious now. "Then I suppose I'll just tell Georgie how red you went when he smiled at you earlier—"
"Fine!" The word rips out of you before you can stop it. "Fine, alright? I like him."
"Knew it. Absolutely knew it."
You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "You're unbearable."
"Unbearably brilliant," Fred corrects, sitting back up. "Now that I've got confirmation, operation Wingman is officially underway."
"I don't need you to wingman me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because I'm funny, and charismatic, oh- and I have a perfect rack."
"Define perfect." A smirk forms on his face.
"Oh, sod off."
"I'm only joking, that's no secret."
"Are you flirting with me?"
"Consider it practice," he shrugs.
"For what?"
Fred only winks. "For why you're about to owe me for the rest of your life, love."
"I hate you to death."
"I love you to life."
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The fire crackles low in the Gryffindor common room, and most students have already tucked away upstairs. You've claimed a corner table, parchment spread out in front of you, quill scratching against the page as you try to wrestle your assignment into submission.
For once, there's peace.
Until Fred drops into the chair across from you with a grin like the. deviil incarnate.
"Studying? How dreadfully boring," he says, reaching across to flip your parchment upside down. "Godric, your writing is so messy, I can barely read it."
You snatch the parchment back, glaring. "I should sew your mouth shut."
"Empty threats," Fred says cheerfully, lounging back in the chair like he owns it. "Transfiguration, not my strong suit, however," His gaze darts over your shoulder, and before you can react, his voice lifts. "Oi, George! Come here a second!"
Your stomach plummets. "Fred-
But George is already crossing the room, brow furrowed curiously. He's got ink smudges on his fingers, sleeves rolled up, he'd just come from working on something in their dorm.
"What's this about?" George asks, looking between the two of you.
Fred doesn't miss a beat. "She's stuck on her assignment. Thought my dashing brother might lend a hand." He winks at you so blatantly that you want the floor to swallow you whole.
Your quill freezes in your hand. "I didn't-
But George is already leaning down to glance at your parchment, polite and easy in a way that makes your chest ache. "What's the subject?" he asks.
George pulls up a chair next to you, close enough that you can smell him. It's like bubblegum, firewood, and gunpowder. The scent cradles you kindly, and you could almost swear your pulse was loud enough for Fred to hear across the table.
"So-" George squints at your messy scrawl. "Transfiguration theory?"
You nod stiffly, wishing your face didn't feel so hot. "McGonagall's given us an essay on the limits of Switching Spells. I can't make it sound right."
George hums, absently chewing on the end of your spare quill as his eyes scan the page. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, and you catch yourself staring at the way his hair falls into his eyes until Fred clears his throat loudly, clearly amused.
"Don't drool on her parchment, Georgie," Fred teases.
George doesn't even look up. "Don't be an arse." He's grown accustomed to this taunting. Then, pointing at one of your sentences, he leans closer to you. "Here-you've written that the spell only works if the objects are the same size, but that's not true. Remember McGonagall's example with the teacup and the tortoise? It's more about mass than dimensions."
You blink. "Oh. Right. I forgot about that."
"Easy mistake," George says kindly, sliding the parchment back to you. "Here, write it like this-'Switching Spells are limited by relative mass and complexity of structure.' That sounds fancy, and she'll like that."
You nod, scribbling it down. His thoughts make sense in a way your words didn't.
"Stunning, the most riveting conversation I've had the misfortune of hearing," Fred groans dramatically.
"No one's making you stay, y'know," Georgee glances up at him.
"Gosh, I wouldn't miss this for the world," His eyes shift between you and his brother. "Keep looking at him like that and he might think you actually enjoy his company."
George shakes his head, a slight smile on his face. "Ignore him, he lives to get under your skin."
"Trust, I'm aware."
"Uh- do you want me to go over the rest of it?"
You look across the ink-soaked parchment, then make to him, "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," George settles in properly, elbow resting on the table as he talks you through each paragraph, pointing out where you can tighten an argument or slip in another example. He's patient, explaining things in a way that makes your confusion melt into clarity, and every now and then, he throws in a joke that has you laughing despite your nerves.
There was a tranquillity with him that was unfounded with Fred. While George seemed to be a still lake, Fred was a cannonball disrupting the surface.
And you know that you will never look at bubblegum the same. That the soft scent mingled with gunpowder would guide you kindly to a gentle sleep where you imagine you lay your head upon love instead of an old feather pillow.
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The Gryffindor locker room buzzes with noise, players lacing boots, strapping on pads, and tugging on maroon jumpers. You're perched on a bench near the door, allowed to linger thanks to Fred, who insisted you'd bring them a lucky win if you came to wish them well.
You are a great deal colder than the team, arms crossed and trying to keep yourself warm. Fred insisted you wear the shirt he got you last Christmas for good luck; you were his charm.
Fred's already half-dressed, hair sticking up wildly as he yanks his jumper over his head. He throws a mischievous glance your way, then sidles up to George with a grin.
"Oi, Georgie," Fred says loudly enough for the whole room to hear, "you've got your spare, yeah?"
George frowns, pulling his broom from the rack. "Of course. Why?"
Fred jabs a thumb toward you. "Because she can't sit in the stands without proper support, can she? And my jumper's dirty- spilled pumpkin juice on it last night. She'll just have to wear yours."
"No, George. I'm fine in-
But he barrels right on, ignoring your protest. "It's only fair. You're the tidier twin. Your clothes don't reek like mine."
George blinks, caught off guard, his eyes flicking to you. For a heartbeat, you're certain he'll refuse, but then, without a word, he digs into his kit bag and pulls out a neatly folded spare jumper, still smelling faintly of fresh air and broom polish.
He tosses it your way. "Here. Better than freezing up there."
You catch it clumsily, the soft wool scratching against your hands, your heart hammering far too fast. "I don't want to ruin it-"
"It's for support," Fred interrupts, beaming. "You'll look brilliant in it. Practically family colours."
George shakes his head, but there's a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. "Just don't spill anything on it."
"Well, what do you think she's doing up there?" Fred furrows his eyebrows at his brother, "She's cheering us on, not pounding malt whiskey."
"Alright, enough out of you," He swats at his brother. The two of them sissy slapping one another. You took this as your opportunity to sneak up the stands and away from them.
"Looking good!" Lee Jordan's voice booms over the magically amplified commentary. He's already on about Gryffindor's chances, teasing Slytherin mercilessly, but you catch him glancing your way in the commentator's stand and winking.
You groan and pull the sleeves over your hands.
The players burst onto the pitch, broomsticks cutting sharp arcs through the air. The crowd erupts. Fred and George fly side by side, bats gleaming, the picture of chaotic unity. You stand with the others, cheering until your throat burns.
Fred, ever the showman, swoops lower on his broom as he circles the stands. He makes a great exaggerated gesture toward you and then deliberately elbows George, nodding in your direction.
George turns his head mid-flight, his eyes sweeping the crowd until they land on you. For a second, with the sun blazing across his hair and the wind whipping his grin into something effortless and alive, you're certain your knees might give out.
He lifts his bat in a quick salute. It's small, almost casual, but it's enough to send a surge of heat rushing through you.
Fred whoops loudly, twisting his broom into a dramatic spin, clearly milking the moment. The Gryffindor section goes wild.
The game kicks off fast. Quaffle soaring through the air, Chasers weaving like fire across the sky. The Bludgers whistle dangerously, but Fred and George are relentless, twin hammers batting them away with perfect synchronicity. You can't tear your eyes from them from George as he dives low, narrowly missing a Bludger, his movements sharp and fearless.
Every time he sends one rocketing away, the crowd roars, and you cheer with them, voice hoarse, sleeves flapping as you pump your fists in the air.
When Gryffindor scores, Fred circles back near the stands again, shouting up at you, "Lucky charm's working! Don't take it off!"
Your face burns hotter than the scarlet jumper you're clad in.
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The team's victory had pulled you all back into the common room, loud with the sounds of celebration. You are pressed into a cushy armchair by Fred, who insists this is the seat of honour, and you have earned it by being the lucky charm. Neither of these is true, but due to Fred's smugness, you don't argue.
Fred leans against one arm of the chair, a butterbeer in hand. "Don't move, you're our rabbit foot. Without you in that jumper, George would've flown straight into a goalpost."
"I thought it was the shirt you gave me last Christmas that was lucky?"
"Hmm, I dunno, that doesn't quite sound right."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met. Does that sound right?"
He shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows like he's truly confused. "No, that's not it either."
But Fred only grins wider. And just when you're about to swat him, he glances up. "Oh, look, Georgie! Over here. Thought you might want your jumper back before she claims squatter's rights."
George, fresh from the center of the crowd with hair still windswept from the match, heads over with that easy smile of his. He rakes a hand through his hair, cheeks still flushed from the cold air outside. "Not sure I want it back if it's working," he says, nodding at the jumper. His eyes flick to you, and for a heartbeat, you're certain he's teasing just you, not the whole room.
Fred sits up straighter, smirking like he's orchestrating the whole thing (because he is). "Oh, listen to him. Smooth as treacle. Don't let him fool you, he's been flying in circles to get your attention since warm-up."
George shoots him a look before turning back to you. "You're comfortable in it, yeah?"
You nod quickly. "Yeah. It's warm."
His smile softens, and he scratches the back of his neck. "Good. Then it's yours until our last game. For luck."
"I guess I have to now," You shrug. "Wouldn't want to ruin this great flying streak of yours."
"Oh, yeah?" His words are almost challenging "You think it's keeping me from crashing?"
"I know it is."
"Then don't you dare take it off," George grins.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You should've known that it wouldn't just be you and Fred going to Hogsmeade when he was being cryptically vague about the details.
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You should've known that it wouldn't just be you and Fred going to Hogsmeade when he was being cryptically vague about the details. With the first snowfall of the season, he insisted you accompany him on a trip to Hogsmeade.
George's hair looked brighter than usual against the snowy ground. He was wearing hand-knitted mittens and a scarf looped carelessly around his neck, no doubt made by Molly. Fred made up for most of the conversation between the three of you, babbling about odds andd ends within his life as well as yours.
The three of you crunch across the snowy path, your breath puffing out in clouds, the conversation remained light and teasing- mostly Fred's antics keeping things buoyant. But when the path narrows and George ends up walking close enough that your arm brushes his coat sleeve, you're suddenly very aware of every step you take.
Then, halfway down the lane, Fred smacks his forehead dramatically. "Blast! Forgot something back in the dorms. You two keep going, I'll catch up!"
"What did you forget?" You turn as his figure paces away from you.
"Something!" He calls back, "Go find us a table in the Three Broomsticks before they're all taken up!"
"Something," George mutters like he's pondering it thoroughly. "Blimey, that sounds important."
"Seems serious," You suck a breath through your teeth, looking up to George, who seemed to tower over you. "I sure hope he's all right doing something." You felt as though you were getting acclimated to George. After dipping your toes into the water, you were almost ready to dive right in.
"I hope he's not," George smiles. "Subtle he is."
"Maybe he thought I would make for better company."
"Well, I know you make for better company, it's no secret."
"Glad we're on the same page." The wind nips at your bare face, forcing you to pull your scarf tighter, nuzzling your face into it.
"I hope you're wearing my jumper under that coat." Just like Fred, his strides are so long that you struggle to keep up.
"I've got some bad news."
"Great," He exasperates. "You've just lost us the cup."
"That's all you. I've seen you knock Fred clean off his broom."
"That was an accident, a one-off."
You tilt your head, eyeing him, "Was it?"
"Accusing me of attempted murder?"
"Wouldn't put it past you," You smile, "You have that look about you."
"What look? Please elaborate in detail." George is lapping up every inch of this conversation.
"The look of... something," You snort, quickening your steps to keep pace with him.
"Something!?" He looks at you incredulously, "How you wound me." And how you wanted to do so much worse with him. "Here I was, thinking I had you utterly bewitched."
Your grin betrays you, warmth curling at the edges of your chest despite the cold wind. "Utterly annoyed, maybe. You might be more grating than Fred." Neither of you believes this statement; your lilt is much too soft for it to ring true.
"Admit it," he presses, leaning a little closer as his long strides pull him half a step ahead, forcing you to brush against his arm to stay even. "You'd be bored out of your mind without me."
You laugh under your breath, pulling your scarf higher against the chill. "You've got an awfully high opinion of yourself."
You open your mouth to fire back, but before you can, a voice cuts across the snowy lane.
"George!"
Both your heads turn. Down the path, a Ravenclaw girl is waving cheerfully, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, a knit hat pulled low over her hair. She calls his name again, her smile wide as she hurries toward the two of you.
The warmth you'd been riding falters, and suddenly the bite of the wind feels sharper. You remember, with a sinking heaviness, that George doesn't just belong to the little bubble of teasing you two slip into. Others call for him, too. Others smile like that at him. Others want his attention.
George raises a hand in greeting, grin easy and bright, before glancing sidelong at you. "Friend of yours?" you manage, voice light but thinner than before.
"Er- no, just someone in my year," he says, scratching at the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "But-" His words cut off as the girl approaches, her smile only widening.
You tug your scarf tighter, nuzzling into the wool, and try to force your own grin. But it doesn't reach your eyes. The banter, the teasing, the way it felt like maybe you were the only one who had his focus, it slips away, scattered with the snow underfoot.
And you're reminded, a little painfully, that you aren't the only one who wants George Weasley to look their way.
She smiles at you; it's a perfectly straight smile. "Hi, I'm Anya."
"Hello," You smile just slightly to be polite. It doesn't seem that she cares to be polite much further, as you are quickly cut out of the conversation. Anya slowly squeezes you off the beaten path, taking your spot as you fall behind the pair.
George will turn around, casting you a sorry expression and asking your opinion on a topic you are unwelcome in. You drag further and further behind until you finally reach Hogsmeade and split from the two.
Your feet brought you to the Three Broomsticks where you plop yourself into the corner, waiting for Fred where you told him you would be.
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Professor Flitwick's squeaky voice drones over the classroom, lecturing on the finer points of Switching Spells. Your quill scratches steadily across your parchment, trying to keep up. For once, you're actually managing to focus- until a wad of crumpled parchment bounces off your elbow.
You look sideways. Fred Weasley is grinning at you from two seats over, wand spinning idly between his fingers like he hasn't a care in the world. He mouths something.
‘Boring, isn't it?’
You wave Fred off, trying to signal that it was time for you to focus up on your work; there wasn't time to entertain his antics. But a moment later, another scrap sails your way- this one smacks you in the cheek.
"Quit it," you hiss, glancing toward the front of the room. Flitwick is busy scribbling on the board, blissfully unaware.
Fred only smirks. "Lighten up, love."
"Sod off, seriously. You can't live with me when you're struggling to find a job after failing every class."
"Who says I'm failing?" Fred nudges his brother, "I've got my brother and my best friend to cheat off of. I'm better off copying you though. Georgie's been ripping off these two, and he’s been bombing all semester," he nods towards two Slytherin girls in front of them. He's joking clearly, but the dark-haired girl shoots him the dirtiest look you've ever laid eyes on.
Before either of you can respond, a sharp, cold voice interrupts. "Professor Flitwick?"
The class quiets immediately. You glance up and see Adeline, the dark-haired girl stationed in front of the twins. Her hand is perfectly straight.
"Yes, Miss. Bellcure?" He narrows his eyes in on her.
"George is cheating off of me," She says. There's a familiar groan of irritation from several other students in class. "He just said so."
Her friend nods in confirmation, "He did."
"Godric, how old are you?" You mutter, wrinkling your nose.
"Excuse me?" Adeline turns her attention to you, her face is contorted in disgust like she can't believe the sentence you've just saiid.
"I said How old are you? Like, how many years ago were you born? When did you come out of your mother's minge?" You pick up the same condescending tone she had when reporting to the teacher, though yours is not tolerated so kindly.
"Miss! Such mockery will not be tolerated!" Professor Flitwick's tiny frame stiffens, wand raised slightly.
"Professor, I—"
"No excuses!" Flitwick squeaks, voice quivering with indignation. "You should think before you speak in the future. I don't make the rules."
"Yes, you do!" You exasperate. It seemed you had finally hit your boiling point and no longer could you hold composure. You were gripping the desk with white knuckles. "You literally make the rules!"
"And do you wish to break them again?"
Your mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. You hadn't expected this level of escalation. George groans audibly, hand hanging in his hands.
Fred, of course, is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter from the back of the room. He hadn't planned this, but it still fell perfectly into place. He brought a hand to cover his mouth to hide his twitching lips. You and George stare at him angrily, knowing he had just escaped the detention you were now subjected to.
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The dungeon air is dank and musty, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. Filch looks more exhausted than usual, eyes half-lidded, muttering to himself as he sets up two buckets filled with murky, soapy water. Your wand has been confiscated, along with George's, leaving you both armed only with rough, wooden scrubbing sponges.
"Buckets here. Sponges there. And don't even think about moving faster than I say," Filch growls, already settling into a creaky chair at the end of the corridor. "Start scrubbing."
You and George obliged, playing a silent game of lulling filch into sleep. The corridor echoes with the squelch of sponge against stone and the occasional splash as you both jab at each other playfully, turning punishment into a tournament of sorts. A few times, your hands brush in the buckets, and you both pause for a second too long, the warmth of the water and proximity making your pulse quicken.
Filch snores lightly in his chair, oblivious to the subtle war of glances, nudges, and barely-contained laughter happening right under his nose.
You scrub at the cold, grimy stone, the sponge squeaking under your pressure. The soapy water drips down your hands and onto the floor, pooling around your ankles. George is methodical beside you, his long arms making quick work of the corridor, but you can't focus.
"I can't believe it," you mutter, mostly to yourself but loud enough for George to hear. "My aunt and cousins are coming to stay for Christmas. It's going to be miserable."
George glances at you, one brow raised, sponge paused mid-stroke. "Miserable how? Are they the type to rearrange the furniture or just eat all the pudding?"
You huff, wiping suds from your sleeve. "Both. And talk non-stop. My aunt? She's a big drinker, she's gonna get drunk and take her wig off, then I've got to pretend her bald, stringy head doesn't scare the giblets out of me."
This gets a laugh out of George; he dips his head, shaking it. "Drunk and full of pudding- you'd hate to spend a Christmas with me."
"You and my aunt might just get along."
George leans a little closer as he scrubs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You think she'll let me wear her wig?"
You stop for a moment, sponge hovering in the water, and glance sideways at him. "Is that your subtle way of saying you'd like to come with me?"
"Oh, I wasn't trying to be subtle."
"Might as well ask for her hand in marriage,"
"I've gotta marry into the family somehow," He winks at you. It's teasing, joking, clearly. Still it sneaks under your skin, and you must bite to remain composed.
"I think my uncle's on the market," You pause like you're thinking it over. "He's got a gold tooth and blood pressure medication."
"Decisions, decisions..." He mutters.
You're scrubbing the same stubborn streak of grime for what feels like the hundredth time when George lets out a loud sigh, leaning on his sponge.
"You know," he says casually, as if he's talking about the weather, "if you really hate the idea of being stuck with your aunt and cousins for Christmas... you could always come home with me instead."
You freeze mid-scrub, eyes narrowing at him. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, it's warm, there's plenty of food, and I'm pretty sure Fred would've invited you anyway, so technically you'd just be... taking my offer over his."
"What's your angle?"
"None at all. This is from the pure kindness of my heart."
"You have no kindness in your heart," You quirk a brow.
"Seriously?" He mocks offend, "I'm a saint, giving you a ticket away from hell, all inclusive. None of us wear wigs, may I add."
"I've gotta maul that one over."
The last of the soapy water drips from your gloves as you slump against the stone wall, catching your breath after another round of scrubbing. George leans beside you, towel in hand, shaking some of the water from his hair. For a moment, the usual spark of teasing in his eyes softens.
"Hey... about earlier," he says quietly, voice unusually low. "I'm sorry about Anya, honest. I should've said something. You know, it felt..." He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair.
You shrug, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. "It's fine," you say lightly, letting the words sound casual even though you notice the sincerity in his tone. "Really. You can't control who bumps into us."
George hesitates, then lets out a soft sigh. "Still, I was perfectly happy when it was just us."
"It's fine, I don't care." You jab your sponge a little too hard against the stone floor, and a sudden splash of soapy water arcs up straight onto George's chest.
"Oi! My eye!" he cries, clutching his face dramatically, stumbling back a step.
You freeze, horror flooding through you. "Oh my Merlin! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
His excruciation turns into joy, a smile wide across his face, "I knew you cared."
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The first thing that hits you as you step off the small, crooked porch is the smell; a warm, homey mix of roasting chestnuts, cinnamon, and something unmistakably like Molly Weasley's perfume. The Burrow stretches before you, lopsided and charming, a towering jumble of wooden stories patched together with mismatched bricks and leaning windows that somehow seem to smile at you. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney, blending with the crisp winter air, and the faint sound of a kettle whistling floats from somewhere deep inside.
Before you can take it all in, the door swings open with a gust of warmth and laughter.
"Happy holidays!" Molly's voice wraps around you like a soft, comforting blanket. She swoops forward, pulling you into a hug so tight you feel like you're part of the house itself. "It's so good to see you! We've missed you!"
You had only been to the burrow one other time, the summer following your second year, Fred insisted you visit for the last week of summer so you could go shopping together and scheme before the semester began.
You breathe in her scent, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the Burrow sink into your bones. "Thank you for having me," you murmur, feeling the tension of the past weeks melt slightly in the coziness.
"Fred, help her with her trunks!" Molly instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Immediately, Fred bounds forward, lanky and full of energy, his hands already on the straps of your travel bag. But before he can fully lift it, a familiar voice cuts in.
"I think I've got this," George says, stepping beside him, his hand on the other side of the trunk.
You pause, eyes wide as the twins begin a subtle tug-of-war over your luggage. "You two-"
"Oh, don't mind us," Fred says with a grin, his grip firm. "We're just helping."
George rolls his eyes dramatically, tugging just enough to make Fred stumble slightly. "Helping? You call this helping?"
"Of course! Someone has to make sure the bags don't float off on their own," Fred retorts, smirking at the harmless bickering that always seems to follow him and his twin. "She's my friend."
"I invited her," George retorts.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with the warm smells of the kitchen—baking pies cooling on the windowsill, a fire crackling in the hearth, and the faint chime of silver spoons clinking in mugs of mulled cider.
George lets go with a small grunt, Fred still holding firm. "Fine, fine, we'll work together," George mutters, giving Fred a side-eye that is half annoyance, half amusement.
"You two are impossible," you say fondly, shaking your head.
Fred beams. "Welcome to the Burrow! You'll get used to it or at least, you'll get used to us."
“I was promised no drunk aunties.”
Molly claps her hands, her eyes twinkling. "Come in, come in! Tea's hot, and there's plenty of cake for everyone. Christmas isn't Christmas without a little chaos."
The three of you step inside, the warmth wrapping around you like a magical cloak, the house creaking and settling around your feet. You glance back at the snow-dusted exterior, but already, you feel right at home.
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The Burrow is quiet tonight, the usual cozy chaos stilled under a blanket of snow. The glow from the kitchen hearth spills through the crooked windows, painting golden patterns on the walls. You're just beginning to drift off, warm and drowsy, when a sharp, gleeful voice cuts through the quiet.
"Wake up!" Fred whispers into the room you had been sharing with Ginny who is still sound asleep, sprawled out upon her bed.
You groan, tugging the blankets tighter, but the sound of George shuffling in the hall beside you rouses you fully. "What?" he mutters, his voice thick with sleep.
"Come on!" Fred's distant voice echoes down the creaking stairs.
Reluctantly, you follow George, padding down the uneven steps with the faint smell of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon drifting in from the kitchen. "This is getting creepy."
"We must be haunted by the ghost of his ego," George's voice iis deeper than usual, groggy and rough from sleep. "You sleep okay?"
"I think I've got allergies, I've been up all night sneezing like- I dunno. Someone who sneezes a lot." You rub some sleep away from your eyes. Fred's voice ceased entirely, leaving you and George to stumble around in the dark searching for him.
"That's no good." George frowns. He stops beside you under the doorway, narrowing his eyes at a swinging plant hanging overhead.
There, above the worn, sagging doorway that leads to the kitchen, hangs a sprig of mistletoe, swaying gently as if teasing you.
George freezes next to you, eyes flicking from the mistletoe to your face, cheeks colouring in the warm firelight. "Fred." you whisper, voice barely audible.
He swallows, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. "Bollocks, I guess we don't have any other choice."
The warmth from the hearth, the soft glow of Christmas lights strung haphazardly along the beams, the scent of pine and fresh-baked treats- it all seems to shrink the room until it's just the two of you.
Without another word, he leans in. Your hands brush, hesitating for just a heartbeat, then slide together naturally. The world narrows to the two of you, the mistletoe swaying gently above, but somehow it feels entirely unimportant.
The kiss starts softly, shyly, then deepens with all the tension, teasing, and playful banter that's been building for weeks. His hand finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him.
When you pull back, breathless, George grins at you, cheeks pink. "Merry Christmas," he murmurs, voice low.
You laugh softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. "Merry Christmas, George."
nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
izzy806
