I am a PASSIONATE commenter on fanfiction, but sometimes it slows down my reading because I don't want to read if I don't have the mental energy to leave the long comments I want to
Still, as an author, I know even a short note can mean the world.
So, I put together a little guide with different “levels” of comments, so it’s easier to leave something without overthinking!
breakfast, lunch, & dinner are the three important meals everyone should have in a day! but… ron’s a hungry guy. his hunger for sweet treats translates to that constant hunger in bed for a fourth meal—a sweet taste of what’s in between his girlfriends thighs!
𝒯ags/warnings : porn + plot. 18+ minors do not interact. shy!reader, picky eater!reader (mostly since she has a bunch of allergies), head girl!reader, nerd!reader, reader wears glasses, fluff + comfort, ron’s a sweetheart. soft dom!ron, fingering, oral (both recieving), readers first time giving a blowjob, praise kink, L bomb
𝒲ord count : 5.9k
𝒜uthors note : my first fic on this account!! i was planning to have a 15k+ cedric fic out first but this sidetracked me heheh
The library at this hour is a graveyard of ambition filled with the scratch of quills. You've claimed your usual corner table with the good light, a stack of Transfiguration texts rising like a fortress around your parchment. Hermione marches in with Harry and Ron in tow, her voice carrying.
"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 this time, testing the weight of it. "Love you, Y/n."
if you reached the end and enjoyed don’t forgot to comment and reblog to keep the fandom alive <3
summary: you seem to have fallen for your best friend, which you could handle if only he didn’t constantly touch you
word count: 3.2k
masterlist
It was official: you were stupid.
Only a complete idiot would fall for their best mate and here you’ve gone and done it. Because there was no other explanation for this feeling in your stomach as you looked across the Great Hall and watched Fred Weasley tell some stupid joke to his friends and wishing nothing more than to be the one he told the joke to.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here; just earlier today, Snape had given him detention.
While working on the assigned potion, he decided to mix things up to make you laugh after your bad day.
Before class started Snape decided to ruin the day and give everyone’s essays back. You flunked. Hard. After a big explosion and an awful lecture from Snape, any of Fred’s afternoon plans were ruined. For you.
You stood there, frozen in shock, trying to figure out how to go on with your life from here.
But how could you? This realization felt like the worst thing that’s ever happened to you—right after becoming friends with Fred Weasley himself.
You must’ve stood frozen in place for too long because he caught your eye and was now waving you over with his typical charming smile while the people around him were continuing their conversation, oblivious to the turmoil inside you. You briefly considered turning around and running away, but you decided against it. That would make this situation even more awkward than it already was.
Taking a deep breath and mustering a wobbly smile, you made your way over to the Gryffindor table. You exchanged greetings with your friends and headed toward a seat, hoping to get as far away from Fred as you could. But, of course, Fred had other plans. With a grin, he shoved Lee aside and proudly declared the seat next to him as free.
Bloody hell, he was making it hard for you. It’s as if he knew and wanted to torture you now that you had finally realized your true feelings. Feelings that didn’t actually exist; denial was your new best friend.
With no other choice, other than making this one hell of an uncomfortable situation for everyone, you reluctantly sat down next to him, trying to put as much distance between you two as possible.
But to no avail. As soon as you sat down Fred swung his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him. “Thank Merlin you’re here. Could you be a darling and tell our idiotic friends that Snape does in fact secretly love me and that is the only reason he so often chooses to see me after class?”
‘Darling’ and ‘secretly loves me’, seemed to be the only thing your brain registered, not to mention that arm still wrapped around you. Has he always been this physically affectionate with you? It was hard to remember because Fred was looking at you expectantly as if he were waiting for something and…
Finally, your brain catches up, “Oh, that my dear Fred, is what we call detention. And wouldn't you know it, you're supposed to be there... like right now!" You playfully glanced at your imaginary wristwatch.
You could practically see the second he realized you were right. In a hurry, he jumped up from his seat and snatched the last food from his plate. But there was something important he seemed to have forgotten.
With a grin, you asked him, "Aren't you forgetting something?" Confusion washed over his face as he turned back to the table, searching for what he had missed, not finding anything. After a brief moment, he leaned down and surprised you with a kiss on your cheek. Speechless and mouth agape, you watched as the rest of the table erupted in snickers.
"You git!" you exclaimed, feeling your cheeks burn. "I meant your wand!"
Instead of being flustered like you, Fred found the whole situation hilarious. He joined in laughter with his friends and sent you a playful wink. With a glint in his eye, he swiftly retrieved his wand and innocently exclaimed, "Oops!" before making a speedy exit from the Great Hall.
Still trying to process what just happened, you turned to your friends, hoping they could provide the distraction and peace of mind you desperately needed.
Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, George decided to torture you. With a grin, he leaned in and asked if you've figured it out yet. Your whole body tensed up, and you found yourself desperately wishing for an escape.
In your horrified state, you managed to stammer out a weak, "W-What?" The anticipation of his response hung heavy in the air, and you braced yourself for the worst.
George burst into laughter, which echoed through the Great Hall, making everything feel ten times worse. You couldn’t help but feel exposed, as if your deepest secrets were on display for everyone to see.
Through his laughter, George managed to squeeze out, "Bloody hell. Looks like someone forgot the essay for McGonagall that's due tomorrow."
You breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that he had no idea. How could he? You yourself just figured it out. And you’d do anything to keep it that way. You won’t tell a soul about any of it and just pretend that things were normal.
✧
How naive could you be? How in your right mind could you ever think that keeping this from Fred was a possibility?
He knew you better than you knew yourself.
No matter how hard you tried to keep things like always it just wouldn’t go your way. First everything was completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. You two would banter and share jokes. But as soon as he touched you in any way you panicked and run away from him.
You hadn’t realized how often he reached for you. It apparently had become like second nature for him.
At first you noticed the small touches, like accidentally bumping shoulders while walking together or him gently tapping your arm to get your attention.
But it was the larger gestures that pushed you to your breaking point, stirring up your traitorous heart even more. Like when he reached out and grabbed your hand in the bustling crowd of students during a visit to Hogsmead.
But the absolute worst was when he would slide in next to you, casually drape his arm around your shoulder and pull you close, all while effortlessly engaging in conversation with someone else. And what made it even more unbearable was that no one seemed to bat an eye. It was as if this physical closeness was an unspoken agreement between the two of you, that no one remembered to inform you about.
But as much as you tried to subtly keep your distance you could tell that Fred knew something was wrong. He saw it in the way you would purposefully choose to sit the furthest away from him even when the seat next to him was unoccupied.
You saw the confusion in his eyes when you started to avoid going to Hogsmead with the excuse of finishing your school work. He knew that this was never something that stopped you from spending time with him or your friends.
Since that first year you met Fred on the train, he’d been a constant presence in your life. You stumbled upon Fred and George pulling a prank on their older brother Percy. Instead of telling on them, you decided to join in on the mischief. As a result, Percy ended up with boils all over his face. From that moment on, you and Fred became inseparable. So, when you suddenly started pulling away without any explanation, it felt like the most awful thing you could do to him.
And you could tell that it was hurting Fred too. He wasn't the type to wear his heart on his sleeve; in fact, quite the opposite. But after all the years you've known him, you were priding yourself on understanding him better than most people in his life. He would never outright admit it, but your actions were causing him pain.
He would extend his hand, reach out, but as soon as he noticed that you turned away from him, he would pull back. In that fleeting moment, you could see the hurt and confusion reflected in his eyes, mirroring the hurt you were experiencing.
He even attempted to talk about it once. Normally, he would rely on laughter to uplift your spirits rather than delve into the realm of emotions. So when he approached you before your class, specifically to ask if you were okay, it created an awkward conversation for the both of you. All you could do was promise him, that if anything was wrong, you’d tell him.
What a lie.
His genuine concern shattered your heart. But it wasn't just him who could sense that something was off. You noticed how your friends would exchange worried glances every time you came up with a new excuse to avoid spending time with Fred.
Being around him became an unbearable risk, fearing that he might somehow discover your true feelings for him. It wasn’t just a simple crush; your feelings ran deeper, more intense.
Every time you witnessed his infectious laughter or his ability to light up the entire room with his jokes, a swarm of butterflies erupted in your stomach, consuming you from within. The guilt of keeping such a significant secret from him and the rest of your friends gnawed at you. But the thought of confessing your feelings and potentially jeopardizing everything held you back.
It has gotten to the point where you chose to spend your free time in the library. You knew that he would never step foot inside of it. So this place became your sanctuary.
But you should’ve known better. Fred Weasley may not be an overly emotional person but he was stubborn to no end.
One night after dinner, that ended with you leaving the table as soon as possible and an excuse, truthful this time, to do your unfinished homework you returned to the only place that felt safe from Fred.
There were only a few students left in the library. You grabbed your Charms Book and settled into a quiet corner, hoping to review your homework for Professor Flitwick.
But your silence was soon disturbed by the one person you wanted to avoid. Which was not entirely true.
The situation hurt, but you couldn’t help wanting to see him — even if only from afar.
Fred appeared to be searching for you because the moment your eyes met, he marched over to where you were sitting.
"Back to doing homework, huh?" he asked, glancing at your table.
"Actually, yes," you replied honestly.
“Oi, sod off. I know you mostly just sit here doing nothing — Lee saw you, you know?” he said.
“I don’t know what Lee thinks he saw but that’s not the truth. This is a library. I study,” you argued.
“Listen, I know you’ve been avoiding me. And I have no idea what I could’ve done. You’ve been blowing me off left and right. You’re being pretty obvious and I think it’s time we had this discussion.”
You stared at him, eyes wide open. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I already told you, everything is fine.”
“Come off it! We’ve been friends for years and I know when something’s off. You’ve been avoiding me and you have been for weeks. I’m done pretending like I don’t know that. And things aren’t fine since you won’t tell me what it is. What’s this really about?” his voice was low, but you could feel his anger seeping through.
But you couldn’t tell him; too much was at stake. You’d lose your best friend. Even the thought alone was too much to bear.
“Fred, please. I just… I can’t explain it to you,” you pleaded.
“Why the hell not? I’m your friend!” You appreciated his concern, but his persistence was becoming overwhelming. “If everything truly was fine you wouldn’t be hiding here all the time! What’s going on?” he demanded, clearly just wanting answers, answers you couldn’t give him.
“I really can’t tell you. Please, I’m begging you, let it go.” Keeping this from him was killing you. You felt awful holding this secret from him. Deep inside you entertained the notion that he felt the same, but doubts held you back. It was pain-filled hiding something so important from a person that meant so much to you. You wished that he felt the same way, but fear gripped you tight.
Fred's anger was palpable, evident from the fury etched on his face. Madam Pince was shooting both of you disapproving glances. You secretly hoped that she would kick you out, giving you an excuse to escape this conversation.
“No, I’m not giving up. I deserve answers and I’m not leaving until I get them, understood?” He defiantly took a seat right in front of you.
You remained silent, refusing to speak another word. The more he pushed, the harder it became to keep this from him.
“I’ve got all night. Nowhere else to be,” he stated, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. Still refusing to speak, you turned your attention back to your essay, hoping he would eventually relent.
After a few minutes, he broke the silence. His voice now calm and his expression blank. No trace of anger or irritation. It almost seemed like he had come to accept the situation.
“Maybe this is for the best. You clearly don’t want to talk to me, so I’ll guess I won’t bother you anymore,” he said in a monotone voice, before he abruptly stood up and started to walk away, not looking back once.
Hot panic was surging through your veins and in an instant you jumped up, to go after him. Realizing that you were about to lose him either way, you took a chance.
“I like you!” The words echoed through the quiet library, their volume seemingly too loud for the stillness around you. He paused in his tracks, but didn't turn around. Unable to see his reaction, you continued, thinking maybe it was better this way, shielded from the potential disgust his face might reveal.
"I like you, and I'm really sorry, okay? I just need some time to sort things out and get over these feelings. I promise, but right now, I can't be around you. Not right now. That's why I've been avoiding you. Please, please don't hate me," with every word, your desperation spilled out, raw and unfiltered, while your eyes began to burn.
As Fred slowly turned around, his expression was unreadable, and it felt like everything was falling apart. Immediate regret was filling you up. Maybe, if you would’ve stayed silent and kept on ignoring what was going on inside of you, there would have been a chance to mend the friendship later on. But now, it felt like it might be too late.
“You like me?” he asked, his voice filled with bewilderment.
“Please, don’t make me say it again,” you pleaded, feeling overwhelmed by the situation.
His expression slowly transformed into a wide smile, "You're not kidding. You actually like me?"
Confused and feeling a sense of panic, you asked, "Why are you smiling at me like that?"
Fred's grin widened, making him look like a complete idiot, "I can't control it. You've just made me the happiest person in the world. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been hoping to hear those words?"
Silence filled the air. Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"
“I like you too, I was just waiting for you to catch up,” he confessed with a soft grin, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck.
"So, that's why you were always touching me?" you asked, trying to make sense of it all.
He let out a loud laugh, quickly quieted by a stern look from Madam Pince. He sent her an apologetic smile before refocusing on you and speaking in a hushed tone.
"And here I thought I was being smooth about it. I've been trying to let you know for a while now, actually."
“Bloody hell. You mean you felt the same all this time? Why on earth didn't you say anything?" You were in disbelief, feeling like you were in a dream. Maybe you had dozed off while reading about The History and Evolution of Enchantments and Charms Throughout the Ages.
"Well, why didn't you?" he asked.
"You've got me there," you said with a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground. After a moment of silence, you glanced up and saw him smiling softly at you.
"So... what's the plan now?" you asked, seeking some clarity.
"You like me, I like you. It's pretty clear, isn't it?" he responded.
You squinted your eyes at him, still not fully convinced.
"Now I can touch you as much as I want, and you can't escape anymore," he said with a mischievous grin, taking a step closer until he stood right in front of you.
"Oh, Merlin. You're a git," you exclaimed, unable to hold back a laugh. "Why on earth do I like you again?"
“Because I’m just that irresistible, obviously,” he laughed, joining in with you.
You placed your hand on his chest and playfully gave him a nudge. But before you could pull away, he surprised you by grabbing your hand. As you looked down at his hand enveloping yours, he posed a question. "So, about you admitting you like me... do you wanna back that up with a kiss?"
"Mhm, I'll have to think about that," you teased, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if you deserve it, to be honest."
He grinned cheekily and retorted, "Oh, I definitely deserve it. What have I ever done to not deserve it?"
“Let’s try and remember. Just last week you-”
As you were about to list all the things he had done, he surprised you again by silencing your words with a passionate kiss. In that moment, your thoughts faded into insignificance, consumed by the intensity of the kiss. His hand gently caressed your cheek, deepening the connection between you. Your emotions were running wild, and it felt as if your body was ablaze.
After a moment or an hour, he pulled back, and you took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. Opening your eyes, you gazed up at him.
"Sorry, I interrupted you. What were you saying?" he asked, his playful tone laced with a hint of mischief.
“I can’t remember,” you murmured, connecting your lips with his once more.
You’d been wrong all along—falling for your best friend might have been the best idea of all.
Includes: !readers is a virgin, Ron has some experience, first time together, getting talked thru it, size kink?, PiV, praise, sight exhibitionism maybe idk
W/c: ~1.5k
Ron invited you to stay the two month summer break with him and his family. Spending time outside of the school together was something that the two of you have bearly ever done. Sure you’ve been at Hogsmeade together but never spent a break together. But Molly insisted that everyone would be happy to have you stay with them over the summer. So here you were.
After everyone brought their stuff into their rooms and everything got organized a few got started on cooking dinner. While Mrs‘ Weasley puts together something in a big pot you and Ginny chop up some vegetables. It all just feels like home, like you’ve been there before so many times. They were all so nice and welcoming to you.
From the moment Ron introduced you as his new girlfriend everyone just treated you like family. It was a nice change from what you were used to.
After the food was put on the table and everyone sat down and started eating the atmosphere became a little more relaxed. Everyone was busy chatting and enjoying the food. You look over to your right and see Ron shoving food into his mouth. You laugh softly and mouth a quick „thanks“. He smiles back at you and then continues eating.
It’s around two hours later, the sun is just setting as Ron shuts the door behind him after stepping into his room after you. The room is small but cozy and warm. You’ve been in there earlier when you brought your stuff in. Both Fred and George shot their brother this kinda smirk. You didn’t notice but he sure as hell did.
He knew the second you and him met that his brothers would tease him none stop. And they did. Either with comments only he heard or the grins on their faces. But he was the one with the girlfriend. He was the winner this time.
So after the rest of the house quiet down and everyone settled into their rooms you and Ron got into bed too. It’s not like it was the first time you and him were this close. Of course you kissed and cuddled but the air was never like this. It was intimate and just calm overall. You enjoy having him so close, smelling him, feeling the warmth of his body.
You set down your hair clip on the floor beside his bed and then turn around to face Ron who’s propped up on his elbow. He has this look in his eyes as he reaches out with two fingers to guide your face towards his. His lips meet yours, soft at first but as his tongue slips past yours lips he starts to deepen and intensify the kiss. His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you close.
He moves his body over yours, not breaking the kiss for a second until he’s on top of you. Legs on either side of your body and one hand beside your head to support himself. He lifts his head just so much to look into your eyes. „You- can I?“ he asks as he already tugs at the hem of your shirt. You don’t think for a second and just nod. His warm fingers come against your skin as he lifts your shirt and helps you out of it, leaving you in your bra and pants.
The pants you get rid of just a second later yourself before he even asks. You’re still laying under him when you watch him discharge his own shirt and dipping down to catch your lips between his again. The kiss is warm, but the warmth radiating of your body feels as hot as the sun.
It’s perfect, just like you imagined your first time. Not rushed, no one there to interrupt and with the guy you love more then anything. And he’s perfect too, so careful with you. You knew from the beginning of your relationship on that he’s been with girls before and he knew that he was your first boyfriend ever. There was something about that he loved, being the first guys that gets to see you like this.
And it makes it easier for you, that he knows what he’s doing. That you don’t have to do much, you don’t have to overthink every move you make.
You arch your back off the bed to make it easier for his to unclasp the clasp of your bra, he pulls it off your chest and for a moment he just looks at your chest but then up into your eyes again. „fucking perfect“. And he means it. Everything about you just screams perfection.
He places open mouthed kisses along your neck and down over your chest, he lets his tongue swirl over your nipple while his eyes stay on your face, he wants to see every reaction he gets out of you.
Ron pushes himself up again and starts to unbuckle his pants. You keep your eyes on his face but just for a second they trail down and the little glimpse you catch of his dick makes your breath hitch a little. He of course notices and leans down again. „We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to okay? We can stop anytime. It’s not gonna be awkward or uncomfortable.“ he reassures you. And you know that. You spoke to him about all of that and that’s another reason why you love you so much, because he always respects your boundaries.
„I know, I’d tell but but it’s perfect right now“ you assure him and after adjusting a little more and pulling his blanket over the both of you he lines himself up with you. He places his hands on either side of you again and slowly moves his hips forward. Not rough, not forceful just slow and steady. Your mouth opens and you choke on a moan. „It’s okay I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for me yea?“ he praises and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. You nod and after a moment of just letting you adjust he moves deeper.
The stretch burns a little, but it’s that good kind of pain, he moves his hips until he’s fully buried inside of you. With your arms wrapped around his neck you hold onto him with everything you’ve got. To ground yourself and to make sure that he’s still there.
He gives you another second to adjust. „God you’re tight. You okay?“ he asks again. „Yeah mhmm-“ you answer and nod at the same time. Ron then starts to move slowly. He’s using all of his willpower right not but he’s keeping it together just for you. After letting you get used to the stretch he builds up some pace.
You still got your arms wrapped around his neck and hold onto him as he’s now thrusting into you a little faster. He’s still so gentle with you and you know how bad he wants you.
You can’t help but let a few moans still past your lips even tho you’re trying so hard to keep it together. You don’t want his family to hear of course. But Ron on the other hand feels like he needs to prove to his brother that he’s not the stupid kid they always teased anymore. Deep deep down he wants them to hear you maybe a little bit.
„You’re s-so pretty like this. I love you so much. Love how you’re taking me so good“ you’d love to respond to his praise but heaving him so deep inside you basically just turns your brain into mush. While he goes on to place kisses all over your upper body one of his hands travel down between your legs to find your clit.
He rets his hand a little above and uses his thumb to draw tight circles over the sensitive nub. It feels like fireworks exploding, and of course you’ve touched yourself before but it never felt like this. Every move he makes feels like electric shock waves are getting sent thru your body.
„Hmm you like that?“ he asks even tho he can clearly see the answer written all over your face. It only takes a few more thrusts to sent you over the edge. The moment you come he hold you a little closer and pushes a little deeper into you. With a final thrust he finishes too, for a second after he stops moving the both of you just stay like this. Breathing heavily and holding into each other.
The next day as you and Ron walk downstairs into the kitchen to eat breakfast with the rest of the family the twins give you this knowing look. You turn to Ron, about to say something about being worried that they might’ve heard you but he just wraps his arm around your waist and places a kiss on your lips.
"Lost match, mild concussion" Harry Potter x reader
Summary: Harry gets injured during a Quidditch match, and you, Ron, and Hermione pay him a visit in the hospital wing.
English isn't my first language, so there might be some mistakes!
I'd appreciate any kind of feedback!!
────୨ৎ────
It all happened so fast. One moment Harry was up in the air, confident and ecstatic as he just caught the snitch after long minutes of searching for it. The next one, his broom started to wobble and before anyone could help him, he was falling.
He hit the ground of Quidditch pitch with a deafening thud.
For a moment it was eerily quiet. Everyone seemed to hold their breath in anticipation, eyes fixed on Harry's unconscious form and his now destroyed broom. Then, terrified screams erupted, filling the pitch with pure chaos.
"Is he alive?"
"No!"
"Of course he is, you idiot!"
Hermione was standing behind you, her hands clasped over her mouth, with a look of pure terror on her face. Ron was next to her, desperately tugging on her arm, trying to make her move. People were moving out of the stands quickly — everyone wanted to see Harry with their own eyes. It wouldn't take much to ram her and eventually hurt her.
Ron turned around, wanting to grab you, too, but you were already sprinting down the stairs. You were impatient, pushing past the crowd with no care for their well-being. The only thing that mattered to you was Harry.
Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape were already there, hiding Harry from the public's eye. Everyone was chattering, their voices hushed and frantic — in your head, none of their words made sense. Your ears were ringing painfully from all the noise around you.
"Prefects, take students back to the castle!" The headmaster's voice cut through the air, loud and powerful. A grimace crossed the faces of some of the students, but they didn't object and went after their Prefects to the building.
Professor McGonagall looked at you when you approached. Your lips were blood-stained from biting and you were shaking, both from the rain cascading down your face and body, and fear — it was a pitiful sight, really.
"You can't be here." The woman said sternly. She put her hand on your arm, her eyes softening only for a moment, before getting back to their usual coldness. "We'll take care of Mr Potter."
"But professor..."
When you finally got a glimpse of Harry, his limbs twisted in an almost grotesque way, your knees buckled and if it wasn't for Ron, you'd collapse on the hard, cold ground of the pitch. His broom was destroyed – his beloved item had become a huge pile of splintered wood and nothing else in a matter of seconds.
McGonagall's face softened once more.
She might have been strict at times, but she wasn't heartless or indifferent to students' pain – especially the ones, who belonged to her house, like you and Harry.
But rules were rules. Professor McGonagall didn't take disobeying them lightly.
You wouldn't be much of help here anyway.
"No buts. You'll get notified once Mr Potter is stable enough to get visitors. Mr Weasley, please take your friend back to the castle."
Ron nodded and with Hermione's help they started steering you out of the slippery pitch and back into the warm castle, exchanging hopeless glances between themselves.
They didn't know who they were more worried for – you or Harry.
On your way back to the castle, you encountered Professor Lupin, who was kind enough to give you his last bar of chocolate and assure you that Harry would be just fine.
But it wasn't enough to comfort you.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Time couldn't move slower. You could swear that a few hours had already passed since the incident on the pitch, but when you glanced at the watch on your wrist, you realised only a few minutes had ticked by.
The couch in the common room was never more uncomfortable than now.
"You know Harry." Ron, who was sitting on your right side, nudged you with his elbow. "He's tough. How many times has he almost died? Two?"
"You're not helping, Ron," Hermione said, giving him a hard glare. Ron rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything more, letting her take charge of the situation. "Do you need anything? Tea, maybe?" Hermione asked, directing her attention from her not-so-helpful friend back to you. Her brown eyes were soft as she looked at you.
"Thanks, Hermione, but no. I just want to know if he's okay."
Hermione nodded. Sympathy was written all over her face. "I'm sure he is."
Some time ago Professor McGonagall had sent you a note in which she said that Percy would be the one to notify you about Harry's state. It was an obvious choice, since the older Weasley was one of the Gryffindor Prefects.
Because of that, you couldn't stop yourself from glancing nervously at the entrance to the common room, expecting him to show up with the news any moment. Your heart would stop beating for a second every time you saw someone with a head full of ginger hair entering the room. How big was your disappointment when you realised it wasn't Percy, but Fred and George or any other student with that specific hair colour.
When he finally showed up, pompous as always, you abruptly stood up from the couch and approached him before any of your friends could stop you.
"Have you got any news about Harry, Percy? You asked the boy. He gave you an unpleasant look – like you were an annoying fly he couldn't get rid of. It was nothing new, though. Percy was never really pleasant to be around.
"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't, would I?" You didn't see Ron, but you could swear he rolled his eyes at his older brother's rude words. "Professor McGonagall said you can visit Harry if you like."
You exhaled, relieved like never before in your life. You were so happy you wanted to hug Percy. You had to physically restrain yourself from doing so – you didn't think he'd enjoy your affection.
"Thank you, Percy!"
"You're welcome."
You turned around and grabbed your friends' hands, starting to drag them out of the common room. They didn't protest. They knew how important it was for you.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"Merlin, Harry," was the first thing you said after seeing your boyfriend in a hospital bed, looking fragile and small. You saw him during his bad moments – sick, heartbroken or enraged – but never like that.
"You know how to make a boy feel better." Harry slurred out, his eyes fluttering open just for a moment before closing again, like he wasn't able to keep them open for longer than a few seconds.
Madame Pomfrey informed you that Harry had been given a few healing potions not long ago, so he might be a bit dazed. But sick or not, he could never stop being sassy – like father, like son, you could say.
You, Ron and Hermione sat on both sides of Harry's bed.
"How are you feeling?" You asked, grabbing Harry's hand, which was covered with a bandage, now soaked with old blood. You tried your best to ignore Ron's and Hermione's pregnant looks, as well as the warmth rapidly spreading over your face and neck.
"Fantastic. Never felt better." Harry smiled lazily, forcing his eyes open once again. He didn't have his glasses on and was now squinting, trying to see you despite the blurriness in his eyes. "I can't see you."
"Oh really?" You teased, taking his glasses from the bedside table and pushing them onto his face. Harry blinked a couple of times, willing the blurriness to go away, before focusing his gaze on you. "Better?"
"Have you cut your hair?"
You raised your eyebrows in confusion.
"Why on earth would i cut my hair, Harry?"
"You look...different." Harry mumbled, scratching his head in thought. "Pretty."
"Harry, you're delirious," Ron said, unable to hide his grin at his best friend's ridiculousness. Hermione slapped his arm, but even she wasn't able to stop the smile from forming on her face.
Harry's gaze moved to the left side of his bed, where Ron and Hermione were seated on two chairs. His eyebrows shot up, like he hadn't noticed that they were here too. He tilted his head to the side, studying his friends closely.
"What are you doing here?"
Ron shook his head and Hermione giggled quietly.
Harry was really delirious. Way more than any of you expected before coming here.
"How many potions had they given you?" Hermione asked, looking at his bedside table where Madame Pomfrey had put a few bottles, all of them with different liquids inside.
"I don't know." Harry shrugged his shoulders, clueless. "Four or five? Maybe six."
"That's a lot."
Harry nodded but didn't say anything more. His head hit the fluffy pillows, and he closed his eyes again. For a moment, it was silent, and the three of you were sure he had fallen asleep, clearly wrecked after the amount of medication he was given. His breathing had slowed down. The only sound present in the room was Madame Pomfrey scribbling as she continued filling out the medical reports at her desk.
You reached out to take off his glasses, so he wouldn't accidentally break them or hurt himself, when his eyes snapped open again, and he caught your wrist in his hand. You gasped.
"Merlin, Harry," you breathed out. "You scared me. Again."
Harry's green eyes were wide as he glanced up at you with a confused expression. Then, his confusion gave way to his usual smugness.
You didn't know how many potions Madame Pomfrey had actually given him, but they made Harry experience some really big mood swings.
"Will you go out with me?" He asked, looking back and forth between your face and your hand still in his weak grasp. He paid no attention to Ron and Hermione, who were genuinely entertained by whatever he was doing at the moment.
You tried to stifle a laugh. You rarely got the chance to see him like that.
"Harry, we're already dating."
"We are?" His eyes widened behind his glasses.
"Yes," you nodded with a stupid smile. "We definitely are."
"And you're not lying to me?"
"No."
"I wish Fred and George could see it," Ron said to Hermione, not even bothering to stop laughing at his best friend's antics.
"Wow. I'm in a relationship," Harry mumbled to himself. Then he tugged on your wrist, bringing you closer. Soon enough, your faces were just inches apart. You could feel his warm breath ghosting over your face. "Can they leave? I want only you here."
"That's rude, Harry," you whispered back, resting your free hand on his cheek. He had a few scratches here and there, but nothing that serious. "They want to talk with you, too."
"I don't care."
Ron cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable by your sudden display of affection. Hermione only watched you with a small smile.
You straightened back up, letting go of Harry's hand – he was obviously very unhappy about it – and looked at your friends.
"Um, could you leave us alone?"
"What? Why?" Ron was baffled.
Hermione was the one who took the hint immediately. She elbowed Ron in the ribs. Hard.
"Hey!" Ron yelped, massaging his ribs with an offended expression. "What was that for?"
"Come on, Ron. We can visit Harry after dinner." Hermione winked at you and stood up from the squeaky chair. She looked down at Ron, who was very adamant about staying. He folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs. He was being difficult on purpose.
"But..."
"Ron," Hermione warned, and at her firm tone, the boy immediately relented. He stood up with an exaggerated sigh. "See you later, Harry."
"Bye, Hermione. Bye, Ron."
You watched them go. When the door closed with a quiet click and you were left alone, you looked back at Harry. Judging by his hazy eyes and goofy smile it didn't seem like he would come around anytime soon. A head injury and a copious amount of medication he had to take wasn't the best combination.
Your hand found Harry's.
"Happy now?"
"Very."
His team didn't won this time.
He got injured and most likely would have to spend a couple of nights in the hospital wing.
You would probably have to make notes for him in classes and help him with his homework.
But as long as he was going to be fine, none of it mattered.
"You're really pretty, you know? I can't believe we're together."
english isn’t my first, Implied Intimacy, Slow Burn Romance, Brother’s Best Friend
── ✦ ──
There were three unspoken rules in the Zabini household:
Firstly: Don’t touch Mum’s wine glasses. Secondly : Don’t ask about the family business. And Thirdly Don’t flirt with Theodore Nott.
That third one…
Was Blaise’s personal commandment. One he gave you when you were fourteen and he caught you staring too long at Theo during a summer party. “Stay away from Nott,” he said sharply. “He’s trouble.”
You believed him. Until Theo started smiling at you like he wanted to be your trouble.
It started small.
He came over during the holidays to see Blaise and greeted you with a “Zabini” that sounded more like temptation than a surname.
At Hogwarts, he passed you in the corridors and whispered things like: “Nice earrings.” “You dropped this… unless it’s mine now.” “You always smell like strawberries. Is that on purpose?”
It was maddening.
The slow burn. The teasing. The fact that he never actually made a move… but made sure you knew he could.
One night, you found him outside the common room. Late. Alone.
You were wearing an oversized Slytherin jumper, hair messy, a book clutched to your chest. “Studying?” he asked, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. You nodded.
“Cute,” he said with a lazy smile. “Didn’t have you pegged as the academic type.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And what type do you think I am?”
He tilted his head slightly. “The dangerous kind. The kind I shouldn’t like.” Your stomach flipped. Then he walked away like nothing had happened. You never talked about it.
Not when he sat next to you in the library a week later and read over your shoulder, chin in hand, watching your lips more than the book.
Not when he pulled you into an empty corridor after Charms just to say: “Tell Blaise to stop threatening me. I’m not scared of him.”
Not when you caught him watching you from across the Great Hall like he already imagined what you’d look like undressed.
No, you didn’t talk about it. Because Theodore Nott was your brother’s best friend. And this was reckless.
Then came the party. Slytherin dorms. Loud music. Way too much firewhisky. Blaise had vanished somewhere with Malfoy.
And Theo found you alone. “You always hide at parties?” he asked, offering you his drink.
“I’m not hiding,” you replied. “I’m observing.”
He took a sip and handed you the glass. “Poetic.”
You smirked. “Always this persistent?”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“Want me to stop?”
You froze. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t force it.
Just left the question hanging in the air.
You looked at him really looked. Messy dark hair. Sharp jaw. Those unreadable eyes that always seemed to know more than they said.
And you whispered: “No, not really.”
The kiss was inevitable. It wasn’t sweet. It was stolen. Messy. Secret.
His hands held your face like he was trying not to break you.
Yours gripped his shirt like you’d waited too long to finally let go.
After that, the world went quiet. Not because you stopped talking.
Because you didn’t need words anymore.
It was in the way he looked at you in class. The way his fingers brushed yours for just a second too long. The way he walked behind you in the hallways, hand lightly ghosting the small of your back… just to see you shiver.
And you always did. The party raged on inside. Laughter. Alcohol. Loud music. Some students already asleep on the couches.
But Theo kept you away from it.
Your back was pressed against the stone wall in a dim corridor lit only by flickering torchlight. His body was close. Way too close. And on his face that expression of constant self-control… about to snap.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low and fraying, “how hard it is not to touch you when you’re near me.”
You held your breath. Not because of what he said — but how he said it. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Like he was fighting himself. Blaise. The whole damn world.
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
His eyes changed. Darkened. Turned hungry.
He didn’t move. You did.
Your fingers brushed the edge of his shirt, fabric soft under your hand just an excuse to close the distance.
And he gave in.The kiss was deeper this time. Slower. Rougher.
His hands slid around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Your lips moved with his in soft gasps. Your fingers tangled in his hair.
And for a moment, you forgot everything. Your last name. The rules. Blaise. There was only Theo. And the way his breath hitched as he held you like this.
When he pulled away, his eyes stayed closed, forehead resting against yours. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered like a confession.
“You shouldn’t want to,” you answered.
You both smiled a little broken, a little addicted. Because you both knew this night wasn’t ending here. He took your hand.
Not like you were fragile. But like you were dangerous and he liked it.
“Come with me,” he said.
You didn’t ask where. You didn’t care. When you’re falling, the landing doesn’t matter. And with him… you weren’t scared to crash.
The secret became a routine. Sneaking around between classes. Stolen glances disguised as nothing. His hand brushing yours under the Great Hall table. Silent meetings in the Room of Requirement.
Everything carefully hidden. Everything done to make sure Blaise Zabini never found out. And it worked.
Until that night.
It was late. His room became your shared haven again, a soft couch, green curtains like his house colors. Theo had you curled up in his arms.
Kissing. Laughing. Breathing.
“I forget sometimes this isn’t allowed,” you murmured against his chest. He was quiet for a second.
“Sometimes,” he said finally, “I wish Blaise wasn’t my best friend.”
You froze slightly. “And what if he finds out?”
“He won’t take it well.”
Minutes passed. Peaceful. Dangerous.Then a knock. Three sharp bangs on the door. Theo stiffened. You sat up, heart racing. “Don’t open it,” you whispered.
But the door… opened anyway.
The magic of the Room let him in.
Blaise.
Standing in the doorway. In his pajamas. Wand in hand. Face unreadable. Fury. Disbelief. Hurt.
No one spoke.
The silence was louder than any scream. His eyes went from you to Theo. Then back to you. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” was all he said.
Theo stood up slowly. Didn’t hide you. Didn’t run.
“Let me explain—”
“How long?” Blaise asked you directly. Your voice barely made it out.
“A few weeks.”
He laughed. No humor. Just bitterness. “A few weeks,” he repeated, looking at Theo. “And you didn’t say a word. After everything?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” Blaise snapped. “A fling? A way to piss me off? Or do you just want to prove you can take everything — even my sister?”
“It’s not a game,” you said firmly. Theo looked at you like you just saved him. Blaise didn’t.
“Of course it’s not. Because you don’t fall for just anyone, do you?
Then Theo broke the silence. “I’m in love with her.”
Your breath caught. Not from shock. But because… he’d never said it out loud before.
Blaise blinked like he’d just been hit with a curse.
“I can’t listen to this,” he muttered. “Not from either of you.”
And he left.
The next day, you found him outside the library. He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just… tired.
“Do you love him?” he asked. Straight to the point.
“Yes,” you said.
“And he loves you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why hide it?”
“We were scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you.”
That made him flinch. Because he didn’t expect that answer.
Not from you. “You’re the most important person in my life,” you said.
“And you were mine,” he replied.
There was a long silence. Then he said: “If he breaks your heart… he won’t face me as a friend. He’ll face me as your brother. And he won’t recognize me when I’m done with him.”
You nodded. “I know.”
He walked away, hand on the door but paused.
And with his back to you, said quietly: “I always knew if someone could make Nott lose his mind… it’d be you.”
My personal comfort zone is «Remain Nameless» by @heyjude19-writing
still there after the first artwork that I made 4 years ago (can't believe how fast time passes) and also can't miss the chance to redraw the cover piece
