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