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makeupbychelseax
lip combo
fred weasley.
pairing: fred weasley x fem! reader.
genre: fluff; friends to lovers.
synopsis: fred is obsessed with your lip combo, and it starts to be hard to convince yourself that ´he’s just like this with everyone’
wc: 4.4k.
a/n : (l/c) means your signature/ favourite lipstick colour.
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If there was one thing Y/n L/n had came to be known for, it was her shiny, glossy, signature lip combo.
Not just because of how plump and eye-catching it made your lips look, but also because of your devotion to drawing again and again the shape of your mouth throughout the day with muggle products.
No time-lasting enchantment, no magical enhancement.
“I just don't get why you're so against putting a charm on those!” whined your best friend, as she often did, waiting for you patiently in a lanky corridor while you were touching up your lipstick under the dozen eyes of inquisitive portraits.
She already knew the answer, of course – you'd repeated over and over how it messed with the texture or the colour or the feeling.
“You know I wish I could, I wouldn't have to re-do it all the—”
“This is a school, young lady, not a beauty pageant!” grumbled haughtily the painting of an old, grumpy woman whose gigantic pointy hat hid half of her face. “In my times, we were not bothering with mindless—”
“Oh, shut up!” you friend rolled her eyes and silenced the witch with a flick of her wand, before winking at your thankful smile. “Looks perfect. Now please let's go. I can't stand those cranky ancestors!”
A waterfall of your two laughs drowned the disapproving looks from the portraits.
It was not unusual for you to be mocked for the time and the carefulness you dedicated to your favourite part of your make-up; but the jeers and taunts flew over your head.
You didn't care if it was silly or superficial – you admitted yourself it probably was a bit, but was it ever that serious? Your friends sometimes teased you but never ridiculed you for it, and that was all you needed to be sporting a colourful smile everyday.
Biggest of teases, though, was and remained the annoying, turbulent, Fred Gideon Weasley who had never let an occasion to mention your lips go ever since you started painting them your treasured shades so attentively.
“Why don't you just buy stuff from Witch & Vanity?” once asked curiously George, dropping on a chair in front of you and adding two more butterbeers on the Three Broomsticks' wooden table.
Fred, at your side, reached for one, but the question made his head whip toward his twin.
“How dare you, George?” He gasped in a mock scandalised expression, imitating you. “How can you think any other product would match the perfect tint of the pencil mixed flawlessly with the pure shade of the—”
“Fuck off,” you groaned, shoving him playfully and he burst out laughing, ruffling your hair gently. “It is true though, none of them have the perfect shade,” you looked at a smirking Fred as you said this, rolling your eyes at him.
Despite his exasperating jokes, it was hard to ignore the jolt of your heart whenever his eyes would distractedly fall to your lips mid-conversation. It happened often with a lot of people — just something about the light catching on your gloss like sun rays on a river.
Oh but when it was him whose gaze you trapped on your mouth like a bee in a puddle of honey, Merlin – words would scatter incoherently on your tongue, a warm sensation spreading on your cheeks and a fluttering feeling taking over your body.
You knew you were a fool for falling under the redhead's charm; his flirty remarks and his shit-eating grin. He's like this with everyone, you reminded yourself whenever your smile lingered too long after a talk with him.
But it was a tough match between your pride and your ever-growing crush, and you had to refrain from slapping yourself whenever you caught yourself hoping you were different from the flock of girls he'd entertain with his heart locked far away from them.
Like that time at Christmas, when he'd given you in a gift set with the exact particular tint for each of your go-to products – from lip pencil to lip gloss – straight from the independent muggle shop whose closest location was hours away from London.
Or that time when he begged you to let him try to apply the lipstick –you had categorically refused for him to attempt the lining of your lips – and he had held you softly for a few fleeting seconds.
You had caught a twinkle of mischief in his smirk early enough to dodge his attempt to run the lipstick all over your cheek and smacked him with an exaggerated anger. Ever since then, he'd tell people you turned into a monster if one messed with your lip combo, knowing you'd shove him every time.
"Come on," he pouted one day before the first Quidditch game of your seventh season, fired-kissed hair tousled and scarlet robes rippling around him like a storm barely held at bay, looking every inch of the troublemaker he was.
Heart still thumping rapidly from his demand, you shook your head, laughing nervously.
"You're nuts, Weasley."
His eyes wandered to the lips you had just covered with a fresh coat of lipstick and shiny gloss after breakfast.
Just a millisecond.
They went back up immediately, but it was enough for the butterflies to flutter their wings in your stomach.
"It's for good luck," he insisted, smirking with this damn cockiness of his and following in your footsteps as you intended to put distance between you and his madness- and you knew you'd give in. "Good luck kiss to bring it home, y’know."
"Look how bad it's raining," you tried to reason, leaving the Grand Hall where George glanced at the two of you with a knowing look. "It's going to come off in two seconds anyway."
"Who's saying it's about the lipstick?"
You stopped dead in your tracks, turning to look at him with narrow eyes. The giddy sensation was back, as usual. But you knew how to rein it in just by summoning words that had the effect of a cold shower – he was like this with everyone.
"Me," you finally answered, shaking past your fluttered state and deflecting with banter. "I'm not ruining my lip combo for your stupid pranks."
You thought walking away would work, but the fool chased after you, marching backwards to face you with his stupid smug smile, threatening you to follow you until you'd be the reason why he was late to the match and you'd have to deal with a furious Angelina.
"Y/n L/n," he cocked his head to the side, a frown now carving its way between his brow giving him an air of sad puppy. "At least wish me—"
"Merlin, you really never shut up," you complained under your breath, suddenly a bit thrown off by how quietly upset he seemed to get with your refusal.
Not letting him time to open his mouth, you gently grabbed his jaw, bringing it down to your height, and firmly pressed your sticky lips to his cheek in a fierce kiss.
Ignoring the way your heart stumbled when you stepped back, you let your fingers graze his sharp jawline absentmindedly, momentarily stunned by the (l/c) stain on his skin.
Your color.
Your lipstick.
A trace of you, on him.
When you realized you were still holding him and he was staring down at you intensely, with wide eyes and an unreadable look on his face, you snatched back your hand like he had burned you.
You heard him exhale a shaky breath, as if he had been holding his, and you diverted your gaze in embarrassement.
"Hope you get hit by a bludger," you mumbled, spinning on your heels and walking in the wrong direction.
A short silence hung behind you, before a hearty laugh caught your ears.
"Very little chance now! Shouldn't have given me a good luck kiss, L/n!"
Passing students – all going in the opposite way, towards the pitch – sent you wondering looks and you cursed under your breath.
Your heart had not stopped its frenetic gallop – like it was trying to run away from your own feelings. Thankfully, you were good at masking it. Your best friend didn't ask why you had arrived late or why your cheeks had turned crimson.
But when Fred Weasley flew into view, sporting his usual cocky look, and zoomed over your house's grandstands as if searching for someone, she turned to you with a raised brow.
When she asked about the mark on his cheek – a shade that screamed your name – you waved her off, telling her she was imagining things in this tumultuous storm.
Yet ever since that day, you didn't know if you weren’t the one imagining things.
The words 'he's like that with everyone' had lost their soothing power with each time his golden eyes found yours after he made a joke;
with each time he'd find you after classes to walk you back to your common room;
with each time his fingertips grazed your skin as he brushed away strands of hair stuck on your lip gloss;
with each time he hovered dangerously close to you, a cocky whisper tickling your neck 'i wouldn't eat that if i were you' when someone tried to trick you with his own inventions;
with each time he challenged you to a duel during D.A. meetings and tried to distract you with flirty banter;
with each time you found yourself alone with him and his gaze'd softened, he'd go quieter, and you'd stop hiding behind teases;
with each time his cursed gaze fell upon your lips like he wanted to kiss you;
and with
each
time
you’d failed to convince yourself he was like that with everyone.
“You should tell him you like him,” your best friend nudged you one day as she caught you staring across the classroom. “End of the year's coming. Maybe you won't see him anymore after graduation.”
And the thought alone felt like an immeasurable void in your chest, home to a herd of Dementors sucking the happiness out of you.
But suddenly his eyes met yours from the back of the class, and with a playful wink he settled the immensity of your fear into a quiet, unnerving pit in your stomach.
You should tell him; you knew.
You just didn't know yourself to be brave enough to lay your heart bare, not hidden behind walls of jokes and an armour of sarcasm.
So you reapplied your lipstick instead, catching his observant gaze once again, and rolled your eyes at his insistent staring. He wiggled his brows. You playfully kissed the air with your shiny lips, blowing in your hand to fake sending the peck his way, and he pretended to catch it with both hands, secure it tightly in his hold and store it in his right pocket.
You snorted.
To think that your friendship rested on his weird obsession with your muggle lip combo was ridiculous, but now you couldn't put it on without hoping you'd cross path with the redhead and he'd comment on it, or let his eyes do the appreciating.
“You owe me a proper kiss,” he caught you alone later that day as you marched up the stairs leading to the owlery.
A hand on the cold, grey stones, you spun on your heels with a smile already tugging at your lips.
“Weasley,” you tried to say as sternly as you could, but it came out as soft and loving as you felt inside.
“L/n,” he imitated you, his grin eating his face away.
It was not often that you could look down at him, with how absurdly tall he was, but now, a couple steps down, you admired him shamelessly.
The moonbeam slipped through the window, brushing his face languidly. With a small smile, you traced the shape of the shadow on his skin with the end of your rolled-up letter.
“I'm not ruining my lip combo, pretty boy.”
He raised an amused brow at the nickname, and climbed one step, coming eye-to-eye level with you.
“But I already have this,” he softly said with a mocking pout. His hand came out of his right pocket as a fist, mimicking cage for the flying kiss from earlier.
His gaze was intense.
A thrill of excitement coursed through you, and for once, you didn't feel like fleeing.
You whispered. “Well, don't be greedy then.”
Again. His eyes fell to your lips, again.
“Hard not to be.” The words came out almost as a slur.
The warning rang in your head, ‘he's like this with everyone’– a last cry from your reason to guard your heart, one you didn't have the heart to reason with. “Smooth-talker, aren't you?”
If you looked outside the small wooden window, you'd see a sky full of stars and wonders of the universe; yet you felt as though you were already trapped with such a view in his glowing eyes. They were feverish, looking up at you with a quiet gravity.
You caught sight of his hand clenching at his side, as if he had wanted to move but stopped himself.
“Only for you.”
Not with everyone.
There was a kind of longing in his voice, like he was desperate for you to hear the truth in his words.
You shuddered.
“Last kiss didn't bring you much luck,” you diverted the conversation, hoping the painful memory of his Quidditch ban would relieve the unnerving tension between you.
“We won, didn't we?” he smirked, leaning in and trapping you at your own game.
“At what cost, though?” you grumbled, unfocused, though the irritation from Umbridge's unfair decision started to creep back on you.
Fred's chest vibrated with a quiet, low laugh. His hand rose and brushed your cheek, as if brushing away a stranded hair from your face, but you could have sworn there was none.
“OK, you win. Damned lipstick won again. No kiss.”
His hand still rested on your face when he leaned in further in your space. You froze as a fresh scent of fireworks and pine rushed to your head. With a softness you never knew him capable of, he brushed your skin, and finally kissed you gently on the cheek – dangerously close to the corner of your lips.
“From you, at least,” he sneakily added in a whisper as he stepped back, but you barely heard it over the frantic thump of your heart against your eardrums. “‘Night, Y/n.”
He'll be the death of you.
There was not room for awkwardness when it came to Fred Weasley – that much was obvious when you failed miserably at avoiding him the day after, still a mess from whatever was last night.
He found you in the morning, found you everywhere you went and every time you thought of him.
It became routine ever since – as if the both of you suddenly realised time was running out and nothing much mattered.
George would often stop and sigh whenever he caught sight of you, playfully picturing annoyance as his twin always stopped himself mid-sentence and jogged over to you. 'Come on, Fred. Heart-eyes time is over, get back to work' he'd intervene sometimes, pulling him forcefully away from you under your laughs.
You never minded, not really – not when Fred left behind a comforting warmth in your heart.
If you had paid more attention to what George was complaining about, you'd maybe have figured out the twins were plotting something
Suspicions never arose until Fred came to found you on a cold day, and sat beside on the wet grass by an old tree.
You didn't know if he let it slip accidentally or not, but he did.
“Merlin, just watching you do this everyday makes me want to stay,” he had said as you ran your pencil over the shape of your mouth.
Your hand paused and fell limply as you snapped your head towards him.
He didn't insult your intelligence by trying to backtrack or lie his way out of a confession. His smile dimmed ever so slightly when he announced his departure.
The void came back in your chest, except something was clawing at the edges – something mournful that wanted to lash out at Fred, yell at him, convince him to stay or scar him enough for him to never show his face again.
You’d pretended you didn’t care – yet you let a distance grow between you after this. Fred was busy with the preparations, you guessed, and you spent your time in the place he disliked most, the library, to study for your N.E.W.T.s exams.
"You know," you friend shook you out of your daze in the middle of an intense staring session at your open potions book. "George asked me about you."
You looked up, confused. "Fred?" you asked, thinking she got the wrong twin.
"No,” she shook her head. “George. Said you two are being stupid. I quite agree."
"What? Fred's the one to-" you protested, but the look on your best friend's face shut you down.
"Y/n. I love you to death but you have a big problems with admitting your feelings. If you want something real with Fred - and I know you do, trust me - you have to accept to be vulnerable with him. Confess that you don't want him to go, that you'll miss him and that's why you're mad."
"What if... he doesn't-” the warning you had wrapped your heart around bubbled to the surface of your worries. “What if he's just like this with everyone? He'll think I'm silly."
Her gaze softened, and she held your hand firmly. “Then so be it. But you'll never have anything if you keep everything inside. You won't get hurt, won't be scared, won't be loved. And you'll always regret.”
You frowned, looking at your friend as if it was the first time you saw her. "I love you. I'll miss you so much next year. Let's never grow apart," you blurted out, suddenly feeling a prickling sensation behind your lashes, a pain burning in your chest at the idea that your friend might not realise how much space she held in your heart.
Her eyes widened with surprise, a silence hanging after your words before she laughed and swooped you in a tight hug.
“I love you too, you stupid fool. Let's not grow apart,” she repeated, and the void in your chest tightened. “Now put on that lip combo that obviously drives him crazy and confess your love, before I force a veritaserum down your throat.”
You laughed too, blinking to send the tears away, and jumped to your feet. The wind from how fast you were walking sent hair flying all over your face, and you couldn’t fight the smile that bloomed on your face.
So what if Fred didn't like you back? You'd be made a fool, sure, but never a bigger fool than if you never opened your heart to things your mind was too scared to imagine.
You passed students you recognised and students you didn't, passed familiar corridors and portraits you never spared a glance to; and all the while your steps carried you to a place you didn't know yet, you felt like a sun had dawned in the void inside you, spreading a warm light in your chest.
A blurping noise halted you in your tracks, and you came back to reality.
The Entrance Hall had transformed into a swamp the size of an Olympic pool. Thick, greenish sludge coated the walls –and a few unfortunate students who’d clearly been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your jaw dropped. “Fred?”
There, in the middle of the chaos, stood the two redheads, glancing at each other with identical looks of shock and triumph.
Fred’s head whipped toward you at the sound of your voice. His expression lit up like you’d flipped a switch.
Unbothered by the mud squelching beneath his boots, he crossed the distance between you and stopped only when he was close enough for his gaze to roam over every inch of your face like he wanted to carve your image into his brain.
“You're not wearing your lipstick,” he said, frowning slightly.
And just like that, the resentment you’d been holding onto dissolved – because he was leaving, and somehow, this wasn’t goodbye; because the swamp was proof of the greatness he was about to create beyond Hogwarts; because the moment he saw you, he came straight to you; and because, after everything, after you stupid decision to avoid him, the first thing he noticed was your lipstick.
“No,” you replied, a small smile in your voice. “I'm not wearing my lip combo.”
You also let your eyes capture every curve of his face. The fire-kissed mess of hair, the constellation of freckles, the sparkling eyes, that infuriating cocky smile. You were going to miss him. Terribly.
“I’m afraid you haven’t got time to fix it before Filch shows,” Fred said, that heart-melting smirk creeping in. “But I’ve got a different lip combo in mind that could work.”
You rolled your eyes at the innuendo, laughing as George groaned in mock agony nearby. But when you turned back to Fred, his expression had softened.
“Do you now?” you teased.
Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and extended his palm. Nestled there was a small (l/c) candy.
“I do, actually,” he said, dropping it into your hand. “Been working on it for months.”
You stared at the sweet, brow furrowed. “What does it do?”
“Try it.” His voice was coaxing now, warm and familiar. “Come on, Y/n. Don’t you trust me by now?”
You held the candy delicately between your fingers, eyeing it like it might explode. Which, considering who it came from, wasn’t entirely unreasonable.
“Funny thing,” you murmured, “my survival instincts always told me not to take sweets from a Weasley twin.”
Fred laughed, the sound flooding you with affection. “Smart girl. But I swear this one’s safe.”
Students had begun gathering around the edge of the swamp, gawking at the scene. For now, the expanse of green kept them at a distance – buying you a few precious moments alone.
“Alright, Weasley. Don’t make me regret this,” you said, shooting him a warning look before popping the sweet into your mouth.
Nothing happened.
Fred stared at you eagerly. Seconds passed. Then—
A tingling warmth spread across your lips. His eyes sparkled as he watched. When they dropped to your mouth as they so often did, a light bulb finally lit in your mind.
"Are you-" The words stumbled over themselves with feverish anticipation.
You rushed to pull your pocket mirror out, to your face, and gasped.
There it was: your signature lip combo.
The liner, the colour, the blend, the gloss – only better. No weird tingling from charmed Muggle products, no off-shade errors from magical knockoffs. It was perfect.
“It’s supposed to last 12 hours,” Fred explained as you swiped a finger across your lips but the gloss didn't budge. “Food and hair repellent, water-proof, smudge-proof.”
You touched your lips, stunned. “Fred, this is—how did you—?”
The sun in your chest had completely and irrevocably engulfed the void – chasing clouds away, making the words ‘he’s like this with everyone’ lose all sense and suddenly your heart melted its restraints.
Though, there was a knot in your throat, emotions bundled up there from how touched you were, from how known you felt – gratitude, nostalgia, and something too big for words battlingin there.
You met his eyes and saw only fondness and adoration there.
You couldn’t help it.
Stepping forward, you threw your arms around his neck, holding him like you never wanted to let go.
He melted into the embrace, his own arms winding around you tightly, like he was afraid you might vanish.
“It's...”
“Brillant?” you heard him offer smugly.
“Everything,” you finished in a whisper, face buried in the crook of his neck. “Thank you so much.”
His arms felt like home, you thought, and somehow, you knew the feeling would mark your soul forever.
"Bloody hell. I knew you loved that lip combo more than me, but still," he grumbled, causing your body to shake with laughter.
He clung tighter when you started to pull away.
Then came the screech.
You both jumped apart.
Umbridge stood at the edge of the swamp, pink robes splattered with greenish muck, her toad-like mouth agape in horror. Filch skidded to a halt behind her, wheezing and red in the face.
"WHAT is the meaning of this—"
But Fred didn't even flinch. He turned back to you, urgency returning to his face. His voice was lower now, rushed, but steady.
“I should probably mention,” he said, voice low and rushed, “it’s also kiss-proof. But I’d rather you didn’t test that with anyone while I’m gone... so, pretend it’s not.”
You raised an eyebrow, watching his face scrunch in annoyance the moment he said it.
“Why are you telling me, then?” you coyly tilted your head, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.
Behind him, Umbridge was screeching something about detention and permanent expulsion, but Fred didn't even blink. His full attention remained on you, his gaze intense.
“Just in case,” he murmured, licking his lips unconsciously.
Your heart stuttered. You leaned in slightly, catching the faint taste of his favourite fruit in the gloss. “In case... I wanted proof?”
His gaze dropped again to your mouth—and this time, there was no uncertainty, no hesitation.
“Well, looking back on the offer,” you purred, your hands snaking their way to his neck and letting your fingers dance through his hair. “Maybe I'd like to try that other lip combo you mentioned.”
Fred blinked. “What other l-”
Then realization hit, and he surged forward without another spared word.
His hands cradled your cheeks with surprising gentleness as his lips met yours. You would’ve laughed into the kiss if it hadn’t stolen every single thought from your mind.
It was wild – a fire, an explosion, everything you could have expected from him yet so much more.
Chaos swirled around you—yelling, footsteps, splashes and… wolf-whistles? —but it was all background noise. Fred kissed you like he meant it, like the world could end around him and he’d still choose this.
When you tried to pull away, curious about the growing commotion behind, he groaned and pulled you back, stealing one more breathless kiss.
“We might start selling those,” he murmured, smugness written all over his face. “But not this one. This one—this wicked combo that looks way too good on you—that’s yours. If you ever want more, you’ll have to come by the shop. And ask for me. Specifically.”
He joined George, and next thing you knew, he had a broom in hand, and kicked off. Umbridge shrieked, yelling at the stunned crowd to stop them – but if there was one thing to know about these wildfires, it was that they couldn't be tamed.
Fred swirled in Peeves direction, ordering him to put the Inquisitor through his worse torment, and then paused mid-air to toss one last grin your way.
“Oh, and by the way Y/n— you really shouldn’t trust a Weasley twin.”
Your eyes widened. You scrambled for your mirror and found it instantly.
Scrawled across your cheeks, in the same (l/c) hue as the candy: FRED.
“Fred!” you shouted, laughter in your voice.
But he was already gone – soaring away into the sky with George at his side.
And in the midst of the swamp, with green slime on your shoes and his name glowing on your cheeks, you smiled.
Because somehow, in all this madness... you’d never felt more loved.
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In love with her make up and live this lip combo ♥️💜
