💭MDNI: Sleepy grinding/dry humping smut, clingy!Fred, playful and needy vibes
Morning at the Burrow never comes quietly, but today it’s muffled — distant clatter from the kitchen, someone laughing downstairs, the faint smell of toast drifting up through the crooked house.
He’s wrapped around you like he fell asleep mid-cuddle and never bothered to let go, one arm heavy across your waist, face tucked into the crook of your neck. His hair is a mess against your cheek, warm breath ghosting over your skin.
You shift slightly, testing the stiffness in your shoulder.
His grip tightens instantly.
“M’not awake,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Go back to sleep.”
You huff a quiet laugh, but you settle again, sinking back into the mattress. He makes a satisfied little sound, something soft and pleased, and noses closer like you’re the pillow he actually wanted all along.
Then you feel it — the slow, absentminded way his hips shift forward, pressing closer, like he’s chasing warmth without even realizing it. Not purposeful. Not calculated. Just sleepy instinct.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
He goes very still for half a second.
Then, instead of moving away, he drags you closer, leg hooking over yours to keep you pinned there, a lazy grin audible in his voice even with his face still buried in your neck.
“You are absolutely awake.”
His nose brushes your jaw, lips ghosting the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “Don’t sound very upset about it.”
You’re not. Not when his hands are wandering now, slow and warm, tracing the line of your waist under the blankets, pulling you flush against him like he can’t stand even an inch of space.
It’s unhurried. Uncoordinated. Soft in that way that only happens when neither of you has fully woken up yet.
Fred hums quietly, pressing a drowsy kiss to your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, like he only just realized it.
You turn your head, catching his mouth in a sleepy kiss — slow, messy, all soft lips and warm breath. He smiles into it, hand sliding up your back to hold you there.
“Five more minutes,” he whispers against your lips.
He absolutely does not mean sleep.
Fred’s grin is pure mischief, even half-hidden in your neck.
“What?” he murmurs, feeling the look you're absolutely giving him, and his hips give another slow roll that makes your breath catch. “We’re just … cuddling.”
The lie is so lazy it almost counts as honesty.
You feel him—the unmistakable press of him, hot and insistent through thin sleep-shorts—rocking right against the damp heat of your core. Each lazy rut is unhurried, like he’s savoring every inch of friction, like he’s determined to stay in that hazy place between dream and waking where everything feels too good to stop.
Your fingers find his hair, carding through the soft red mess. “Fred.”
He answers with a drowsy hum, feigning innocence while his palm slides up, warm and sure, under your shirt. He cups your breast, thumb brushing over a sensitive peak, and the sleepy smirk against your throat widens when you gasp.
“Still not doing anything,” he mutters, mouth dragging along your pulse point. The words vibrate over your skin; the next roll of his hips is slower, deeper, dragging a low whine from your chest.
“Mm-hmm.” He pinches lightly, lips curving when you arch into his hand. “Shouldn’t start name-calling this early, love. Bad manners.”
You try to shift—either away from the teasing or closer to the heat, you’re not sure—but the leg he’s hitched between yours holds you in place, forcing every subtle move to translate into more friction. His next thrust is a little harder, still measured, but need is bleeding through the syrupy pace.
“Just helping us wake up.” Another lazy rut that makes your thighs tremble. “Feels nice, yeah?”
It does. Too nice. The room is still dim, quilts twisted around your bodies, and each grind lights sparks low in your belly. He cups you more firmly, thumb circling, hips finding an easy rhythm that turns the world into slow, warm pulses of want.
“You gonna let me?” he whispers, finally lifting his head—sleep-ruffled hair, half-lidded eyes, that crooked morning grin. “Let me start your day off right?”
You nod, already breathless.
“Good girl.” His praise is soft, reverent—and the next roll of his hips makes it impossible to keep quiet. Your hand fists in the back of his shirt; his answering groan is pure satisfaction.
He keeps it gentle but relentless: palm kneading your breast, mouth scattering open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, hips rocking until you’re melting against him, every sleepy thrust dragging you closer to the edge. Outside the room, the Burrow creaks awake, but in Fred’s bed the morning belongs only to the two of you—warm fists of sheet, tangled legs, and the steady, needy push of his body into yours like he never plans to let you leave.
His hand leaves your chest only long enough to tug your sleep–shorts aside—just enough for skin to meet slick heat. The sound he makes is half-groan, half-laugh, all morning-drunk greed.
“Merlin, you’re warm,” he murmurs, rocking forward again so bare, silky friction glides exactly where you both need it. Nothing rushed—just that steady, delicious slide that turns every breath into a shaky little gasp.
You clutch the back of his neck, nails grazing sleep-warm skin. “Fred…”
“I know.” He noses along your cheek, lips brushing your ear. “Feels good, yeah? Give me a minute.” A lazy thrust punctuates the promise, dragging a moan from both of you. “Maybe two.”
A shiver ripples through you when his fingers find your nipple again, rolling gently while his hips keep that slow, rolling push-pull. Each grind sends sparks spiraling low in your belly; each pass of his thumb steals a sharper sound from your throat. Fred laps it up, humming pleased approval, mouth curving against your skin.
“That’s it, sweetheart—there you go.” The praise is husky, slurred with sleep and need. “Knew you’d be this soft for me.”
Your hips answer on instinct, meeting the next rut. The heat coils tight, and Fred’s rhythm falters—just a stutter—before he catches it and groans, forehead pressing to yours.
“Gonna make me embarrass myself,” he breathes, grinning even as his eyes flutter shut. “Can’t be blamed, though… look at you.”
He shifts, hiking your leg higher over his thigh; the angle hits perfectly—pressure sharp, perfect, again, again. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, a soft cry spilled against his mouth. Fred’s breath hitches, the smirk wiped clean by raw need.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “C’mon, let me feel you.”
Two more rolls of his hips, thumb brushing that aching spot just right, and heat snaps—white, sweet, slow-building pleasure washing through you in waves. You clutch him tight as tremors ripple, breath catching on his name. Fred’s curse is a broken rasp; he grinds through your aftershocks, hips stuttering until he follows you over the edge, burying a groan in your shoulder as he shakes apart.
Silence settles—only the soft crackle of the Burrow’s pipes and both your uneven breaths.
Fred noses your temple, lips ghosting a smile. “Best alarm clock I’ve ever had.”
You huff a laugh, boneless and warm, letting him pull you deeper beneath the covers. His arms band around you, greedy even sated.
“Five more minutes?” you mumble.
His chuckle rumbles against your chest. “We’ll make it ten. Mum can live without us a little longer.”
Outside, the day begins, but inside the tangle of quilts and freckled arms, it’s all slow heartbeat, shared heat, and the lazy promise of whatever mischief Fred dreams up next.
