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jamilelucato · 2 months

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The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 03)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]

Summary: (Part 01 / Part 02) In the carriage en route to Lady Danbury's ball, tension crackles between Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] and Mr Benedict Bridgerton. Beneath their bickering lies an undeniable attraction that they both need to take care of before it's too late.

Age rating: 18+.

Author’s note: It's the end of age! No, I'm kidding, but it is the end of this story.

To read Anthony’s fic, click here! For other stories, click here.Enjoy

An air of tension hung heavy within the plush confines of the velvety blue carriage.

True to his word, Mr Benedict Bridgerton stood promptly outside the [y/l/n] residence at seven o'clock, resplendent in his finest attire, ready to escort Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] to Lady Danbury's ball. The initial exchange, with Mr [y/l/n]'s presence in the periphery, was pleasant enough—gentlemanly handshakes and cordial smiles exchanged between the men, with Benedict embodying the epitome of a refined gentleman, at least in the eyes of the [y/l/n] household.

But such commendation found little favour with Miss [y/n] [y/l/n].

Seated across from Benedict, [y/n] regarded him with a fiery intensity in her gaze. She couldn't shake the feeling of indignation at Benedict's earlier remarks, his unwitting perpetuation of the sexism she fought against. Who was he, she seethed inwardly, to lecture her on the perils of being a woman author in the 19th century?

[y/n] was well aware of the risks and well acquainted with the challenges she faced as a woman pursuing her literary aspirations. She wouldn't have embarked on this daunting journey if she weren't driven by an unwavering determination to realise her dreams. And yet, Benedict's condescension rankled her—his first foray into illustrating a book hardly qualified him to lecture her on the intricacies of the publishing world. He was a newcomer to her domain, ignorant of the trials she endured.

Still, despite her righteous anger, [y/n] begrudgingly acknowledged Benedict's artistic prowess. She may have bristled at his presumptions, but she couldn't deny his talent as a painter. His not-so-recent exhibition at the Bridgerton house, for the family's closest friends, had been a testament to his skill. Though she had been present under the [y/l/n]'s invitation, Benedict's work ultimately swayed her decision to enlist his talents for her project.

Benedict's voice, though barely above a whisper, resonated within the confines of the carriage, imbued with an unexpected intensity by the close quarters.

"You won't say anything?" he queried, his gaze fixed firmly on [y/n].

She unwaveringly met his gaze, her voice collected as she responded, "And what would you have me say, Mr. Bridgerton?"

A sharp exhale escaped Benedict, frustration seeping into his tone. "Am I now merely 'Mr Bridgerton'? No longer 'Ben'?"

[y/n]'s eyes rolled in exasperation. "Well, forgive me if the current circumstances don't exactly evoke the camaraderie of our long-time friendship," she retorted sharply. "Ben was the amiable fellow who praised my boldness in my talents as he delicately illustrated them. At present, however, it feels like he's nowhere to be found."

That woman threatened to drive him to madness.

Benedict's hand rose instinctively, gripping his own chin firmly as if to silence the words he yearned to express. The action seemed to quell the words on his tongue, preventing him from affirming that he remained the same Ben who marvelled at her talents and considered her utterly unique.

Somehow, Benedict couldn't bring himself to offer [y/n] the praise she might have expected at that moment.

"I have all the illustrations with me in the carriage," he declared, nodding towards the briefcase nestled beside him, unseen until now in the dim light of the carriage. "Before the ball concludes, we shall escape, and I shall escort us directly to your editor."

"Oh, why, Mr Bridgerton!" She exclaimed with exaggerated surprise, her eyes widening playfully. "It appears you've managed to summon your inner gentleman at last. Quite a departure from the sexist pig you were earlier in my library."

She was maddening. Utterly maddening.

For a myriad of reasons, unfortunately.

Benedict wanted to attribute his discomfort solely to her condescension, which tempted him to respond, assert his dominance and put her back in her place. A firm swat on her behind might remind her she must be a pleasant, nice girl.

Heavens! He nearly exclaimed aloud, reining in his thoughts just in time. Benedict found himself entertaining the notion of [y/n]'s posterior, a territory over which he had neither jurisdiction nor entitlement.

Clearing his throat, Benedict offered, "I apologise if that's how it came across. It was never my intention to diminish you because of your gender."

"It wasn't that," she responded, her gaze penetrating his. This time, he noticed, there was no anger in her eyes. [y/n] simply wanted to clarify her perspective. "You said I shouldn't go alone."

"Yes, and I stand by that," Benedict affirmed.

[y/n] paused, realising she needed to elaborate further for him to grasp her viewpoint.

"I understand your concern," she conceded. "But you didn't offer to accompany me. You only criticised me."

Benedict felt a chill run through him at [y/n]'s revelation. He had argued with her under the assumption that his willingness to accompany her was implicit. Not merely because she was a young, unmarried woman venturing into a dangerous part of London at an ungodly hour but because it was their joint endeavour she intended to pursue solo.

Now that he knew her secret identity and understood that this tenth book would not be her last, Benedict was determined to accompany her to the publisher's office on all future occasions. It would be against his principles as a gentleman—principles instilled in him by both his father and mother—to allow a lady to undertake such journeys alone, especially now that he was aware.

Suddenly, he realised, with a softening expression toward [y/n], that he'd be accompanying her to the ends of the earth from then on. He recognised the truth in his revelation. He couldn't envision himself being apart from her.

But the carriage stopped before Benedict could articulate his newfound determination to [y/n] or even offer an apology for any misunderstanding. They had arrived at Lady Danbury's residence.

As [y/n] began to prepare to disembark, ensuring her hairstyle was intact and smoothing her satin skirt, Benedict peered out the window, a heavy groan escaping him.

"No."

Startled, [y/n] looked up from her lap to find Benedict wearing a determined expression. He lightly tapped the carriage roof swiftly—a clear signal for the coachman to continue the journey. Almost instantly, [y/n] felt the carriage lurch forward as the horses resumed their pace.

"What are you doing?" she inquired, still adjusting her hair, the sudden movement causing her to worry about her appearance.

At that moment, she realised—quite abruptly—that lately, she had been increasingly concerned about her appearance. After her second failed season, during which she remained unmarried, Miss [y/n] had abandoned many of the formalities of fashion. She seldom wore corsets and paid little heed to the latest dress designs, opting instead for simplicity. Her hair, usually secured in a tight bun resembling that of a governess, was styled by her own hands, as her brother had also tasked her maid with attending to her sister-in-law.

But something had changed.

Benedict frequently selected her as his dance partner at parties where they unexpectedly crossed paths. They often rendezvoused in Hyde Park to discuss their book. Almost every afternoon, [y/n] found herself at the Bridgerton residence, although she couldn't quite fathom why she felt an unspoken obligation to maintain a polished appearance.

She wasn't oblivious to the rumours circulating about them. Many speculated that the two were courting, and why wouldn't they? What other reason could a single gentleman have for associating with an unmarried lady?

Still, [y/n] dismissed such notions as ludicrous. She felt like the most withered flower in the garden—what bee would alight on a flower with almost no pollen?

She consumed Benedict Bridgerton's thoughts. He couldn't help but gaze at her, taking in every detail. Only then did he realise he had instructed the carriage to continue, bypassing Lady Danbury's residence entirely.

Good Lord, he mused, in just fifteen minutes in her presence, [y/n] had managed to drive him insane, as he had assumed she would.

And, of course, he wanted to blame himself but blast it all; why did she have to wear the most exquisite dress in all of British fashion? Why did she have to wear a corset that not only accentuated her waist but also elevated her bosom?

Benedict, a gentleman with little interest in women's fashion, found himself fixated on it that particular evening.

"Mr. Bridgerton!" she exclaimed, breaking through his reverie.

Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Suddenly, he regretted not having his drawing chalks with him so he could capture her likeness right then and there in the soft glow filtering through the carriage windows.

"[y/n]," he whispered her name like a plea as he wet his lips, "what's going on between us?"

She averted her gaze, feeling the weight of his intensity. "What do you mean, Ben? We're simply working partners."

He grinned like a mischievous imp. "No, we're not."

"Ben," she began, intending to distance herself. No, that would be a lie. His fervour drew her in like a moth to a flame, even as she knew she shouldn't respond. It didn't matter that she'd heard whispers about the longing looks he cast her way across the room; it didn't matter that her brother had overheard Benedict defending her at the men's club just two days prior. "We're just the writer and the illustrator. That's all."

"The writer and her illustrator," he echoed, but she barely noticed the subtle pronoun shift.

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing hard. "The writer and her illustrator."

A smile of pure delight graced his lips.

"I am yours, I'm afraid," he confessed, taking her aback. She, a writer, was powerless against his words. Involuntarily, she leaned in closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. "Could you say it again?" he pleaded, inching nearer, breaching the space between them.

They were mere inches apart.

"What? 'My illustrator'?" she repeated, her confusion mingling with the intoxicating atmosphere.

"My writer," he responded, mirroring her phrase. "Mine."

He was marking her with words. She liked it.

"I'm also afraid I have to kiss you," he said, leaving her confused. Benedict couldn't need permission, could he? She thought she was being very obvious when she prompted forward, her cleavage at his disposal.

She might have been a virgin, but she wasn't naive.

With a swift, decisive movement, [y/n] closed the gap between them, her lips capturing his in a searing kiss. Ben's initial surprise melted away as he responded eagerly, his body instinctively leaning to hold her in an embrace. The tension between them for so long ignited into a blaze of passion, consuming them both.

Their kisses grew more urgent, more desperate, as the carriage rocked gently beneath them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s body, tracing the curves of her silhouette with a reverence that bordered on worship. [y/n]'s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the heady rush of desire coursing through her veins.

At that moment, the confines of the carriage faded away, leaving only the two of them wrapped up in each other's arms. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the heat of their passion, their bodies moving together in a sensual dance that spoke volumes without the need for words.

Amidst their embrace's perfection and delectable allure, [y/n] sensed an unspoken yearning deep within her soul. Despite the exquisite intimacy they shared, she couldn't shake the conviction that there was something more she craved from Benedict—something she couldn't quite articulate or request. Each time she drew near to him, although he didn't push her away, she felt him place his own hips away from hers.

Yet, after countless attempts to bridge the distance between them, Benedict could no longer deny the fervour burning within him.

"[y/n]," he murmured her name with a weighty sigh, attempting to extricate himself gently with one final kiss, but the lady refused to relent, meeting his lips once more. "I must escort you home."

His words sent a tremor of apprehension through [y/n], causing her to withdraw instinctively. She had barely noticed that she wasn't even in her seat anymore: she was trying to jump into his lap, but as he kept moving away, she seemed to crouch in the carriage. Oh, the shame that flooded her being, her gaze lowered in embarrassment.

Her reaction tugged at Benedict's heartstrings, stirring a tumult of emotions within him as he swiftly reconsidered his course of action.

"Do not feel ashamed," he implored, his tone pleading. The thought of [y/n] bearing any semblance of shame was unbearable to him. "I must release you now, for I could easily succumb to temptation in this carriage, and such a fate is ill-suited for a lady of your stature. You deserve far better."

Though every fibre of her being yearned for more at that moment, [y/n] knew deep down that he spoke the truth. She deserved better. He hadn't said he liked her, for instance. He hadn't proposed. She supposed that, to be deflowered, she at least deserved that.

"You're right," she conceded, her gaze drifting to the window as she pondered their proximity to her home. "I've never done this before, you know?"

Benedict stifled a sudden urge to utter a remark that hovered at the tip of his tongue, granting her the space to share her thoughts freely. He trusted her to confide in him, as she always had.

"I've never been kissed," she admitted with such earnestness that Benedict was taken aback.

Never been kissed? The notion perplexed him. After all, hadn't she just demonstrated such fervour and skill with her lips in the confines of the carriage? How could someone as captivating as [y/n] [y/l/n] have never experienced the simple act of a kiss? Surely, no shortage of suitors had come calling at her door.

"No, you can't be serious," he interjected, his incredulity evident as he leaned closer, their proximity becoming increasingly intimate. It seemed he had lost all semblance of restraint in her presence.

"But I am," she insisted, a hint of defensiveness colouring her tone as she addressed her innocence. "I am a spinster, Ben. Gentlemen typically pursue the young and bright diamonds of the seasons."

"You are young, and you are bright," he countered, his brow furrowing in response to her apparent self-deprecation. "You may not have been dubbed the diamond of the season, but that designation would have hardly done you justice."

[y/n] found herself unable to muster the strength to protest. Further, a realization soon dawned on Benedict as he observed her resigned demeanour. Yet, despite her acquiescence, he sensed a lingering doubt in her eyes.

"[y/n]," he began, his voice softening with sincerity, "these debutantes are hailed as diamonds because they are transparent and colourless. You, my dear, are nothing like them. By God, you are the most brilliant writer I have ever met; your scenes are so well described that I had no difficulty drawing them. If only I had dedicated our time together to capturing your likeness, I would have employed every hue in my palette to convey the sheer beauty that I behold in you—the most exquisite woman I have ever beheld," he confessed, his heart swelling with emotion as he laid bare his sentiments. "And look, I'm older than you."

"Only by a few years," she countered, a flicker of warmth igniting within her, a profound longing to smile once more gracing her features.

"Wait," Benedict interjected; his movements stilled as realization dawned upon him, connecting the dots between her confession, observations, and the vivid scenes in W. Jabber's novels. "[y/n], if you've never experienced a kiss, how is it that you wrote such erotically charged passages?"

Her eyes widened in alarm, akin to a child caught red-handed in mischief.

"'The Flowers of Our Garden,' despite its intricate political narrative, contains some rather passionate scenes," he remarked astutely, drawing upon his recollection of the four novels by W. Jabber that he had perused.

"Nothing overly explicit, Ben," she countered defensively. "Nothing I couldn't have imagined."

"Did you imagine being kissed?" he pressed, his gaze piercing.

[y/n] swallowed hard, her mind racing. Of course, she had—what woman hadn't entertained such fantasies? In the past month alone, while toiling alongside Mr Bridgerton day in and day out, [y/n] had conjured more scenarios of tender embraces than she had penned words.

"And what of the intimate caresses described in 'Flowers'? Did you envision someone touching you in those places as the protagonist did with his wife?"

"Ben," she uttered his name with a cautionary tone. "Yes, I am no stranger to worldly matters, having witnessed much within the confines of party gardens. Do not judge me for it. After all, no one judges Mr. Jabber for his prose."

"[y/n]," he started again, rephrasing. "I didn't ask how you know those things in your novels. One doesn't need to have died to know death," he offered through analogy. "But I'm curious if you desired those experiences for yourself. The kisses, the touches...?"

She cast her gaze downward, contemplating her response. "Yes," she admitted quietly.

"Oh, dear," he murmured tenderly, his words a gentle caress. [y/n] lifted her eyes to meet his, finding herself lost in the depths of his caring gaze.

He wanted her as the protagonist of his stories.

Benedict realized that to fulfil her desires, he first needed to address their current situation. And that solution seemed clear: he longed to give a name to their connection.

"Will you marry me?" he implored, drawing closer in the soft glow of the carriage.

"What?" she exclaimed, taken aback. Surely, Benedict must be jesting, she thought.

"I desire your hand in marriage," he persisted. "Please, say you'll marry me. Say you'll be mine, [y/n], and I will support you. I want nothing more than to cherish you. To experience the passion depicted in your novels and beyond. To capture the moments in my paintings. To immortalize you, now and for all eternity, bathed in candlelight."

"Benedict Bridgerton!" she gasped, feeling a flutter in her chest akin to a young maiden's.

"Ben," he gently corrected her. "I'm your illustrator, remember? Your Ben."

He yearned for her affirmation, yet she remained silent, lost in her thoughts. Determined, he leaned in to kiss her, pulling her onto his lap, his desire for her no longer a concern.

"Say yes," he whispered against her skin, trailing kisses along her neck. "Say it, [y/n]."

"Yes," she breathed, succumbing to the intoxicating allure of his touch. "Yes, I am yours."

"You are mine," he declared, his lips trailing lower to the curve of her bosom. With a playful smile, he pressed a kiss before meeting her gaze again. "You are mine."

"I am yours," she affirmed, feeling a shiver of anticipation. And as he bit her there, tenderly, she surrendered to the promise of more—a promise that seemed boundless in the arms of Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict left a trail of kisses all over her that night in the cramped carriage. He began with tender kisses upon the lady's bosom—no, upon his bride's bosom!—before trailing lower, his hands deftly undoing the fastenings of her dress until it lay in disarray. Though not entirely bared, she was more exposed to him than ever.

"I... I..." she attempted to speak, to offer some form of explanation or apology. Was it due to her appearance? But she felt anything but unattractive under his hungry gaze, beneath his fervent touch upon her curves. Perhaps that's why the words eluded her.

He scarcely afforded her a chance to articulate further.

Ben persisted in his passionate assault, his bites and caresses a testament to his desire to taste her, to consume her completely.

"I need you to sit back... no, that won't do," he pondered the spatial constraints of the carriage. "I want you to go back to your seat."

She arched an eyebrow, bemused.

"I will kneel before you."

A soft laugh escaped her lips. "No need to worship me."

He knew she teased him, relishing her playful spirit. "I shall indulge in that too. It's been my practice since our journey began."

A smile of pure delight graced her features.

"But for now, my dear, I simply long to savour you, and that I can only achieve if you recline in your seat."

[y/n]'s initial confusion morphed into a swirl of emotions as Benedict delicately guided her back into her seat within the carriage, positioned her to face him, and divested her of the remaining layers of her attire. Fully exposed now, she stood vulnerable before him, her naked form laid bare. Yet, as she observed Ben's reaction, his evident pleasure at the sight of her, she couldn't suppress the smile that graced her lips.

At that moment, her confusion ebbed away, replaced by a sensation akin to pleasure.

With his bride before him, Benedict ventured where none had dared. [y/n] had never fathomed such intimacy possible. Though she had witnessed many clandestine trysts in the moonlit gardens of ballrooms and countless exchanges of affection, she had not anticipated the sheer ecstasy of feeling his touch in places even she hesitated to explore. It was an exquisite revelation, one she wished to prolong indefinitely.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he inquired, his gaze fixed upon his task. [y/n] responded with a breathy affirmation, amusing him, yet he longed to hear her voice her pleasure. "Speak to me."

"I want you, Ben," she said suddenly, surprising them both by her boldness. "I want… oh!" Her words trailed off as a surge of sensation overwhelmed her. The intensity mounted with each passing moment, threatening to consume her, but Benedict halted before she could reach the brink of release.

"I want you too, dear," he declared, rising from kneeling. "And now, I shall claim you as mine, forever marking you as mine."

She regarded him with eyes ablaze with passion.

"You're ready, more than that," he continued, his words trailing off as he became lost in the depths of his declaration.

A smile graced her lips. "I'm eager."

He grinned; a devilish twinkle in his eyes caused her cheeks to flush crimson.

"It might hurt, I must tell you," he cautioned as he began to undo his trousers. At that moment, as he moved, [y/n] realized she stood alone in her nakedness.

"You must remove your shirt," she insisted, emboldened by her desire. Knowing Ben's yearning for her, she felt empowered to act upon her longing.

"I suppose I must, mustn't I?" he teased.

"I shall assist," she declared, reaching forward to disrobe him, stripping away each garment until he stood as bare as she. With gentle strokes, she trailed her fingers over the expanse of his chest; her curiosity piqued until her touch encountered something far more masculine than the smooth contours of his torso.

"Oh," she gasped, biting her lip in surprise.

"You may explore at your leisure later, my dear," he murmured, covering her hand with his own. "For now, I fear I may lose control if you continue."

Enchanted by his words, she acquiesced, allowing him to guide her hand away from his sensitive skin.

It had felt soft to the touch, yet beneath her gaze, she found it firm, rigid, and elongated. It was not what she had envisioned, but somehow, it was better.

She liked his use of words, so she let him take her fingers away from the delicate skin.

The air thickened with anticipation as their desire reached its crescendo. Benedict's gaze met [y/n]'s, a silent exchange of longing and need that spoke volumes without a single word.

With a shared understanding, they closed the distance between them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s naked form, igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her skin. She gasped as his lips found hers, their kiss a fiery union of passion and urgency.

As their embrace deepened, Benedict guided himself inside her, their bodies becoming one in a primal dance of ecstasy. [y/n] moaned in pleasure, her nails digging into Benedict's back as he moved with a steady rhythm, each thrust driving them closer to the edge of oblivion.

In the throes of passion, time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the rhythmic creaking of the carriage.

It was only them, lost in the blissful oblivion of their shared desire.

And as they reached the peak of their pleasure, they clung to each other with a fierce intensity, their bodies trembling with the force of their release.

As they lay entwined in each other's arms, their breath coming in ragged gasps, Benedict pressed a tender kiss to [y/n]'s forehead, his heart overflowing with love and adoration.

"You're mine, now," she said before he could say it first. For an unknown reason, she felt possessive over him. "I think I... I do love you, Benedict Bridgerton, you must know."

Before she could register the astonishment in his eyes, Benedict silenced his own smile with a fervent kiss, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that spoke volumes.

"I'm yours, without a doubt, and I love you more," he confessed with a smile, though his expression soon shifted to one of realization. "I'll have to procure a special license for our wedding. It will entail some effort... but it will be worth it."

"Can't endure being my fiancé any longer? They say being my husband will be even worse," she teased, her fingers trailing through the dark waves of his hair, tucking them back from his forehead.

"I would gladly remain your fiancé for a lifetime to become your husband for as many lifetimes as we have," he replied charmingly. "However, having a bride who is... with child might raise some eyebrows."

"Oh, Lord," she gasped, her eyes widening in alarm as she pulled back from him. "You don't think...?"

"It's a possibility," he confirmed, his tone laced with both excitement and apprehension.

He felt her tense, her body hardening over his. But he ran his hands over her curves and, smiling, said, "Don't worry about the child, my dear. I heard that a great writer is about to release a beautifully illustrated children's book..."

At his words, their laughter mingled with kisses, at their secret and the promise of a marriage that was not only passionate but also very, very artistic.

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jamilelucato · 2 months

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The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 02)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]

Summary: (Part 01 / Part 03) Miss [y/n] finds herself entangled in a clandestine collaboration with Mr. Benedict Bridgerton. As they navigate their partnership, their connection deepens, sparking whispers of courtship among society's elite.

Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next part will have more explicit scenes, so let’s keep it 18+.

Author’s note: Two chapters in the same day? Am I amazing or what? The third part comes in some hours, though.

To read Anthony’s fic, click here! For other stories, click here.Enjoy!

He was late.

[y/n] glanced at her timeworn pocket watch, a token from her elder sister's husband bestowed upon her during her last birthday. Her patience wore thin as Mr Bridgerton dallied in his arrival.

Hyde Park hummed with activity, yet it held no intimidation for [y/n] and her clandestine pursuit. She was seated on a bench and accompanied by her hired companion, Mrs Pittsburg.

Mrs Pittsburg was a good matron, not as old as Lady Danbury, but still old enough to be someone's grandma. Since [y/n] outgrew the need for a governess, her family enlisted Mrs. Pittsburg's companionship to ensure her company during social engagements and outings.

After all, for Mrs Pittsburg's concern and the now man of the family, [y/n]'s brother, Mr Benedict Bridgerton had asked the young lady for a promenade in the park.

[y/n] hated she had to tell such a misleading lie — Mr Bridgerton was far from courting her — but it was the only thing to explain her need to spend an afternoon with the gentleman.

"He loses my respect by the minute," Mrs. Pittsburg remarked, drawing [y/n]'s attention. "And yours too, I should think."

"Indeed, he may well be," Miss [y/n] concurred, tucking the watch back into its pocket.

[y/n] was rather fond of the dress she had chosen for the occasion. Though practical, with the convenience of a pocket, one might argue it lent her an air of maturity beyond her twenty-five years. Yet, such concerns scarcely crossed her mind.

"Oh," sighed Mrs. Pittsburg, her gaze wandering across the park. "There he is. A lanky lad, I'd say. Much too tall."

[y/n] attempted to follow Mrs. Pittsburg's gaze in vain. She would have to wait and see.

"No need to rise," Mrs. Pittsburg interjected, observing [y/n]'s movement on the bench. "Let him come to you. If he's truly interested, he'll seek you out."

Of course, in this instance, genuine interest was sorely lacking. Nonetheless, [y/n] remained silent and seated, preferring not to ruffle the old lady's feathers.

Fortunately for the ladies, Mr. Bridgerton approached. He sported a hat in a rich shade of blue, complementing his attire impeccably. Benedict cut a dashing figure, [y/n] noted, regret momentarily tugging at her for choosing practicality over a gown befitting a courtship.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Mr. Bridgerton greeted with a deferential nod. Mrs. Pittsburg rested a hand on [y/n]'s shoulder, compelling her to remain seated. "I beg your pardon for my tardiness. My mother detained me longer than anticipated."

Before Mrs. Pittsburg could voice her disdain for his flimsy excuse, [y/n] intervened. "No trouble at all, Mr. Bridgerton. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Pittsburg, my esteemed companion and friend."

Mrs. Pittsburg maintained her grip on [y/n]'s shoulder as she exchanged pleasantries with the gentleman.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Pittsburg. Your husband's tailoring skills are unparalleled."

Unprepared for the compliment, [y/n] watched with interest as Mrs Pittsburg's demeanour softened, pleased by the acknowledgement of her husband's talents. In that brief exchange, Benedict managed to dispel some of the lady's reservations, though [y/n] suspected a crucial factor still hindered their meeting.

Mrs Pittsburg likely perceived Miss [y/n] as beneath the status of a late Viscount's second son. Admittedly, the earnings from [y/n]'s literary endeavours significantly contributed to her family's welfare. Despite her brother accepting the payments under the guise of a generous aunt, [y/n] surmised he would have done so regardless of their origin.

In fairness, Mrs. Pittsburg's apprehensions were not entirely unfounded.

"Mr Bridgerton, Miss [y/l/n], I shall take my leave now as I wish to stretch my legs a bit. I trust you won't mind, my dear?" the elderly lady inquired, her tone charming as ever. It was a stark contrast to her earlier grumblings.

"Not in the least, Mrs Pittsburg," [y/n] affirmed, offering a polite smile.

"I'll be nearby, fear not," the companion assured, releasing her hold on [y/n]'s shoulder.

[y/n] nodded once more, too embarrassed to meet Bridgerton's gaze. Undoubtedly, he would be curious about the old lady's insinuations regarding their supposed courtship.

As soon as Mrs. Pittsburg departed, Benedict extended his hand to [y/n].

"Shall we promenade around?"

The irony of his choice of words, mirroring her own to her brother, was not lost on her as she accepted his gloved hand with a smile.

They had scarcely walked a few paces when Benedict broached the subject. "Shall we ask with pretence, or shall I address it as it is?"

"You'll work for W. Jabber as his illustrator. Secrecy is unnecessary," Miss [y/n] replied, her grip on his arm a touch firmer than intended. Using her pseudonym rather than her given name was always a challenge.

Benedict caught on swiftly.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Jabber. A fine man, I must say," he quipped, stealing a glance in her direction, captivated by her presence.

He had retired late the previous evening. [y/n] had been his childhood companion, always charming, and that was the extent of his assessment. He could append a few less flattering adjectives if pressed: too reserved, too reticent, lacking in confidence. Yet, in a single encounter, all his preconceptions had been upended. He struggled to reconcile those descriptors with the woman before him.

Benedict had perused works by W. Jabber before. Four out of nine, to be precise, and each had been a resounding success, according to his seller. He found them profound, each word imbued with layers of meaning that demanded careful consideration. Although not an avid reader, W. Jabber held a place of honour on his bookshelf. That meant something.

To discover that W. Jabber, a master of language and intrigue, was the demure Miss [y/n] felt akin to being informed that the sky was, in fact, naturally green.

Benedict realised he had been lingering on her form, his gaze drawn to her ample bosom owing to his height advantage. Hastily averting his eyes, he was relieved to find [y/n] looking straight ahead.

A fine man! W. Jabber had nothing of a fine man.

W. Jabber was a stunningly beautiful woman with features that defied conventional standards of beauty, but that arresting, unconventional beauty was certainly what drew Benedict closer and called his attention the most. She commanded attention effortlessly with an ample bosom and hair of a mesmerising hue. The bodice of her unusual gown hugged her waist before cascading over generous curves, creating gentle swells and dips that seemed to dance in harmony with her every step.

Why had she selected such a gown for a simple afternoon stroll? Could she not have opted for a style more befitting of a young, single, innocent lady? These questions plagued Mr. Bridgerton so thoroughly that he found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

"Does Mrs Pittsburg know?" he inquired, attempting to conjure the image of the rather plain matron, especially compared to the woman who graced his arm as they meandered through Hyde Park.

"No, she remains entirely unaware," [y/n] responded, her tone tinged with amusement at the thought. "No soul knows, save for the publisher. And if you've come here to deliver a favourable response to the proposition, you shall meet him."

Benedict couldn't help but halt their progress mid-stride. [y/n] realised this a tad too late, having taken a step ahead in their stroll. Releasing his arm, she turned to face him without shifting her stance.

"You haven't come to deliver a favourable answer," she deduced from his sudden cessation.

"No, I..."

"It's of no consequence," she interjected, securing her hat against a sudden gust of wind. Resuming her walk, she anticipated his proximity behind her. "I had always considered 'no' a plausible outcome. It's a risk too great for one's reputation, after all."

"What's a risky move? To work with the best-selling author W. Jabber?" Benedict asked, hastening to catch up with her. With his own hat in hand, he remained unaffected by the breeze, noting [y/n]'s struggle with it.

Shaking her head, still avoiding direct eye contact, she replied, "Do not jest with me. You are aware of his true identity."

"I am now. I was not previously. To be candid with you, and I trust you shall take it in the good spirit intended, it never occurred to me to ponder the person behind W. Jabber," he confessed. With sudden courage, Benedict gently grasped the young woman's elbow, coaxing her to meet his gaze again. "W. Jabber is an exceptional writer. When tales told are of such brilliance, readers seldom feel compelled to delve into the lives of their creators."

Captivated by the unexpected touch, [y/n] slowly lifted her gaze from where her elbow met Benedict's hand and turned her attention to him. His words were eloquent, yet her insecurities only seemed to strengthen with each passing year. Few could harbour such a secret for as long as she had; she had already invested a decade in this charade.

"So, your reluctance isn't rooted in shame for the author," [y/n] pressed on, eager to steer the conversation away from her lingering dread of exposure. She remained curious as to why Benedict was declining the proposal. "Then why refuse?"

A mischievous grin played upon Benedict's lips. "I am not saying no."

"But you..." Miss [y/n] began, her protest halted by his interruption.

"You scarcely afforded me a moment to speak," he reminded her gently, and she flushed with embarrassment, realising the truth in his words. Mr Bridgerton couldn't help but smile at her reaction, thoroughly delighted to witness her blush spreading from her cheeks down to her neck, and even, with a quick check, he noticed a rosy hue creeping onto the décolletage of her gown.

"If you're not saying no," she declared, seizing Benedict's arm abruptly. While the gesture was appropriate for a stroll in the park, her movement exhibited a swiftness more characteristic of informality than propriety. "Then you're saying yes."

He smiled again, feeling her happiness piercing his veins where their arms touched.

"When may I expect the manuscript?" he inquired, his tone merry and playful.

But the question swiftly extinguished the light in the lady's eyes.

"Oh, no," she protested, shaking her head. "I'm still undergoing the second rewrite; I couldn't possibly furnish you with the entire book at this juncture."

"And how do you propose I illustrate it?"

Benedict Bridgerton had never illustrated a children's book, nor any book, for that matter. Yet, the gentleman was convinced that understanding the narrative was essential to crafting suitable illustrations.

"Of course, you'll read it," [y/n] insisted, referring to her manuscript. "However, I shall provide it to you in chapters. Time is of the essence; regrettably, I procrastinated on completing the initial draft, much to my publisher's chagrin. He wants this book in the hands of children's parents as quickly as possible."

"If it's intended for children, why the urgency to place it in the hands of parents?" Benedict inquired, tilting his head towards the lady.

"Ah, well, that's precisely why its composition proved so protracted," she explained, visibly pleased to expound upon the matter, "and precisely why I shall need to vet all your illustrations before approving."

Benedict waited for her to continue, sensing her fervour in her discourse. He felt a kinship with her passion, reminiscent of his discussions about his paintings with Eloise, his sister.

"The book has a childish facade, yet it is anything but. It operates on multiple levels, you see? There's a surface narrative for children; they'll engage with it and think, 'What a thrilling tale about bees!' However, when parents peruse its pages, they'll discern that the bee society depicted therein resembles British society and our interactions with governmental entities." She seemed oblivious to her surroundings, wholly engrossed in her narrative, envisioning the pages before her despite their absence. Even the wind ceased to perturb her, and she relinquished her struggle to keep her hat anchored, cradling it in her hands instead.

Benedict was entranced.

"The beehive serves as a microcosm of our society and our exploitation of other communities for our gain, often neglecting their well-being in the process, much like bees may pilfer from flowers without reciprocation," she continued, her emotion palpable. "I realise it sounds peculiar to speak of 'bees,' but with the aid of your illustrations, we could create something imbued with darker hues yet still convey beauty."

As Miss [y/l/n] concluded her explanation, she realised she had left the gentleman in a prolonged silence, prompting a wave of embarrassment to wash over her. She turned her head to regard him, silently urging him to offer any commentary.

"So, the bees serve as the story's antagonists?" he inquired, his lips on the verge of a smile.

She almost made it evident that Benedict's question was not what she expected. After such an elaborate discourse, she hadn't anticipated such a simplistic inquiry.

"Some, indeed. Particularly the queen bee," she responded in a measured tone.

Benedict's grin widened, revealing impeccable teeth before he chuckled silently. Though offended by the notion of him laughing at her creation, [y/n] found herself oddly drawn to his mirth.

"What?" she demanded, a hint of irritation seeping into her tone, though her expression betrayed her genuine desire—to share in Benedict's joy.

"I doubt you'll believe it, but," he paused, the laughter subsiding but the happiness lingering in his expression, "my family has long been aware of the villainy of bees. It's heartening to know that the entirety of Britain will soon share our insight."

Benedict couldn't quite decipher the look [y/n] bestowed upon him, but he couldn't deny the grace with which she wore her perplexity. On any other occasion, he mused, he might have kissed her then.

Good Lord, kiss her? What on earth was he thinking? He needed to compose himself, and swiftly, it seemed.

"It would be my pleasure to illustrate your book," he concluded, his words a whisper directed to her, and then, promptly adjusting his posture. There was no room for error with his newly appointed collaborator.

Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] couldn't determine whether to believe the tale of bees and the Bridgertons. However, if that connection was all it took to elicit Benedict Bridgerton's affirmative response, then the story's veracity mattered little to her.

On their inaugural day of collaboration, Miss [y/n] arrived at the Bridgerton House with her initial pages in hand, intending to deliver them to Mr Bridgerton for his perusal.

However, her plan of swift departure was thwarted when she was intercepted by none other than Violet Bridgerton herself, who insisted she stay for tea, citing their familial connection as a reason.

Taking the chance, Benedict withdrew his implements and positioned himself in a discreet corner, remaining silent as the women engaged in conversation.

Following a thorough review of the pages, Benedict retrieved his tools and commenced a rough sketch, his focus unwavering as he captured the essence of [y/n]'s opening chapter.

As Miss [y/l/n], Lady Bridgerton, Miss Eloise, and Miss Hyacinth exchanged gossip and pleasantries, Benedict toiled away at his easel, charcoal in hand, diligently bringing [y/n]'s words to visual life. Meanwhile, [y/n] watched quietly from a distance, her gaze a blend of admiration and critique as she observed his every stroke.

Upon concluding tea and pleasantries, Lady Bridgerton gracefully requested her son, Benedict, to escort Miss [y/n] out. Though her carriage awaited her outside, etiquette dictated that he see her to the door.

Seizing the opportunity, Benedict shared his preliminary sketch with [y/n], though he downplayed its significance, insisting it was but a preliminary effort.

"You've captured the essence of the forest! It's truly enchanting," [y/n] exclaimed, breaking the silence that had pervaded their exchange. "It aligns perfectly with my vision."

Benedict met her praise with a shy smile; his cheeks tinged with a youthful blush that only enhanced his appeal. [y/n] was drawn to his earnestness, a sentiment she couldn't entirely suppress.

"Thank you, Miss [y/n]. Your descriptions made it easy to visualise."

Their collaboration had found a comfortable stride, yet an undercurrent of tension persisted between them, perceptible to those attuned to the nuances of their interactions. While society whispered speculations of courtship, oblivious to the truth of their professional alliance, Benedict diligently sketched while [y/n] meticulously reviewed her manuscript, exchanging feedback and suggestions.

Fortune smiled upon them as they were both invited to the same ball, offering [y/n] the perfect opportunity to inquire about Benedict's thoughts on the latest chapter she had dispatched through a delivery boy just the day prior.

"You've captured the emotion in this scene impeccably," Benedict remarked, his eyes lingering on her as they swept across the dance floor in the graceful movements of the waltz. "Your writing possesses a captivating quality."

[y/n]'s cheeks flushed at his praise, a warmth blossoming in her chest at his words. "Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton," she responded, but the formality of addressing him by his last name felt increasingly awkward. She had grown accustomed to referring to him as Benedict Bridgerton in the letters accompanying her chapters. While it maintained a level of professional distance, it now seemed ill-suited to the intimacy of their current setting.

As Benedict guided her gracefully around the ballroom, [y/n] couldn't shake the feeling of eyes upon them. Indeed, it was rare to behold her engaged in a dance, for no gentleman ever asked. But amidst the curious glances, she couldn't help but wonder—were they actually seeing something there?

In the serene sanctuary of his studio within the Bridgerton House, Benedict devoted himself to a particularly intricate illustration, his attention steadfast and unwavering. Across the expanse of the room, [y/n] perched at his family's desk, her mind consumed with thoughts as she diligently penned notes for the forthcoming chapter of her book. Glancing up, Benedict found himself captivated by the sight of her; her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently as she crafted her prose.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Benedict drank in the image before him, the soft glow of the lamplight casting a halo around [y/n]'s form. He felt a surge of admiration for her dedication and talent, a longing stirring within him that he couldn't quite articulate.

Though tempted to speak, Benedict opted to return to his drawing. The prior evening, [y/n] had led him on a midnight escapade—not the romantic interlude he had secretly hoped for, but an important visit to the publisher she had spoken so highly of. Twelve days into their collaboration, Benedict had yet to formalise the book contract.

Meeting Mr. Brendy, Benedict found a man of integrity who regarded [y/n] with paternal affection. Their private conversation confirmed Mr. Brendy's protective stance, a sentiment Benedict respected deeply.

"She's a remarkable woman. Sometimes I wish she had been born mine," the man told Benedict. "Nonetheless, I'll not hesitate to take action if you endanger her or her career. Do I make myself clear?"

Benedict assured Mr Brendy of his intentions, though the man's knowing smile left him uneasy.

But those concerns were now settled; the contract was signed and sealed. Benedict wouldn't profit much from the whole thing — he wasn't such a famous painter to ask more than the minimum offered. Besides, he felt like [y/n] should be the one profiting more, for if it were not for her descriptions, he wouldn't have been able to draw a thing.

As Benedict meticulously shaded the delicate petals of a flower, his focus consumed by the task at hand, he failed to notice the quiet entrance of his mother, Lady Violet Bridgerton. Across the room, [y/n] had her pen gliding across the paper and had not seen the matron either. Lady Bridgerton observed them both for a moment, noting the intensity of their concentration, before deciding to remain silent and unobtrusive.

Content to let her son and the Miss continue their work undisturbed; Lady Bridgerton turned to leave the room, her footsteps barely audible against the plush carpeting. As she reached the door, however, she noticed a figure waiting by the wall: her youngest daughter, Hyacinth, with an inquisitive gaze fixed upon her mother.

"They've been in the same position for hours. Shouldn't we be worried?" Hyacinth whispered, her brow furrowed in concern.

Lady Bridgerton paused, considering her daughter's words. She glanced back into the room, where Benedict and [y/n] remained engrossed in their tasks, seemingly unaware of their surroundings.

Lady Bridgerton gently smiled toward her daughter, her hesitation brief yet palpable. "Let them be," she murmured softly before gliding down the hallway, leaving the two young creatives to their endeavours, shielded from the outside world.

Hyacinth couldn't shake the sense that there was more to the situation than met the eye, a whisper of secrecy lingering in the air beyond the purview of the adults.

A sense of triumph permeated the room as their gazes lingered upon the final illustration for the book.

Miss [y/n] had meticulously revised her narrative, leaving only Mr. Bridgerton's finishing touches to complete their project.

Stepping back to afford her a closer inspection of his art, Benedict couldn't help but swell with pride at the culmination of their collaboration. [y/n]'s eyes sparkled with excitement as she absorbed the drawing before her.

"It's perfect," she breathed, her voice filled with awe. "You've truly outdone yourself, Ben."

He met her gaze, a warmth spreading through him at the use of a nickname. For the last three days, he noticed [y/n] had started calling him by his given name, too, and he replied by doing the same to her. Yet, to hear her shorten it to "Ben" stirred something deeper within him. He found himself savouring the sound of her voice.

"It wouldn't have been possible without your imagination."

In that fleeting moment, amidst their shared creation, the boundaries of their partnership blurred, leaving behind an unspoken connection that had blossomed over the weeks.

Yet, Miss [y/n] couldn't help but remind herself of their surroundings — her family lingered just steps away from the library door. While her brother had granted Mr Bridgerton a private moment with her, she knew it couldn't last. Any inklings of confusion she harboured were futile — for both the present moment and the gentleman. What right did she have to entertain thoughts beyond their professional collaboration with the second son of a Viscount?

"Well, then it's settled. The work, I mean," Miss [y/n] remarked, stepping away from Benedict to steady her racing heart. "I can deliver the drawings to Mr Brendy this evening."

"You're not considering going alone, are you?" Benedict interjected, his concern evident as he recalled the less savoury district where Mr Brendy's office was situated.

"Don't be ridiculous; I've managed perfectly well on my own for the past ten years," she dismissed, brushing off Benedict's worries with a wave of her hand.

The room fell into silence briefly — the space between them filled with unspoken tension.

"You were going there alone as a young girl?" Benedict exclaimed, scandalised, though he didn't wait for her confirmation; he knew it to be true. "You were barely sixteen; you hadn't even made your debut yet."

"I truly hadn't," [y/n] affirmed, the edge in his tone stinging her. She had expected a glimmer of pride when she turned to face him, but instead, she found only frustration. "But don't fret; I've never attracted much notice. You said as much the day we discussed our collaboration, remember?"

"I never said you would go unnoticed," he retorted sharply. "I merely suggested that your alias would likely escape detection, given the assumption that he was a man."

Crossing her arms defensively, [y/n] avoided meeting his gaze.

"And what a fine man I am," she sighed, recalling his earlier words.

Benedict fought the urge to curse and vent his frustration; he was a guest in this house, and [y/n] deserved his respect.

How often, before, had he teetered on the edge of propriety since they embarked on this clandestine venture? How often had he seen her frown, longed to soothe her with a kiss to her forehead, or caught her smiling at his drawings and yearned to have her? Yet, he had restrained himself, for she was a lady — unfortunate in her circumstances, perhaps, but her last name was still of great esteem.

However fortunate or unfortunate the timing, before Benedict could utter any truths and [y/n] could voice any lamentations, they were interrupted by the abrupt entrance of [y/n]'s brother, Mr. [y/l/n], poised to catch them in a compromising situation.

Mr. [y/l/n] found himself perplexed by the scene that greeted him: his sister's furrowed brow and the gentleman's evident frustration. But he did not need to comprehend; he simply interjected. A man deeply fond of his sister, likely due to the considerable time they spent in each other's company, Mr [y/l/n] couldn't help but dote on [y/n]. While their elder sister had already embarked on married life and motherhood, [y/n] remained steadfast in the [y/l/n] household, deemed a spinster by society's standards.

"My apologies for the interruption," he offered, though he harboured no remorse. "What's the discussion?"

Spotting [y/n]'s discomfort in her brother's presence, Benedict seized the opportunity to assert himself. "I've just invited your sister to accompany me to Lady Danbury's ball this evening."

The lady's brother was confused. "Will she have a second dance in the same season?"

"Lady Danbury has her own set of rules, dear brother," [y/n] retorted, finally speaking up to defend the unconventional elderly lady.

"Ah, indeed," her brother chuckled, recalling how Lady Danbury's unconventional ways had led him to his current wife. "But, little sister, did you accept?"

Benedict turned to [y/n], a defiant gleam in his eye, silently daring her to refute his claim, to hide behind the facade he presumed she wore.

"I accepted, naturally," [y/n] replied with a mischievous smile, her gaze fixed squarely on Benedict as she addressed her brother. "I'm honored by the invitation."

"Ah, splendid," Mr. [y/l/n] nodded approvingly. Rarely had his sister been extended such an offer. And here was Benedict Bridgerton, his old friend from Eton, one of London's most sought-after bachelors, extending it. The irony was not lost on him. "Bridgerton, my apologies, but I must ask you to take your leave. Family matters require my sister's attention."

"Of course, [y/l/n]. Please, proceed," Benedict acquiesced with a gesture, turning to bid [y/n] a polite farewell. "I'll call for you at seven, Miss."

"I eagerly await it," she responded sharply, immediately regretting her tone. As Benedict exited the room, leaving her alone with her brother, [y/n] braced herself for any further inquiries. "Don't ask," she preempted Mr. [y/l/n].

"I wasn't planning to," he reassured her, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. "But how did you do it?"

"Oh, shut up," she cursed and left the room.

#benedict bridgerton #Benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x yn #bridgerton #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton #polin

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jamilelucato · 2 months

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The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 01)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n] Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London. Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+. Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it! (Part 02 here!) To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy! Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.

For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.

Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.

"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"

The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.

"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.

"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.

"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"

The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."

"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?"

After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"

"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"

Dear God, she hoped not.

"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."

"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.

"Would you be able to make an exception?"

There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.

"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"

"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."

"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.

"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."

She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?

"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."

"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."

"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"

She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?

"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"

"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."

"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?

She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."

He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."

After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.

That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.

Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?

She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?

He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.

Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.

Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.

"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"

[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."

"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."

"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.

"Mister Bridgerton!"

Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?

"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.

"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."

Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."

"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.

Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."

"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.

"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.

"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"

"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"

"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."

"Your niece?" he echoed.

"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"

Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.

"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"

Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.

"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"

Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.

"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.

"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.

"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"

"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"

[y/n] had no reason to disagree.

"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."

Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.

"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."

"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."

But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.

Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.

The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.

She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.

Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.

No.

He didn't like it.

Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!

Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.

"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."

Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.

"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"

"Yes," he replied overly quickly.

"And you draw?"

"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).

Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.

She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.

"Need a painting, Miss?"

"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.

He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.

"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"

"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.

[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.

"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."

"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?

"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.

Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."

She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.

"But I am."

"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.

[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.

"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."

Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.

"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.

"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."

"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."

Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."

"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."

Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.

As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.

#benedict bridgerton #Benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x yn #bridgerton #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton #polin #lady danburry

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jamilelucato · 2 months

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Unlikely - Emmett Cullen

Summary: Edward Cullen discovers a surprising secret when he inadvertently tunes into the thoughts of a fellow student, [y/n] [y/l/n], revealing her crush on none other than his brother, Emmett. As their unexpected connection unfolds, both face the complexities of love and the challenges of their supernatural existence.

Pairing: [y/n] [y/l/n] x Emmett Cullen

Universe: Twilight

Author's Note: So, I have had this in store for a while, waiting for the right time to post it. I feel like Emmett deserves I do it. Btw, I can't promise a part 2 or something like that. For an unknown reason, it's been hard for me to write characters kissing and stuff. But get them flirting below.

Info: Emmett here is supposedly enroled in the same year as Edward and Bella, because I wanted to keep him in school whereas I wanted Rosalie gone. Love Rosalie, though. I'm telling you this because it's not canon, so... there you go.

### Edward was the first to notice, of course.

He wasn't paying much attention until this girl's thoughts popped louder than the rest of the cafeteria.

Edward already had so much trouble — keeping tabs on Bella Swan — that his most minor concern was the other students at Forks High School.

But her thoughts were loud and clear. I can't believe it! I… I am crushing on him! Gods, embarrassing…

Edward Cullen frowned. He was always around teenagers, and more often than not, they'd find themselves in love. Why was this random girl's mental voice so loud and clear, then?

He's never paid attention to me before. He just borrowed me a pen. Get a grip on yourself, [y/n]! The girl's mind shouted, reprehending herself.

"What is it, Edward?" Bella asked, calling back his attention to her. Edward was curious about the other students, but no one in the world came before Bella Swan to him.

"Someone's called my attention," Edward answered, letting Bella grasp his hand.

"Good or bad?" she asked.

"A student," Edward answered, unsure yet if listening to the random girl's thoughts so clearly was a bad sign. "She's found herself crushing on someone."

Bella looked puzzled. "Oh, well. It happens to all of us," she jested but still looked worried. "Any idea why her voice is louder?"

Even after all those many months apart, Bella quickly understood Edward's gift. But the loud voice had disappeared.

"It was [y/n] [y/l/n]. But I don't know who she's crushing on that can be so bad…" Edward let his sentence trail off, looking around the cafeteria for the human.

Emmett's face lit up, and he chimed in. "[y/n]? I talked to her today in Biology class. She's my lab partner."

Bella moved her neck to face Emmett better. "I did not know that."

Emmett shrugged. "I mean, it's not like we interact. She's been my partner for a while in that class, but you know…" he didn't finish his sentence, embarrassed to tell Bella what he really thought. But Edward read it all in Emmett's mind: but I don't usually bother with humans.

Edward pressed his lips together, reacting to his brother's thought. He also didn't want to tell Bella that he agreed.

"But what was it about [y/n], anyway? Is she in danger?" Emmett asked, not showing his concern. To Bella, it all seemed like curiosity. But to Edward, well, he saw Emmett's thoughts trailing off.

"No, not at all," Edward nodded. "I don't think I've tuned to her thoughts before, that's all. It was just so loud a minute ago."

"Ah," Emmett let out. What was she saying? I know you won't tell me, but you sure as hell told Bella.

"What I said is what I heard," Edward affirmed, answering Emmett's mind.

"So she has a crush, good for her!" Emmett said, raising his tone just a bit but enough for Bella to notice.

Before Edward could intrude on his brother's reaction, Emmett left.

***

Emmett sat at his seat, tensed. Being a vampire and all, he had no need for breathing, definitely no need for oxygen. But it was a habit to do so, to get a grasp of scent and also to act more "human". However, that day, he felt like he was hyperventilating.

So Edward had heard [y/n] had a crush on someone. No big deal. Was she one of the funniest girls he ever met? Yes. Did she have such a crooked smile that made her more beautiful? Yes. Did she seem to always understand him, even when he barely spoke to her? Yes. But that meant nothing and would stay meaning nothing, for she was a human, and he was a vampire.

Emmett concluded it would have been better if Edward had not mentioned any of [y/n]'s thoughts. In fact, since Edward was always so focused on Bella, Emmett thought [y/n] would stay out of his radar. Goddammit.

"Hey, Emm," [y/n] said, catching Emmett by surprise as she sat beside him.

[y/n] was in many other classes Emmett was enrolled in, but Biology was the only course they actively sat together. Well, one time in English class, Emmett was left out of group partners, and [y/n] politely and unexpectedly asked him to join her group. But that had been one time.

He wouldn't admit it to his siblings, but [y/n] had caught him off guard. Emmett had been so distracted thinking about her that her scent passed unnoticed when she was finally there.

"Hi, [y/n]!" he replied, quickly cleaning his throat after noticing his "hi" had sounded a bit too high-pitched. He wished he had a nickname for [y/n] as she had, with time, shortened his name after the forced proximity. He had tried out some possibilities in his mind, but he was a man of his time, and just calling her by her first name and not simply "miss" was too much for his little mind.

"It's snowing today," she prompted, shifting her eyes from his face to the window nearby.

"I noticed," Emmett nodded.

"Do you plan to snow-fight your siblings?" she asked shyly after becoming embarrassed by his gruff reply.

Emmett's face lit up just a bit, and he hoped it was invisible for [y/n]'s human eyes. She's trying to make small talk, he concluded, smiling internally.

"You've noticed I do that, huh," he playfully leaned his head.

[y/n] smiled. "Last year, I saw you trying to hit Alice. She was quick though," she said, moving her shoulders as if to shrug, but not quite. "I just hope you don't plan to have your fight in the cafeteria again."

Emmett's eyebrows were eager to shoot up, but he controlled them just in time. So [y/n] had noticed him and his siblings since the year before. Of course, she had known Emmett since their first high school year — or should he say her first high school year? — and of course, one thing or another, she was bound to catch up about the Cullens. But to have detected him launching Alice a snowball... and to remember it, that was something.

"Be careful then," Emmett joked. "I can't make any promises."

"Oh, please," [y/n] rolled her eyes, shifting the way she sat so she could look to the front of the classroom. She continued without facing Emmett, "As if you would ever hit on me... I mean, on me! No! I mean, hit me! With a snowball."

Her face was so red Emmett thought her head was going to explode. Did humans' heads do that? Did they explode?

[y/n] saw he looked concerned, but she misinterpreted it. Emmett had barely noticed her slip in language use.

"I don't mean you would hit on me at all," she kept shaking her head as if to erase her language mistake. "Not that it matters; both are something you would never do," she whispered now, more to herself than to the boy, but being a vampire, he heard it all. "Forget it, Emmett. I'm so sorry."

Emmett was instantly calmer, but not because he was glad she apologised — why was she apologising again? — but because the redness was slowly disappearing from [y/n]'s face, which definitely meant she was not gonna explode, he felt very relieved, which surprised him. When Edward had mentioned, the year before, how easily humans could die, Emmett had thought his brother was being absurd. But he was worried about this human girl beside him for some reason.

He planned to ask [y/n] if she was indeed all right, but the professor walked in, and all the chances he had to do so seemed to disappear.

***

[y/n] could not, for her life, tell what Mr. Banner was going on and on about. Was it about cells? About nature? She was utterly unfocused, even though her eyes were fixed on the weird teacher. Well, actually, she would fix her gaze at anything and anyone, if that was enough, to avoid looking to her left and eyeing Emmett Cullen.

All her mind could do was blame herself. She had known Emmett since the Cullens came to the town; there was no reason for fuss. The family was undoubtedly the most beautiful of all. All of them could be models, including Dr. Carlisle, whom she met when she unintentionally had to stitch a bruise. Since entering high school and having known them, her gaze was fatally met with Emmett's.

It was not as if he had reacted in any other way, if not with boredom. She grew discouraged after each "incident" but continued to spy on the Cullen family. However, whenever Rosalie and Edward caught her staring, [y/n] felt uneasy and quickly averted her gaze. She knew there was no point in admiring Emmett Cullen when he already had Rosalie Hale by his side. So, who was [y/n] compared to the stunning blonde goddess?

[y/n] was extremely surprised when she witnessed the Cullens' return to Forks.

Seeing Bella Swan go through a "mourning process," [y/n] felt understood because she had felt the same way, although on a much smaller scale. However, she would never have confessed it or let it show. Who was she to miss the Cullens?

She never expected Edward Cullen or Emmett to come back, but one day, there they were. [y/n] arrived late one day and had not noticed the extra car in the parking lot. When it was time for biology class, [y/n] was caught off guard to see that she had a new (old) partner already sitting at the table they were supposed to share.

Letting herself dive into this thread of thought, [y/n] was sure that it was not at that moment, when he returned, that she saw herself surrendered to Emmett. Yes, she had gotten more loose and relaxed when she noticed that Rosalie had not accompanied her siblings or Jasper Hale because they had graduated. But Edward's gaze still haunted her. Something told her that the whole family moved by the boy's fault (even if the rumours said that Dr Carlisle had accepted a better job), so [y/n] was afraid that Edward would make his family move again.

After secretly paying attention, she was surprised to detect that Bella was also afraid of them disappearing again.

Before Biology class ended, [y/n]'s mind replayed a specific, very recent memory. The day before, she was about to write something down when her pen started failing. She thought she wasn't reacting noticeably, but somehow Emmett glimpsed her sudden need.

"Do you want a pen of mine to borrow?" he asked, already holding the thing out to her grasp.

[y/n] raised her eyes from her notebook to meet his golden gaze.

"Oh, thank you," she smiled, borrowing the pen.

Emmett had said nothing more and returned his gaze to Mr Banner. [y/n] thought she ought to do the same and rushed to write down the rest of the speech.

When the class had ended, [y/n] turned to Emmett before he could head out. "Here you go, Emm," she smiled at him, trying her hardest to look polite. "Thank you."

The nickname must have gotten him off guard — even though [y/n] was sure she had called him so before — because his golden eyes widened.

"You can keep it," he said, not a hint of hesitation, even though his expression seemed hesitant.

"Oh," [y/n] gasped. "Thanks again, then," she smiled with her cheeks high, feeling they were reddening.

It was then he surprised her: Emmett smiled.

She did not see it coming at all. [y/n] had talked to the boy before. They had even joked around — when Mr Benner said something sex-related, the duo was really juvenile for that topic, and they would always let a little chuckle out — but that smile was different. It was wide, genuine. Emmett showed all his beautiful white teeth at her, and she was mesmerised by the whole view. He had dimples.

Emmett Cullen had dimples!

[y/n] remembered stumbling in her words, trying to find something to say because she wanted Emmett to keep smiling. But he simply nodded at her and got up, leaving the classroom before [y/n] could form a coherent thought.

She spent the whole day revisiting the memory of his smile and dimples. She was frozen in that Biology class; it was as if she never left. In her mind, she kept the conversation going. She knew he was a clown — she liked him best of all the Cullens for it — and so perhaps, she could have prompted a joke, such as "Do you think we're so poor compared to you, rich Cullens, that I need a pen as a gift?" It could've been funny; maybe he would've kept smiling. Perhaps he would laugh but really laugh and not hold back as usual.

But, in the end, she said nothing, just like today.

When Mr Banner announced they were free, [y/n] instantly turned her gaze to Emmett.

"Oh, sorry there, Emm," she swallowed hard, trying to keep her brave facade as she spoke to him. "It seems there's no longer snow for your fight."

He shrugged, and a light of playfulness hit his face. "No problem there. I can just punch Edward straight up."

She wasn't sure if it had been his innocent way of speaking or if it had been the mention of just the right brother, but [y/n] cracked up in one of her loudest laughs yet. The students who hadn't already run out of the classroom all turned to stare at her.

Emmett seemed to get in a shocked state. He wasn't expecting that reaction.

"I'm sorry," [y/n] said, trying to catch her breath. It was not easy; she still wanted to laugh. "I... I don't know why that was so funny."

"Maybe because Edward has a very punchable face," Emmett suggested, letting go of his restraints and following [y/n] in chuckles.

"I'm sure you've done that many times," [y/n] raised a brow, instigating him to go on.

"Unfortunately," Emmett tilted, "no, I have not."

"Oh," [y/n] did not see that answer coming, "too much of a good brother?"

Emmett snorted a laugh. "Definitely not that. I just never seem to catch him," Emmett knew why that was so, whereas [y/n] would never have a clue: Edward read his mind any time Emmett tried to catch the sibling by surprise with punches or simply trying to give a scare.

As much as [y/n] wanted to continue the conversation, she had the next class to go to. She sighed lowly, but Emmett heard it right away, and he couldn't help smiling at her silly human reaction to leaving.

[y/n] stared at his smile like a child watching Santa come down from the chimney.

"Dimples," she thought aloud, not realising it until it was too late. Hoping Emmett didn't notice, she averted her eyes and started gathering her books, but the Cullen had heard it all too well.

He remained silent, though, allowing her heartbeat to stead again. When she was already up, probably about to nod him goodbye, he said, "You have dimples too."

***

Red is definitely her colour. How have I never noticed before? Besides that cute turtle neck she was wearing, when the red flushed her cheeks, that was...

The image totally got Edward by surprise. He was walking out of one of his classes when, passing the hallway, a mind ahead called his attention to a particular image. Then, the voice! The oh-so-familiar, very annoying mental voice of none other than Emmett Cullen.

In seconds, Edward was beside his sibling. "What was that?"

Shit! Emmett's face was as embarrassed as his mental voice. The sibling quickly started singing some random annoying pop song to pull Edward out of his mind, but it was too late.

"Why were you thinking of [y/n] like that?" Edward asked.

"Like what?" Emmett replied, but Edward's question worked, making Emmett revisit his thoughts, and [y/n]'s face popped up again, with Edward getting a complete view.

The old-school vampire was suddenly repulsed and stepped slightly to the side.

You are the one in my mind! Emmett accused him in thought.

"Not because I want to, believe me!" Edward exclaimed, returning to his spot next to Emmett. "Brother, I better hope you know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything," Emmett said defensively.

Edward raised a brow, wishing Emmett could read his thoughts and see how foolish in love Emmett had thought about [y/n].

"Stay out of my business," Emmett nudged his brother. I can't find anyone pretty anymore?

"After having Rosalie, I highly doubt you'd think that of a human," Edward answered Emmett's unspoken question.

"Rosalie and I... we're not a couple. We have our fun; that's all," Emmett said. "Besides, we haven't had fun in decades; you know that."

Edward knew because he had read their sex-deprived thoughts before. Still, he had thought Emmett was evolving, for he had stopped picturing Rosalie in a… needy way. But now, it seemed it had a different reason why.

Suddenly, another piece fell into place.

"She has fallen for you," Edward gasped in such a whisper only vampire hearing could catch it.

What? Emmett's mind shouted. "Don't be silly," he said aloud.

"It was definitely you [y/n] mentioned having a crush on yesterday," Edward continued his theory, forcing them both to stop walking and stay in the middle of the hallway. "That's probably why she caught my attention; she must have exclaimed your name! In thought," he added, although it was apparent.

"Are you sure about this?" Emmett asked, out of habit mostly, for he knew that no amount of hoping could make Edward wrong, not when he had a sibling so powerful.

Emmett's mind was racing as he tried to process it all. It was the first time Edward had trouble keeping up with him. Emmett was generally slower, even mentally, than Edward, but that was not the case now as he tried to understand everything about [y/n]. Edward caught up to some images — [y/n] blushing, [y/n] making a joke and laughing alone, and then the terrifying one. It was similar to the ones Edward had regarding Bella, too: [y/n] with eyes so red and skin so pale that there was no denying her heart no longer beat.

But when Edward returned his gaze to his taller brother, Emmett was not sad at the view, not half as much as Edward was when he thought of Bella as a vampire.

"Stop it," Edward begged, noticing Emmett's mind went on; he had started enduring the idea of Bella talking to [y/n] about what it was like to love a monster.

Emmett shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. "Sorry, man. It's just that...I never thought someone like her would fall for me."

Edward's worries shifted topics. "Why would you say that?" Edward had felt like that; he still felt like that with Bella, always thinking of himself as a killer and not deserving of love. But Emmett was most comfortable being a vampire out of all his family members. So, his brother had never thought to see him doubting himself.

Emmett's thoughts were faster than his tongue. Not even Rosalie fell for me, not really, and she was the one that found me, and she's our... species. [y/n] is a human girl with a life ahead of her, a full one at that; I don't see how she'd fallen for me. "Are you sure it's love?" Emmett asked out loud.

"Well, she thought it was a crush," Edward replied, returning to his own memories of [y/n]. But he didn't dwell on them for long. Edward was still trying to process Emmett's confession about Rosalie. He had always seen Emmett as cheerful, never realising that his brother might also feel unloved. They had more in common than Edward had ever thought.

Emmett sighed, and even before Edward could say anything — advice or a comforting word — Emmett lowered his head. "I know, Edward. I understand the risks."

Edward frowned. He couldn't believe Emmett immediately concluded that Edward would be mad at him. Of course, there were risks, not just because the girl involved was human. Even if Emmett didn't think Rosalie loved him (and Edward, being a mind reader and all, agreed), she would also cause some trouble.

But who was Edward to judge his brother's choices regarding a human?

"Look, if you decide to pursue this relationship, I'll support you."

Emmett smiled, surprised but yet feeling grateful for his brother's support. Thank you, he thought, and Edward nodded.

Edward thought love was a powerful emotion, and he couldn't blame Emmett for feeling like he did. However, he hoped that Emmett would make the right decision, whatever that may be.

#emmett cullen x reader #emmett cullen x y/n #emmett cullen #twilight saga #twilight #edward cullen

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jamilelucato · 3 months

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the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

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jamilelucato · 4 months

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It was my wish to write a fic for Emmett Cullen, but I think I lost my way into short writing? I cannot seem to put an end to the Emmett story, and it isn't even because I have a thing to say (I don't; the fic is mainly me trying to fix the Twilight Saga).

#emmett cullen #twilight saga #twilight #edward cullen #emmett Cullen x reader #emmett cullen x y/n

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jamilelucato · 5 months

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Edward in Alaska laying under a pile of snow thinking about the wretched human girl who just moved to Forks whose blood smells so good he almost massacred an entire classroom: I’m a monster

The one text he receives from Emmett the whole week:

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jamilelucato · 5 months

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a little visit (fred weasley)

pairing: y/n x fred weasley summary: in the wizarding war's aftermath, (y/n) unexpectedly reunites with Fred Weasley at the Weasley Jokeshop. notes: so this is something that has been sitting in my drafts for a while, and I thought to upload it even though I do not plan any sequence whatsoever (I'm sorry) warnings: war mention; maybe a bit sad; no kisses here, sorry.

It hadn't been years since she saw the Weasley twins. Well, maybe a couple of years. Five? After the war, dates were a mess. People were trying to reorganise their lives and move on from the losses. It wasn't the time yet for reunions, but this one happened.

"Come on, take me in," the child begged.

(y/n) looked down at her little nephew. She had an older brother (alive still, thank Merlin), but the man was working his ass off to reconstruct his house, and so, more often than not, (y/n) would babysit for his little boy. The kid was six and full of opinions; most of it (y/n) endured with a smile. But there was a spirit of troublemaking in the little boy's ways, and (y/n) should've known better than to take him through Diagon Alley, especially where the Weasley Jokeshop was.

"Urgh," she sighed. "You have ten minutes, but it's just it."

And before the little boy was too out of range to hear, she added, "And I'll only buy you one thing! Pick well!" But even warning him, (y/n) presumed the boy would find a way to try and get more items than necessary.

Knowing she should not leave her nephew alone in the enormous store, (y/n) entered it right after, sighing. The whole place was so Gryffindor. Of course, the owners had once been Gryffindor students, but it was weird to see they hadn't broken out of the patterns, the reds, the gold. (y/n) had been a Slytherin, but nothing about her nowadays gave it away. Or so she thought.

She was so distracted by the items and the colours that she barely noticed the man approaching her until they bumped midway. "I'm so sorry, miss," he answered automatically.

"No, I… I…" her voice dried off when her eyes met his. "I apologise."

He smiled instantly at recognising her. "That's a first."

"Hello there, Fred Weasley," or so she thought he was Fred. George and his twin were alike and identical, but there was something about the smiles Fred offered her back at Hogwarts… they were always so mischievous.

George had a collective way of smiling. It was more put together, she thought, as if in effort. Fred's smiles were more involuntary, often making his face crooked.

"What's a first?" (y/n) asked, noticing the man kept grinning but failed to offer her a proper response. "Me apologising or me at your shop?"

"Both," he replied, and even though (y/n) had no way of knowing, she guessed he had only thought of one of the alternatives, but they both fell so well he accepted them. "Hello, (y/n)."

"Ah, he does remember my name," she replied, smiling just as mischievously as he had.

"I must. Few people can tell me apart from Georgie. The least I can do is acknowledge the ones that do," Fred shrugged, dismissing the fact that he remembered her as nothing. But it wasn't nothing to her. "By the way, how can you still tell us apart? We haven't talked…."

"Since Hogwarts? Since the war?" she gasped after saying the last part. People weren't yet supposed to be referring to "the war". It had been a brutal, dark time for the wizarding community, and it was too soon to mention it so casually as if it had been just another Tuesday.

But Fred seemed not to give proper care to her calmness.

"I have my tricks, Weasley," she answered in the end, shrugging. "You don't tell me all of yours; why should I tell you all of mine?"

He smiled again, but more lightly this time.

"Well…" he cleaned his throat, changing his tone to a more businesslike one. "What can I do for you today, Miss?"

She supressed a smile of embarressement. "A discount?"

He couldn't help the small chuckle he let out.

"I'm here with my little nephew, Rick. I'm sure he'll want something out of my budget," (y/n) finally explained as her eyes wandered the place, looking for said kid. But she did not find him.

"Well, good thing the kid is relative to one of my dearest school friends," Fred said, tilting his head.

"Dearest?" she echoed.

Fred shrugged, dismissing it. In a second of conversation, he had done it twice. It was starting to bother (y/n).

"Let's see what the little guy wants," Fred proposed. "Where's he?"

(y/n) grimaced. "If only I knew."

"You're his aunt." Fred pointed out categorically.

"Yeah," she nodded.

"You brought him here."

"Yep," she agreed again, monotonely.

Fred raised a dark red brow at her.

"I'm sure he'll find me once he gets what he wants," (y/n) said as she crossed her arms. Noticing that was the end of their rapid quest to find her nephew, (y/n) changed the subject. "How's momma Weasley?"

She had met the woman twice. Once, back at Hogwarts, when she was a simple student girl. Mrs Weasley had shown up to see Harry Potter compete at the Triwizard Tournament, and when she went to hug her sons, (y/n) was casually by. The second time was again at Hogwarts, but this time (y/n) was already a graduate, and Mrs Weasley was much more of a warrior than a mother. The scenario didn't allow them to interact, but (y/n) saw enough of the boys' momma.

"She's doing okay," Fred replied, his eyes wandering around as if he was conjuring the image of his mother before him. "Haven't seen her in a while, frankly. After the war, she kinda became too worried about us, which gets annoying."

"Well, she almost lost you." And there it was, (y/n)'s slip. She knew it was bound to happen — it was the actual last time she saw Fred Weasley. She just hoped it wouldn't be mentioned so soon in their conversation. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have."

Fred raised a hand as if stopping her apology. "It's true; you haven't got to be sorry about that," he said. "I did scare everyone, didn't I?"

"Worst prank ever."

That comment made him grin. "It wasn't a prank; I was on the brink of death," he tried defending himself, but he was smiling too much to be convincing.

"Ewh," (y/n) shrugged. "Worst prankster ever, still."

He finally let his laugh break free, and she followed, both looking so young by interacting.

Of course, the reason for the laughs was rather stupid — Fred had seen death and came back. Or at least, she heard. (y/n) was casting spells and curses as if her life depended on it that day (and it did), so she had little to no time to worry about other people, except maybe her brother, who was battling by her side. She had glimpsed some Professors and Mr and Mrs Weasley, but even when they talked, they weren't talking. It was all survival.

Besides, (y/n) and her brother had the not-so-ordinary task of fighting their father, who battled for the Dark Lord's side. She was glad she had Rick's father by her side, but it was still hard for a daughter to cast unforgivable curses at her daddy.

When she heard the first whispers — "A Weasley has been hit" — she wanted desperately to know which one, but she had no time. (y/n) had to care for her own brother, the father of a baby boy she did not want to see orphaned.

After the end of the battle, when Harry Potter had emerged victorious, (y/n) finally mustered the courage to look for the Weasley family. She saw Fred in a chaotic state but doubted he'd remember as he was passed out. Madame Pomfrey was giving her whole life and power to bring him back. (y/n) stood on the sidelines, quietly watching, and when the Hogwarts lady got up and said he would wake up soon, (y/n) was so relieved she ran away, scared of having to deal with the Weasley's hugs.

Fred's laughter echoed through the colourful shelves of the Jokeshop, creating a symphony of joy that transcended the painful memories of the past. As their laughter subsided, (y/n) couldn't help but feel a strange mixture of comfort and nostalgia settling in.

Before (y/n) could settle again, in a more calm posture, she glimpsed a short shadow running around. She looked at Fred, only to realise he had seen the shadow too.

"Do you think that was…"

"My nephew?" (y/n) finished his sentence. "Possibly. Did you see where he went? You know the place best."

Fred scratched his head, a playful glint in his eye. "I might have seen a little troublemaker sneaking into the Skiving Snackboxes aisle. You know, where the Nosebleed Nougat is."

"Oh, Merlin," (y/n) muttered, shaking her head with a smile. "I'll have to rescue him from his own choices."

As they navigated through the aisles, (y/n) couldn't help but notice Fred's subtle changes. The mischievous spark in his eyes was still there, but it was accompanied by a depth that only life's challenges could bring. The war had left its mark on everyone, evident in the lines on his face and how he carried himself.

When they finally found Rick, he was gleefully examining a box of Nosebleed Nougat, unaware of the worried expressions on the adults around him.

"Rick!" (y/n) scolded gently, "You can't just pick anything you want."

"But Auntie, this is so cool! Imagine making someone's nose bleed!" Rick exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Fred chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with (y/n). "Well, it seems like he's got the true Weasley spirit."

After persuading Rick to choose a more harmless prank, they made their way to the counter. As Rick excitedly chatted about his selected item, (y/n) couldn't help but steal glances at Fred. The connection they had shared during the war, the unspoken understanding of loss and survival, seemed to linger in the air.

When it was time to pay, Fred leaned in and whispered, "On the house for the little troublemaker."

"Fred, I can't—"

"Consider it a gift from a friend," he interrupted, a warmth in his eyes that (y/n) couldn't ignore.

(y/n)'s cheeks were as red as Fred's hair.

"Well, thank you", she finally said, avoiding Fred's eyes. "Wait, where's George? Have you two finally learned to live apart?"

Fred liked her tone, and he answered truthfully. "He's been after some supplies, so the shop's my responsibility today."

"Brave of George to let that happen."

"Ha ha," Fred pretended to laugh at (y/n)'s benter. "Anyway, let me accompany you on the way out."

"Oh, you don't…"

"It's not like the shop is too busy." Fred pointed out, not letting (y/n) win that argument.

As they went for the exit, (y/n) felt a mixture of emotions swirling within her. The encounter had brought back memories, both painful and beautiful. The war had taken its toll, but here they were, finding moments of laughter amidst the remnants of their past.

They stood there momentarily, the bustling sounds of Diagon Alley surrounding them. It was a moment suspended in time, a chance encounter that felt both fleeting and eternal.

"Listen," Fred began, his expression serious yet hopeful. "I know we haven't kept in touch, but I'd like to change that. Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime, catch up properly."

(y/n) hesitated for a moment, the weight of the years between them palpable. But then she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.

"I'd like that, Fred. I really would."

As they exchanged contact information, (y/n) couldn't shake off the bittersweet feeling in her chest. The scars of the past were still there, but in the laughter shared and the promise of a new connection, there was a chance for something beautiful to bloom.

As they parted ways, (y/n) couldn't help but glance back at Fred, who had faced death and returned to find moments of joy in the simplest things. It was a melancholic happiness, a reminder that even in the aftermath of darkness, there could be sparks of light and the possibility of forging new connections.

And so, (y/n) walked away from Diagon Alley, her nephew's hand in hers, carrying the weight of the past and the tentative hope of a future yet to unfold.

#harry potter #fred and george #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fanfic #george weasley #fred weasley fanfiction #y/n x fred weasley #fred weasley x y/n

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jamilelucato · 6 months

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“I’ve never given much thought to how I would die. But dying in the place of someone I love seemed like a good way to go.”

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jamilelucato · 7 months

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You're a good show, Gen V, but you will never be him.

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jamilelucato · 8 months

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Second part is here!

possibility - fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(part 01 but it can be read as a one-shot)

summary: Amidst the boredom, an unexpected connection sparks between (Y/N) and the charismatic mischief-maker, Fred Weasley.

note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.

the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.

words: 7580

Enjoy!

The lesson trudged on, dripping with tedium.

In truth, (y/n) quite liked Professor Flitwick. She had, in fact, eagerly accepted his invitation to become his assistant whenever the First Years graced his class. Being an assistant delighted her to no end. Yet, being a student, well, that was a different cauldron of bubbling potion altogether.

Today, Flitwick's lecture on Spellcasting and its perils was dragging on and on. As a sixth-year student, the curriculum seemed more intent on delving into existing knowledge than offering exciting novelties. While these topics might hold allure for a future Auror or the like, they were a one-way ticket to Boredomville for her.

Ever since (y/n) had decided upon her career path – a decision that seemed to have been brewed in the deepest recesses of her being – most of her classes had metamorphosed into a soporific ordeal. Hogwarts wasn't particularly renowned for its prowess in teaching language and literature, but that was precisely where her ambitions lay. A writer, a wordsmith, perhaps even an editor or a high school pedagogue. Anything that would let her commune with the magic of words, not the sort that burst from wands.

Now, she wasn't a woeful spell caster by any means. Professor Flitwick wouldn't have sought her assistance if she weren't a smart witch. But, her heart preferred the dance of ink on parchment over the intricacies of wand-waving, often rendering her classroom hours relatively inconsequential.

Seeking refuge from this stifling monotony, (y/n) allowed her gaze to wander. And in this sea of faces, her eyes collided with Fred Weasley – the school's most notorious ginger-haired mischief-maker. He was already watching her, a mask of effortless nonchalance draped over his face. He raised his brows at her, noticing she was staring back, and he did not look away. And so, they locked eyes, neither relinquishing the connection. It was not a duel of gazes; it was more like a shared secret, a silent agreement over how tedious the class was.

A minute passed in this silent communion until Fred graced her with a faint smile. The spell was broken, and her attention returned to her empty parchment. A quiet sigh fluttered like a long-forgotten page being turned, but it vanished into the air, unheard by all but her.

With pen in hand, she felt an almost magical compulsion to transcribe Flitwick's words onto her parchment. His voice, though droning before, now seemed less boring.

“To its nature, we shall survive it, but the opponent targetted... not so much,” the professor intoned, the words finally finding their mark within her consciousness. Cruel nature, indeed. “Well,” she mused, her back moulding into her chair as her quill danced across the parchment, “Every spell I remember does possess a hint of danger.”

At long last, her notes held substance, and her enthusiasm, while subdued, had been rekindled. Her gaze again drifted sideways to where Fred Weasley was, only to find he had shifted his focus – to his twin, George.

They sat side by side, mirror images of naughtiness. (y/n) sometimes forgot that they were identical twins because she was so used to having them around that they started to look apart. George's height had a mere smidgen of variance, while Fred's nose was a tad more prominent. Freckles played a symphony across their faces, arranging themselves differently – Fred’s were more concentrated around his forehead. Yet, at that moment, as (y/n) blinked through her confusion, she wondered if she'd mixed up their features. Had she glimpsed George's grin instead?

But then, as if choreographed by fate, Fred resumed his original posture and caught her looking. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk. “It's certainly Fred, then,” she thought, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, unwanted. She redirected her attention back to the good Professor Flitwick and his lesson, and weirdly enough, after all that gazing, she had regained her focus and was more ready to be a satisfactory student.

Amidst her studies, (y/n) was ensconced within the library's embrace.

This day bestowed upon the library an uncommon hush, a tranquillity that seemed to defy the norm. The librarian always managed to get the kids quiet, but she couldn't stop them from coming all at once when frenzied by the looming spectre of approaching exams.

However, an anomaly unfolded on that Friday afternoon, bestowing upon (y/n) the most unexpected gift – the library, in all its boundless expanse, was hers to claim. A rarity that, peculiarly, she found herself not enjoying. Amidst the solitude, her focus waned like a candle in a draft, flickering and unstable. Concentration eluded her, much like the fleeting caress of a dream upon waking. Reading, that intimate act of solitary exploration, seemed to have metamorphosed into a daunting endeavour. It was one thing to lose oneself in tales of princesses or the adventures of chiselled, sun-kissed heroes, but an entirely different ordeal to grapple with the intricate world of potion brewing.

For (y/n), the allure of fantasy books or any literary work was nothing short of enchanting, capable of whisking her away on wings of imagination. These volumes, she devoured with unbridled speed. Yet, a profound disinterest surged within her when it came to the theoretical tomes packed with knowledge mirroring the lectures she endured. If she were to be entirely frank, she might even admit a smidgen of disdain for these volumes.

So she would never take them to the dorms with her — she would much rather read them in the library, filled with other students. The presence of others functioned as a gentle but firm tether, binding her to the task at hand – reading, absorbing, and taking notes. The collective energy of focused minds bolstered her resolve.

Alas, a rather desolate air hung over the library's expanse on this day.

Thrice (y/n) had shifted her position, seeking companionship in proximity, only for her hopes to be dashed within thirty minutes. A sigh, tinged with resignation, escaped her lips, and in that crestfallen moment, a shock of crimson manifested in her field of vision. A pair of vibrant red-headed twins strode in. Nestled at the tables near the corridor's entrance, she watched them meander, their steps unhurried, eyes wandering. “Searching," her inner voice concluded. Certainly, the twins held a more potent allure than the secrets of cauldron cleaning or its ilk, a fact her current book seemed intent on imparting.

Though (y/n) watched from her vantage point, removed yet intrigued, the twins' presence would've caught anyone's attention had there been any other student around. As their gaze swept the expanse, (y/n)'s musings dipped into the realm of speculation, imagining the myriad thoughts dancing behind those crimson veils.

In a place where solitude was typically her archenemy, she now sat pondering the enigma of the Weasley twins, the allure of their presence momentarily overshadowing the dusty tomes that lay before her.

Fred and George stood at a distance, too far for (y/n) to gain a comprehensive view. Instead, they ambulated the space with a purpose that eluded onlookers – a relentless quest for something unbeknownst to her. As they wandered, their forms flickered in and out of her view, now one visible, then none, then both, and once more only one boy.

Fixated on the one nearer her, she strained her vision to discern. Could it be Fred? A question played a merry dance in her mind, teasing but refusing to commit to a definitive answer. His profile was turned towards the shelves, a curtain of red hair obscuring details. Besides, distinguishing the twins remained a daunting task without a survey of their noses.

Abruptly, a voice infiltrated her thoughts, causing her to startle in her seat, “You know we saw you, right?”

She swivelled around, only to be met by the missing twin positioned just behind her. Leaning over her chair's backrest, he inclined his head inquisitively, a solitary auburn eyebrow arching with playful curiosity. Witnessing her wide-eyed astonishment, the Weasley released a soft, subdued chuckle, a mischievous symphony woven into the sound. “If you want my brother's number, you can just ask,” he added.

So the one talking to her was Fred. She quickly glanced at his nose bridge, trying to see the intricated details left by a Quidditch match gone wrong, yet his voice functioned as the telltale sign. He audacity to issue such a provocative remark to a girl with whom they held only the most tenuous of connections – that could only be Fred's doing. Moreover, his tone carried a specific timbre distinct from George's. It was, for lack of a better word, smoother to her auditory senses. Not that George's voice was anything less than agreeable, but his was a quieter, more reserved resonance. She mused that her lack of familiarity with George's vocal cadence stemmed from his status as the quieter half of the duo, while Fred's unending stream of chatter had made his vocal imprint indelible in her ears.

A manufactured laugh escaped her lips, a tinkling facade, "Haha, Weasley. I don't want no one's number."

Fred inclined his head, a bemused glint in his eyes as if coaxing her to reveal more.

Nestled more comfortably in her chair, she raised her chin a fraction, a silent assertion that she was unreservedly facing the boy. This small shift seemed to foster a sense of openness between them.

"Studying is boring, so you guys looked like a distraction," she declared with a nonchalant shrug.

His voice dripped with theatrical incredulity, “We? A distraction?” Fred's lips curled into a playful smile, his head tilting as he leaned slightly away. He stood tall, towering over most, a fact he seemingly embraced with ease. Though his height wasn't sufficient to overshadow Ron (a surprise, really), it cast a considerable shadow over (y/n), particularly in her seated state. The disparity in stature unfolded in a tableau that her neck found almost physically taxing to endure.

With the book held closer to her chest, (y/n) drew a deep breath, her response tinged with a touch of exasperation, “Honestly, anything is a preferable pursuit than deciphering 'how to brew... a potion.'” Her fingers clutched the book, the page title a weighty secret she held close, refusing to vocalise it aloud.

An unexpected shift occurred as Fred commandeered the neighbouring chair, situating it with a proximity that nudged their personal space. “And weirdly enough," he said. Lowering himself into the seat, he offered a sly grin, his gaze steady upon her, “You always get good grades at Snape's classes.” A movement almost imperceptible – a twitch of the head, a hint of satisfaction – played upon his features.

(y/n) registered the proximity with an awareness that tickled her senses. The book, her veiled treasure, lay nestled in her grasp, poised for closure to deter prying eyes.

She shrugged, expecting him to forget what she held close, “I'm Slytherin, after all.”

“Ah,” Fred snapped his tongue in the roof of his mouth, a sound almost as if he had drunk something and was now satisfied.

Shifting her gaze quickly at George, she hoped he would come to her rescue and take his twin away.

“Not so fast,” Fred interjected, his large hand sweeping down to rest atop the book's cover. “What secrets are you hiding there?”

Her gaze flitted from his eyes to his hand, a growing wariness churning within her. Her fingers tensed around the book, futilely attempting to shield its contents. But deftly, the book was relinquished from her hold and into his.

His melodious voice breathed life into the words etched on the page, “Let's unravel this mystery... 'How to Brew a Love Potion,'” he read aloud, his playful and teasing tone. Amusement twinkled in his eyes as they danced up to meet hers. “Wow, (y/n), I'd never take you for one who needed a love potion.”

To match his wit, (y/n) maintained her playful gaze, a smirk curving her lips as her retort unfurled, “Oh, I don't know, Fred. Perhaps that's my secret to acing Snape's classes.”

Not even the weight of dark humour could ruffle Fred Weasley's composure. His smirk swelled, infused with a brew of mischief that danced in his eyes. “If that's the case, you're terrible at it. I distinctly recall a certain incident involving Snape's homework, and if memory serves, it nearly rendered you floundering.”

She averted her gaze, her attention shifting to the captured book still cradled within his hands, the prospect of regaining it receding into the distance.

“Thanks for the recall, top-tier student,” she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes. “Now, are you willing to tell me your secrets? What are you doing here, in the library?”

Fred's laughter danced like a secret melody, an intimate note that lingered in the air, his eyes shimmering with a clandestine glimmer. “What's life without a little mystery?” he joked, his voice a velvety caress.

She mirrored his stance, a symmetrical lean that brought them closer, the gap between their faces now an invitation. Their proximity wove a delicate tapestry between their banter and a realm of deeper connection. “Is that so?” she inquired, her words drawn out in a languid purr, the air heavy with a mingling of intrigue and allure.

He matched her pace without the need to ask. The dance of their words had woven a tapestry of amusement, their shared enjoyment eclipsing the pursuit of concrete answers. After all, Fred barely had learned a secret. He was smart enough to know (y/n)'s book had been opened on a random page.

“If I tell you why I'm here,” he mused; his gaze, which had been steadfastly locked onto her eyes, dared trace a path to her lips, “what will you give me in return?”

(y/n) thought herself very wicked when her answer came quickly, “A love potion?” she playfully suggested.

His smile faltered, his breathing taking on a deeper rhythm, a transformation she couldn't help but notice.

“I don't need that,” he purred, voice dipping lower, “however, you...”

An eye-roll framed her response, though she didn't retreat from his proximity.

“Weasley...” her voice began, her tone laden with a mix of exasperation and uncertainty, an attempt to convey a sentiment she was grappling to articulate.

“Fred,” he interjected, the word a soft murmur, his eyes holding hers earnestly. Noticing her bemusement, he continued with a gentle lilt, “Call me Fred.”

She processed his words, pondering the significance of calling him by his name instead of his surname – a departure from the collective label that often accompanied the Weasley clan around Hogwarts.

A nervous throat clearing preceded her tentative utterance, “Fred." She tested the name as if savouring the syllables as if she did not know it before.

Flirting was an uncharted territory for (y/n), a realm she now tiptoed into, fueled by trepidation and exhilaration.

“Lucian Flewchief's book.”

The words hung suspended, (y/n)'s brow furrowing as she sought to decipher their meaning. Was that Fred’s way of flirting back? Suggesting a book? (y/n) was puzzled. That was a new way of flirting she never knew of, but she hoped the book was some young adult fae fantasy.

Fred's perception of her confusion prompted him to lean back slightly, dissipating the cosy bubble they'd woven. He clarified, “That's our objective here – locating Lucian Flewchief's book."

Her understanding unfurled with an "oh" of realisation, the pieces clicking into place.

“We're also the reason behind the library's current solitude,” he continued, an impish glint in his eyes. “George and I orchestrated a bit of a distraction to ensure we could slip away without drawing any undue attention, Godric forbid, with a book in tow!”

So that explained why she was the only one lingering at the library. Though it made sense, it stirred a tinge of melancholy within her.

Curiosity nudged her to question further, her tone now coloured with intrigue. “Who is this guy? Flewchief? And why the necessity for secrecy around his book?” Her queries were genuine and earnest, though sadness crept into her voice as their playful exchange segued into a more sober dialogue.

Fred swayed his head before replying, “He's a master at pranks.”

An eyebrow arched in response, (y/n)'s curiosity unabated. While she may not have been an expert in the art of pranking, one would expect to have heard of such a renowned figure, right?

Observing her perplexity, Fred inhaled deeply before disclosing, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, “He's a muggle author.”

Recognition flashed across (y/n)'s face, though she remained silent. Yet, subtle shifts in her posture – a subtle sag of her shoulders, a slight tightening of her lips – betrayed a sentiment that did not escape Fred's notice. He understood the Slytherin disposition all too well; prejudices were not uncommon.

She unravelled a piece of herself with an unexpected candour, her words confounding Fred's expectations. Instead of disparaging comments or dismissing glances, she offered something else entirely.

“I want to be a writer for muggles,” she confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “I like to write fantasy, you know. But that's not a genre for wizards; our reality often rivals the most fantastical of fiction. So, my focus turns toward the muggle readers.”

Though caught off guard by the revelation, Fred remained silent, feeling a surge of admiration for her. He hadn't anticipated such a response.

“I can help you find Flewchief's book,” she offered, swiftly transitioning past the exposure of her own secret, determined not to let her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I know this library well, particularly the section reserved for muggle authors. I presume you and George have little familiarity with the place.”

A crooked smile curled upon his lips in response. “Indeed,” he admitted with a chuckle, “you could even say 'no familiarity'; it's quite fitting.”

While (y/n) couldn't quite fathom how any student or individual could navigate life without venturing into the depths of a library, she empathized with their unfamiliarity. The muggle literature section was cloaked in segregation as if Hogwarts itself was disconcerted by such volumes.

Rising from her seat, she gathered her assortment of potion books. Truth be told, she harboured no illusions about accomplishing any meaningful research that afternoon. She left only one book behind – the one currently cradled in Fred's grasp.

“Are you coming or…?" Her voice hung in the air, a hint of playful theatricality accompanying her question.

Promptly, Fred sprang from his chair, the solitary book still in his possession. With (y/n) as his guide, they embarked on a journey through the library's labyrinthine aisles. Initially, they returned her stack of books to Madam Irma Pince, whose sole acknowledgement was a fleeting glance, her eyes flitting over the pile as it landed on her counter. Her gaze flickered momentarily as if recognition finally settled in at the sight of the redheaded companion beside (y/n).

“A Weasley," Madam Irma Pince declared, her observation stating the obvious. Fred, however, found himself grappling with an appropriate response. Ultimately, he opted for a shrug, his head tilting in acquiescence.

“I’m Fred,” he offered, his voice laced with a touch of formality. “But, you are absolutely correct, I am a Weasley."

It was abundantly clear that the librarian was well aware of which Weasley he was.

“Don’t tear my books apart,” she cautioned, her voice edged with warning. “And don’t you dare burn this place down.”

Fred's lips pressed into a tight line, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He responded with a curt, “Noted."

(y/n) glanced up at Fred and then to the side, studying his expression. His tone left her somewhat perplexed – she couldn't discern if he was indulging in sarcastic provocation or if he held genuine offence at Madam Irma Pince's admonitions. She reflected that the torrent of criticisms from every adult figure must have been tiring. Yet, the twins hadn't acquired their notoriety by chance; their reputation as school pranksters was well-earned.

The three exchanged furtive glances before Madam Irma Pince averted her gaze to her counter. Her intentions, on the other side, remained veiled to (y/n). Fred possessed the capability to peek, but (y/n) held doubts about him exercising that prerogative.

Clearing her throat, (y/n) eased away from the librarian, and Fred followed suit.

“Take me to George,” she requested. Detecting Fred's immediate confusion, she elaborated, “So both of you can scour the shelves for the books. I can assist, but I'm not quite tall enough to reach all of the shelves.”

“Again," Fred inclined his head toward her, and at that moment, a subtle shift occurred, the playful dance of flirtation vanishing as swiftly as it had emerged, “Thank you for the assistance”. His expression was appreciative, genuine, a quiet acknowledgement of her assistance.

With a soft smile, she replied, “Don't mention it," her voice bearing a hushed quality, her gaze evading direct eye contact. “You’ll just own me one.”

He chuckled, “Uh, the unspoken possibilities.”

Indeed, Fred. Indeed.

It was a rather cold day.

But it was Saturday and Hogsmeade trip day, so (y/n) put on her thickest coat and decided to face the snow.

Her fellow housemates buzzed with excitement, eagerly anticipating the visit. Yet, for (y/n), this outing held a more sombre purpose – a pilgrimage to Honeydukes. While her friends were pursuing quills and ingredients, (y/n) sought only solace in candy. These past few days had been trying, and the kitchen house elves had quietly declared her persona non grata, etching “no longer welcomed" onto their secret walls. So she’d have to buy her own sweets from now on.

“Feeling hot today?” a voice chimed from behind (y/n).

She clutched herself, attempting to stave off the relentless cold. Hogsmeade always exuded a chill, but it seemed that nature was intent on pushing the mercury even lower today. Not even her trusty coat could entirely repel the biting wind.

The voice was familiar; she recognised it as belonging to Fred Weasley.

“Where’s your other half?” she asked, noticing George wasn’t around.

“At the school,” Fred replied, bridging the distance with a few long strides. Given the frigid weather, (y/n) moved slowly, rivalling the old ladies of Diagon Alley. “He's caught the flu.”

A chuckle escaped (y/n), though her amusement was laced with empathy. “After today, I might end up just as sick.”

Fred mirrored her laughter, his eyes gleaming with a twinkle. Then, shifting his gaze towards their right, his expression became more earnest. “Come on, let’s get you something warm. Tea?”

True to his suggestion, Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop loomed just a few steps away.

(y/n) scanned her surroundings, from Fred to the inviting facade of the shop, and for a fleeting moment, the idea appealed to her. But then, a mental alarm sounded – this place was renowned for romantic trysts, a haven for couples from their year. For a time, (y/n) had considered herself above such traditions. But as her sixteenth birthday came and went, and she remained unattached, she longed for the experience of a boy inviting her to tea. Now, at eighteen, it seemed more a fanciful dream than a tangible possibility.

So Fred was definitely not suggesting it as a date.

“I actually have to head to Honeydukes,” she replied, her features arranged in a grimace, and she gestured with her body towards the store at the far end of the bustling Hogsmeade street. “That's the only reason I'm still here.”

Fred bit his lip in thought. “How about we grab a tea to go, then?” he proposed, his determination unwavering. He peered down at her, shivering in the cold, taking in her petite frame. “In less than fifteen minutes, you'll be on your way back to Hogwarts.”

The notion of sipping on something piping hot was increasingly appealing.

“Promise?” she asked, her tone a touch childlike.

Fred extended his pinky finger, encased in a slightly faded red glove – likely a Weasley hand-me-down. Not that (y/n) considered herself entitled or wealthy, but it was common knowledge that the Weasleys weren't the richest in monetary terms. Yet, they were undeniably wealthy in children.

Her own pinky fingers remained nestled deep within her pockets, safe from the cold. Fred glanced down and chuckled.

“Come on.”

She sighed, “Fine, Weasley. But you're footing the bill,” and when she noticed he was about to playfully protest, she added, “You were the one who insisted, after all.”

They walked together, resembling a pair of penguins navigating the icy terrain. (y/n)’s hands, nestled within her coat pockets, were shielded from the biting cold, yet their elbows still grazed one another now and then as they strolled leisurely.

Fred gallantly held the door open, allowing her to enter the cosy shop, and she expressed her gratitude in a soft murmur. While he proceeded to the counter to place their order (when queried, (y/n) simply requested, “Any tea will do, as long as it's the hottest available"), she contemplated the peculiar friendship that had taken root between them.

She'd never been an opponent of Fred, or the Weasleys, or anyone within Gryffindor, as one might have assumed. However, their closeness was a relatively recent development. When confronted with one of the twins' pranks, (y/n) was often the first to laugh, captivated by the sheer audacity of their exploits. She believed magic should be harnessed for amusement, not as a weapon; consequently, she found their approach to their magical talents endearing.

Because of her laughter, Fred and George had never targeted her with their pranks. Their mischief was generally directed at Malfoy and his ilk. Occasionally, she'd return to her common room and find something amiss, but she understood it was their way of rebelling against the entirety of Slytherin and its values rather than a personal affront.

By her fifth year, (y/n) considered Fred and George her acquaintances. They exchanged nods in the classrooms and other shared spaces. Being in the same year, she had grown accustomed to their voices and learned to differentiate between them.

Moreover, the Weasley twins had a certain charisma that she couldn't deny. She had met Fred’s older brothers before, so their good looks were no surprise. She realised this charm extended to Fred as he approached with two cups of steaming tea.

His freckles had always been a distinctive feature she admired. Yet now, she also noticed the appeal of his height, his shoulders broad and strong, typical of a Beater. His hair appeared soft and straight, inviting her fingers to run through its fiery strands, although she knew better than to entertain such notions.

Strangely, it was his nose that intrigued her the most. It was the distinguishing feature that allowed her to differentiate between Fred and George. She found it more masculine and captivating than the rest of his features. Not to mention his chest, which had once tantalisingly revealed his abs through a sweaty Quidditch shirt during a match. The sport certainly worked wonders on bodies.

“Thank you,” she said before taking a sip. She freed her hands from her pockets only with the prospect of holding something scolding hot.

Fred observed her closely as she tasted the tea, noticing how her eyes momentarily closed in bliss and how her body seemed to uncoil, the tension in her shoulders dissipating.

“All right, off to Honeydukes I go," she declared, pivoting towards the Tea Shop's exit.

Fred followed her, hastening to hold the door open once more. A subtle blush dusted her cheeks, and she was relieved that the shop was still relatively empty. A couple occupied a dimly lit corner but seemed too concentrated on each other to notice Fred Weasley being nice to a Slytherin girl. So that’s saying a lot about how entertained that random teenage couple was.

As they stepped back into the brisk Hogsmeade air, (y/n) noticed that Fred was still at her side. She didn't voice any complaint, though. Ever since the day he had sought her help at the library, she had resigned herself to the idea that she might never get the opportunity to converse with Fred alone again. George was always around, and if not him, then someone else. And even though, if she tried, (y/n) could engage in conversation with the other twin or with a Gryffindor student, she would rather not.

In fact, it was rare to find someone she would like to engage in conversation with.

Fred was a… welcoming surprise.

“Uh," Fred's voice cut through the silence, which had settled between them as they enjoyed their tea, “can we make a quick stop here?"

They were passing by Zonko's Joke Shop, renowned for its extensive collection of prankster essentials. Of course, the shop would undoubtedly be on Fred's daily checklist. However, his request to pause at the store intrigued (y/n), given that she had never envisioned walking with him that day. Sure, he had treated her to tea, but that hardly counted as an expense, and she had mentioned her eagerness to return to Hogwarts promptly.

“It won't take long, I promise," he assured her, taking note of her delayed response. “Just add five more minutes to your wait. I'll escort you back, no worries."

(y/n) hesitated for a moment. “You really don't have to do that," she replied, taken aback by his gentlemanly offer.

“As if I'd let you make the journey alone."

She gazed at him in the wake of his response. “I'm a witch," she pointed out the obvious. “It's not like I can't handle a few dangers."

Fred cocked his head, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue. “Can you defend yourself against the cold?"

She didn't respond; her answer would have been a resounding ‘no.'

“That's what I thought," he declared, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

She arched an eyebrow, her free hand resting on her hip, her other still cradling her tea. “And what can you do to protect me from the cold?" she challenged Fred.

His smile grew, and he knew he had the perfect response. “Keep you from slipping on the icy ground."

Annoyed by his accuracy, she sighed loudly as they entered the joke shop.

The shop was bubbling with people: it was a living organism. (y/n) struggled to recall the last time she had set foot in this place. She had certainly visited the joke shop before, back in her third year when students were first allowed to venture into the village. Like her peers, she had eagerly explored every store without exception. However, as time passed, most of the shops had become familiar and somewhat ordinary to her. She only made the trip to Hogsmeade with a purpose now. Coming just for butterbeer seemed pointless, especially when she lacked the company of friends to sit with and share laughter.

So, following Fred Weasley as he browsed around the shop put her in a silent trance of observation and gaping. He moved confidently, searching for items and locating them quickly, with the same precision she'd demonstrated when she'd guided him through the library the other day. (y/n) followed at his heels, like a child following its guardian. In less than three minutes, they were already in line to pay.

“How do you know where everything is?" she asked, enjoying the moment of calm the checkout line offered. “I don't think gathering all that took you more than five minutes."

And it was indeed quite a haul. Fred's two hands cradled dozens of boxes and items like precious cargo in his lap. The teacup he had been carrying was now held securely by (y/n), ensuring that her hands were occupied with warm objects to fend off the cold.

Fred responded with a casual shrug to her question. “How do you know where all the books are in the library?" he countered.

“I don't know," she replied, her response unfiltered. “I guess I've just memorised it over time."

“Me too," he said, his eyes fixed on the shop as if watching his beloved. “Not to give reason to my fame at Hogwarts, but of course, my favourite shop has to be Zonko’s."

The line at the checkout stretched long, leaving (y/n) and Fred standing in contemplative silence, pondering the curious connection that seemed to be budding between them. Amid it all, (y/n)'s thoughts swelled like a bubbling potion. Were they friends now? Could she consider adding him to her list of friends for Christmas shopping? These questions lingered, but she found herself without a clear answer. It felt odd to directly ask such a thing; friends didn’t ask if they were friends. They either were or weren’t, organically becoming over time.

But despite the comfort she felt around Fred, she couldn't quite label it friendship. The issue, she concluded, was her own. She had a deficit of friends and now understood why: she wasn't wired for it. Friendship wasn't part of her programming. Fred, on the other hand, was a different breed. Friendship was his natural state, woven into his very essence. He exuded a friendly aura, even if many Slytherins would vehemently disagree.

She didn't need to wonder whether he considered her a friend. He most likely did. He never targeted her with pranks; he exchanged glances with her in class often and was currently offering to escort her back to school. Fred saw her as a friend.

But did she want that?

“What are you thinking?” he inquired, pulling her out of her contemplative reverie.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “I can see the smoke coming out of your ears like a cauldron.”

She had no clever reply, so she was content with wrinkling her forehead and lying. “I’m thinking about how quickly I will be able to get all the candy I want. Definitely not as quick as you, here.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Why?”

“I love candy and definitely know where everything is at the shop,” she explained, tilting her head unconsciously as she spoke. She explained, unconsciously tilting her head while talking. “But I have to gather enough to last until our next trip to Hogsmeade, and I'm not certain I can calculate that. I love chocolate, so one would assume I'd need to buy a lot to make it last. However, if I get too much, I'll eat more than I should. And trust me, I will eat everything I buy," she concluded with a hint of warning in her tone, as if she were issuing a threat rather than sharing a piece of information.

Fred swallowed hard, trying to wrap his head around her unique thought process. “Are you stockpiling sweets?"

She nodded, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

“Well, if you do end up eating it all, I'll show you where to get more, you know, from the kitchen with the house elves," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he were secretly pleased with himself for sharing this tidbit.

“Oh, Weasley," she shook her head, dramatically feigning pitifulness. “I already know the secret passage to the kitchen. That's precisely why I have to stockpile chocolate in the first place. I've been painted as a criminal there for how many sweets I've pilfered."

He couldn't help but chuckle, though he kept it discreet.

“I can't believe it," Fred said with mock disbelief, then paused as if pondering again. “Well, actually, I can."

With the two cups of tea-to-go in her hands, she raised her shoulders in a half-shrug while raising her hands in tandem.

“So yeah," she concluded, “I have to stock up until the Professors allow us to come here again."

Staring at him, (y/n) couldn't help but think that Fred was on the verge of saying something. However, something must have caused him to change his mind, and he remained uncharacteristically silent. A few seconds later, he was called to the cashier to settle the bill for his items. (y/n) patiently waited behind him, casually sipping her tea.

When Fred returned to her side, the numerous small boxes he'd been clutching had been consolidated into just two cardboard bags, which he effortlessly carried in one hand. The two of them exited the joke shop, savouring the last remnants of their teas. By the time they reached Honeydukes, the cups had already been discreetly disposed of in the nearest bin.

“Have fun," he wished her warmly, courteously holding the door of the candy shop open for her to enter. (y/n) returned his friendly sentiment with a smile—precisely the sort of well-wishing one would expect before embarking on a shopping spree in a candy store.

Fred lingered in a quiet corner of the shop, surreptitiously observing as she gleefully navigated the aisles, carefully selecting her candies and placing them into a plastic basket a diligent store employee offered. She appeared far more animated here than he had ever seen her before—back in the library, she had come across as somewhat bored, and the same was true in their shared classes. While she undeniably held the status of a top student with excellent grades, Fred couldn't help but wonder why she seemed to lack the enthusiasm and focus he might have expected from someone of her academic calibre.

However, gathering her desired assortment of sweets took considerably longer than the five minutes Fred had initially anticipated. When he finally met up with her at the cashier, the man behind the counter handed over not one, not two, but three full bags of assorted candies and confections.

Fred couldn't help but jest, “Wow, someone's clearly outdone me."

“Mine's supposed to last longer," she retorted with a wry smile, determined to maintain her composure.

Fred's grin only broadened. "Will it, though?"

There was no malice behind his teasing; his natural inclination was to engage in playful banter, a habit he would have indulged with George, Ginny, or anyone else. If anything, he found himself enjoying the camaraderie that was forming between them, appreciating the quick-witted exchanges that characterised their interactions. And (y/n)'s response was predictable by now—a blend of half-anger and half-challenge that had come to define her expressions.

They left the candy store, their playful back-and-forth continuing as they walked, with Fred progressively leaning in closer with each exchange.

Fred's next question unintentionally left (y/n) feeling mortified as they approached the Three Broomsticks.

“Are you sure you don’t want a good, old butterbeer?” he asked. “It’s alright if you do. I won’t linger at your friends’ table; I’ll just drop you there and find Oliver Wood or someone else.” He said, using Oliver as an example, for he was the one name he remembered to have seen around the village.

It was weird, now that Fred had come to think of it, how he did not recall seeing one person from Hogwarts around Hogsmeade, even though he knew it was a crowded day there.

She had no friends to meet there or anywhere else. She cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact, “I don't have friends in there."

The proximity to the inn allowed them a clear view through the frosty windows, revealing the familiar faces of fellow students enjoying butterbeer.

“Why? Haven't they come to Hogsmeade?" Fred asked in surprise, momentarily distracted by the scene inside. “I swear that's Carmen Highland if my eyes aren't deceiving me," he remarked, gazing at the occupants within.

Lost in the sight of her former friends, Fred hadn't noticed that (y/n) was gradually distancing herself from him. She knew Carmen and recognised the other kids at her table — Andrea, Miniu, and Shenny. But they weren't friends anymore.

At least, not anymore.

“It is Carmen,” she reassured him, in case Fred would start considering he was indeed blind. “We’re just not friends, though.”

Fred finally snapped out of gazing through the cold glass window and returned his gaze to her.

“I distinctly remember all of you being quite lively at dinners and walking around classes," he said, furrowing his brows. “Unless Carmen has look-alikes I'm unaware of, I'm certain it's her. I've seen her during my Quidditch practices, competing for the pitch."

A smile tinged with embarrassment danced on (y/n)'s lips. She smiled not because she was pleased with the memories but because she was trying to conceal her inner gloom. “I used to walk with Carmen, and Miniu, and Andrea and Shenny. But that was way before.”

“No, I…”

“It was, Freddie,” she interrupted before he made her remember another memory. It was only because of her use of his nickname that he understood she wasn’t alright. “We were friends in the first year. Us and a bunch of other kids, so tight together because we were Slytherin, and we had to stick together because then we’d be victims of bullying from other houses.” Fred opened his mouth, but she continued, “Don’t deny it.”

Fred sighed and nodded.

“In our second year, the group started to shrink, and it ended up being just me and that table," she explained, her gaze distant, as if the memories were playing out before her eyes. "But I began to feel like I was there because I forced myself to be. I was being pushy. So when I stopped going, they didn't chase after me. That's when it became clear to me what our relationship was."

“What was it?" Fred inquired, genuinely perplexed, prompting (y/n) to wonder if he had ever experienced the abrupt end of a friendship.

“They weren't my friends," (y/n) stated matter-of-factly. “We didn't have a falling out or anything. I still greet them, and occasionally, we help each other with homework in the common room. But that's about it."

Fred pursed his lips thoughtfully, pondering the right words to respond with.

“Alright," he finally conceded. “I won't pry further," he said, his expression more serious now. “I can't quite fathom how a friendship could simply unravel like that, but it's clear it's not a cheerful matter. However, that doesn't mean you can't be with your other friends."

She rolled her eyes with exasperation and turned away from Fred and the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, her boots crunching softly in the freshly fallen snow.

“I don't have friends," she sighed, her breath visible in the crisp, wintry air. She could hear his footsteps, somehow always close behind.

Fred waited until he was walking right alongside her before he replied; his tone was soft and comforting. “You have me," he said, then hastily cleared his throat. “I mean, you have us. Me and George. I still owe you one from our library escapade."

“Consider it settled," she responded, her voice edged with a hint of exhaustion and her gaze averted. “You gave me a cup of tea, after all."

“That was just courtesy," Fred explained, his lips curving into a friendly smile, thinking their usual playful banter had resumed.

But (y/n) was weary, and it showed in her demeanour.

“Well, you're accompanying me back to the school," she tried again, her tone tinged with finality. “So consider that debt paid."

“Nah," he waved his free hand dismissively. “That's just me being a proper gentleman."

She rolled her eyes once more, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Fred..."

“We're friends, alright," he insisted, his tone gentle yet resolute, raising his voice slightly. “You have a friend... in me."

Without warning, (y/n) halted in her tracks, pivoting to face him fully, her expression a mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and a hint of amusement.

“Did you just quote a Muggle movie at me?" she asked, her voice showing disbelief.

“I’m sorry?”

“‘You have a friend in me’,” she repeated his words, this time adding a melody to her tone. “Did you quote the Toy Story song?”

“A toy story? Where is it?” he was genuinely confused, which led (y/n) to drop the subject since it was evident he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Never mind," she sighed, resuming her pace. “It's from a Muggle movie."

“And you've seen it?" Fred's stride matched hers again, his curiosity piqued.

“Unfortunately," she replied, her lips twisting in mild distaste. “I didn't quite enjoy it."

“Oh, why not?" Fred inquired with interest.

“It was... about friendship," she said, taking a moment to complete her sentence.

“I see," Fred mused, nodding thoughtfully as they walked towards the school, the snow beneath their feet offering a soft, comforting crunch with every step. “Perhaps I should watch it.”

“Yeah, why not,” she replied, not really wanting to participate in the conversation.

Fred knew when to shut up when he should, so they remained silent until the school entrance was visible.

“Uh, thank you,” (y/n) told him as they stopped in the middle of Hogwarts’ entrance corridor. It was a relatively empty hallway.

“See you around,” he nodded, and she bit her lip, turning her heels towards her House. “Friend,” Fred added a second later, only to see her turn her gaze over her shoulder.

“Bye, Weasley,” she said with a heavy breath out of resignation.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley fanfic

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jamilelucato · 8 months

Text

possibility - fred weasley (part 2)

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(part 01 here) (more HP fics here!)

summary: being friends with (y/n) has become Fred's biggest challenge.

note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.

the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.

words: 5000+

Enjoy!

Ginny Weasley was a charm, even at the young age of fifteen.

Being her older brothers around, Fred and George tried their best not to ignore her and make her feel welcomed and heard whenever needed. Most of the time, that was an easy task. But, now that she was getting older, it was harder to listen to her complaints.

“She had no right to say that to me!” she whined, angrily snorting. Her red hair moved with her face as she gestured. “She said it in front of Harry, for Godric’s sake!”

George immediately cast a sidelong glance at Fred. It was no secret that Ginny harboured a strong affection for Harry Potter; her infatuation was apparent to anyone with a Weasley surname, and it was common knowledge throughout Gryffindor House. Only Harry himself seemed oblivious to it. However, as Ginny grew older, her feelings seemed to intensify, and Fred frequently tuned her out, lost in his thoughts, while George assumed the role of counsellor. On that particular day, though, it appeared their roles had been reversed.

“Did he hear what she said?” George inquired gently, addressing his younger sister.

“I believe so,” Ginny responded, her voice lowering as she contemplated the encounter.

"Well, how did he react?" Fred leaned closer, although there was a table separating them from Ginny. The dinner table of Gryffindor was crowded with students, so leaning closer was needed for better hearing.

“He didn't,” Ginny replied, her tone a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. “He was with Hermione, and they were engrossed in their conversation. We exchanged glances, that's all.”

“Could it be possible he was simply aware of your presence and not actually listening to your conversation?” Fred suggested, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Ginny averted her gaze, reluctant to meet her older brother's eyes. “There's a chance,” she admitted, albeit reluctantly.

“So, he didn't really hear it," Fred remarked, leaning back slightly. “Potter’s a man. If he had heard something and something that involved his name, he would’ve reacted.”

George turned his head to face Fred. “All men, you reckon?”

“Absolutely,” Fred confirmed with a carefree shrug.

But George was out for blood.

“Let's say, for argument's sake, that (y/n) mentioned you. Would you turn to look and react?” George asked, instantly capturing Ginny's attention. She was well aware of (y/n), the enigmatic Slytherin who struggled to maintain friendships but seemed to have formed a unique bond with Fred.

“Sure,” Fred replied, not realising the mischief in his twin's eyes. “I mean, it depends on what she'd be saying about me.”

“Does it really matter?” Ginny chimed in.

“It doesn't,” George answered his sister, then returned to Fred. “But how would you respond to her?”

“She's my friend, Georgie,” Fred teased affectionately, using his twin's nickname. “I'd man up and approach her, saying something like ‘hey, what were you saying about me?’ and get it over with.”

“Get what over with?” Ginny prodded, leaning in closer to Fred.

“Probably turning that friendship into a relationship,” George answered instead of Fred. “I mean, if he were to really man up.”

Fred jabbed his twin with playful force, feeling irked by the insinuations.

“What's wrong with (y/n) and I just being friends?” Fred retorted defensively.

“Nothing,” George shrugged nonchalantly. “She's my friend, too,” he pointed out, “but I don’t dream in my sleep with her doing stuff to me in bed.”

This time, Fred slapped his twin's arm more forcefully. “I've never had a dream about her!”

Ginny burst into laughter, feeling fortunate to sit beside her brothers during this comical exchange.

“You've dreamt about (y/n)?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What was she doing in your dream? Kissing?” Ginny lowered her voice, casting furtive glances around the room before adding, “Or something more?”

Fred tried to brush off Ginny's teasing with a dismissive wave of his hand despite the hints of a crimson blush creeping onto his freckled cheeks. He shook his head and muttered something about dreams and absurd fantasies.

Ginny and George exchanged a knowing look before George leaned closer to his twin. “Fred, I've known you my entire life, and I can read you like an open book,” he began in a hushed tone. “You're smitten with (y/n).”

Despite his attempts to appear composed, Fred couldn't help but squirm in his seat. “That's nonsense, George. She's just a friend, and I don't think of her that way.”

Ginny chimed in with a playful grin. “Oh, come on, Fred. We've all seen the way you look at her. It's like you're under some kind of love spell.”

Fred glanced around the bustling Great Hall, feeling the weight of the conversation. He had a reputation to uphold, which included being a mischievous troublemaker and a skilled prankster. The idea of admitting his feelings for (y/n) went against the grain of his carefree image. Besides whatever those “feelings” were, they were more complicated than he wanted to admit.

Instead of confessing his feelings, Fred squared his shoulders and made a decision.

“(y/n), she’s a tough lass,” he started saying, “I'm not going to pursue her romantically. I don't want to complicate things for her.”

Ginny and George shared another look, this time tinged with surprise. Fred was known for his mischievous tendencies but rarely showed such maturity and thoughtfulness.

“What are you going to do, then?” Ginny asked, intrigued by her older brother's newfound wisdom.

Fred flashed a determined smile. “I want to show her she can have genuine friendships, so that’s what I’ll be for her, no matter what.”

Ginny exchanged a glance with George, both impressed and proud of the transformation they had witnessed in their older brother.

“That’s actually… very nice of you, brother,” Ginny said, choked with herself for ever uttering those words.

“Thank you,” Fred shook his head down.

It was a well-known fact that (y/n) struggled to form connections with her peers. While she often blended into the background amidst bustling classrooms and boisterous mealtimes, those who paid attention could discern that, in the end, (y/n) was very much alone. Fred just hoped she wasn’t lonely, too.

And if she was (and, let’s face it, if he were to bet, that would be his horse), he would be her friendly shoulder. Perhaps with his initiative, she would open up to have other friends. But that would sadly mean he should suppress those dangerous feelings (and dreams) about her. He understood that showing romantic interest might deter her from nurturing other friendships or, worse, create an unhealthy dependency on him.

While many boys at Hogwarts might desire such unwavering devotion, Fred cherished his freedom and wanted the same for (y/n). He believed that, given the chance, she too could revel in the joy of genuine friendships.

She could feel his penetrating gaze like a warm breeze brushing the back of her neck. It was a peculiar sensation. Since she had unofficially accepted the title of “Fred Weasley's friend,” (y/n) had begun experiencing inexplicable emotions regarding him.

Sensing his eyes on her was just one of her peculiar talents. Her personal favourite was her knack for anticipating pranks by the twins; her gaze would instinctively find its way to the impending victim.

Leaving her Slytherin common room, she hadn't expected to encounter Fred. However, when she turned around, hoping to spot him, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Odd,” she thought, clutching her book closer to her chest. It wasn't a hefty tome; it was, in fact, a notebook where she jotted down ideas and penned the initial versions of scenes that might one day become her debut novel.

While the underwater ambience of the Slytherin common room often served as a wellspring of inspiration, that day seemed to be an exception. Hence, (y/n) had decided to grab her notebook and her trusty pen (yes, a pen; she staunchly refused to compose her muggle-inspired stories with a quill and inkwell) and head to the Quidditch pitch in search of inspiration.

During free periods or after classes, Quidditch practices were almost always happening. (y/n) hoped to find an eager and spirited team on the field to keep her writing juices flowing.

She dared to look around again before abandoning the idea that Fred Weasley was following her. So, confirming the absence of red hair, she resumed her pace.

To her relief, the Quidditch pitch was packed with a team of blue shirts. Ravenclaws weren't known for their blood on the field, not as much as Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, but they would suffice. (y/n) selected a spot in the bleachers, tucked away in a corner high enough to observe everything but hidden from the spotlight. A few people were around, mostly students, but not in uniform, so she couldn't tell if they were opponents watching the Ravenclaws train or just supportive friends.

As she settled in, she opened her notebook, placing it on her lap, ready to transcribe the imaginary world blossoming in her mind. The words flowed effortlessly from her pen, her gaze seldom shifting from the training session. The sounds of players in action served as the ideal backdrop to her writing.

Without her realising it, the scene had shifted from focusing on battle, blows and gushing blood to an intimate moment between nameless protagonists. (y/n) had yet to fully develop their backstory, but they always made their presence known when she ventured into the realm of fairies: a tall, strong lad and a quick-witted young lady.

In the scene she was crafting, they bid each other farewell before venturing into an ongoing battle. Although their words hinted at sadness, they teased one another playfully, creating a certain ambivalence that (y/n) found challenging to convey.

She had just finished writing down the boy's response when a voice behind her remarked, “I'd change that. No battle-hardened lad would utter something so… girlish.”

(y/n) didn't even flinch. She had sensed Fred Weasley's presence earlier, and his sudden appearance was merely confirmation that she wasn't descending into madness or becoming paranoid. She felt a flicker of annoyance at the idea that he had been peeking at her notes, but with no Time-Turner to reverse the situation, she decided to take his opinion on board. Fred's perspective on how a boy would speak could enrich her literary endeavour.

“Hello, Weasley," she greeted him, her eyes on him as he gracefully hopped from the seat behind her to the vacant one beside her.

Fred, however, didn't offer a greeting in return. “Why are you here?” he cut right to the chase.

With a casual shrug, she answered, “Felt uninspired in my common room.” She closed her notebook, a sense of finality in the gesture.

“Of course you did,” he quipped with bitterness. “That place stinks of rich kids and Death Eaters.”

Rolling her eyes, (y/n) couldn't help but feel a tinge of exasperation.

Fred had a peculiar tendency to launch into rants about the Slytherin House, a habit she never entirely understood. She was, without a doubt, a Slytherin through and through. She couldn't imagine belonging to any other house. Ambition coursed through her veins in her academic pursuits and aspirations for a successful writing career. Loyalty to her family was non-negotiable, and luckily for her, her parents weren't affiliated with the Dark Lord, making it easy to stay loyal to them.

In fact, she'd once pointed out to Fred that he'd make a perfect Slytherin himself. His ambitions were evident, especially with the joke shop he and George planned to open. His loyalty to his family, a prominent trait he shared with most Slytherins, was equally unmistakable. His lineage was as pure as anyone's at Hogwarts, if not more so. Her own mother was a half-blood witch. Yet, when she suggested this to him, he'd responded cheeky. “But red is my colour,” he'd declared, putting an end to their discussion.

“Actually,” (y/n) retorted, returning her focus to the ongoing discussion, “Slytherin’s dorms are very inspiring. But not to a battle scene; for that, I needed the smell of sweaty and strategy.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, suggesting that he found her comment rather amusing. “Leave it to the Ravenclaws to provide the strategy, eh?”

Not having an immediate response, (y/n) fell into a contemplative silence. Her eyes remained fixed on the Quidditch field, where the apparent captain of the team was engaging in a heated exchange with one of the beaters.

“So, about your writing,” Fred spoke softly, as if dipping his toes into uncertain waters, “I like it.”

Her gaze snapped to the red-haired boy, curiosity brimming in her eyes. She was always eager to hear both compliments and critiques of her work. To her, praise was uplifting, but constructive criticism was pure gold. She wondered what else he had to say.

“The battle scene sounds absolutely brilliant,” he continued as if reading her unspoken query. “Although I must admit, I missed a few lines; you write too fast, and your cursive is kind of weird.”

(y/n) showed her teeth in embarrassment. She was not used to being complimented about her cursive handwriting, so it wasn’t a surprise that Fred complained about it, but it was still embarrassing to hear about it, especially from a boy with no better penmanship.

“But you had one more complaint,” she reminded him, noticing Fred was silent.

He gulped, swallowing dry and hard.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “The lad there. You don’t know your men.”

“Excuse me?” (y/n) raised her eyebrows, and her voice unintentionally rose in volume.

Fred quickly raised his hands, a peace offering, his intent clearly non-confrontational. (y/n) relaxed a bit, realising she'd somewhat overreacted.

“Did you ever pay attention to how I talk? Or George or Lee?” Fred asked, turning his knees towards hers. Thanks to their sitting position, he towered over her, but less than usual.

Since she'd accepted her friendship with Fred, she'd inevitably become acquainted with the others in his circle, including Lee Jordan.

“Listen,” Fred sighed, “most men aren't as eloquent as your character. They tend to be a bit more straightforward. Your 'lad' speaks in a way that's... well, a bit flowery.”

“He’s, like, from the sixteenth century,” (y/n) pointed out, defending her nameless protagonist.

“Right,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But that doesn’t actually change anything. No men would say,” and at that, he reached for her notebook without asking permission and opened it to the exact page she had been writing on. “No men would say, ‘I shall miss your sunkissed voice if this ends badly’.”

Placing her hands on her hips, (y/n) arched an eyebrow. “So, how would you put it, then?”

Fred pondered the question, trying to envision the moment in (y/n)'s book. He was not a writer and lacked the skills to be an actor, so he had to re-read the scene to know the rightful reply. He looked back down at the page before returning his gaze to her.

“Don't die,” he suggested, playing the character so well, lowering his tone to sound charming and seductive.

Unfortunately, for (y/n), her heart did a somersault in response. The scene Fred had just read involved the characters' parting words, and the simplicity of “Don't die” carried a powerful weight. It conveyed the protagonist's profound desire for his female counterpart to survive, for her loss would leave a void that could never be filled. The moment's essence was encapsulated in those two words, and Fred had delivered them perfectly.

Not that (y/n) had been planning to meet an untimely end anytime soon, but after Fred's persuasive delivery, she found herself inclined to postpone any thoughts of it indefinitely.

Observing that she hadn't averted her gaze from his eyes and noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest, (y/n) decided to seize the book from his hand swiftly.

“That was ridiculous,” she remarked, attempting to dissipate the moment's intensity with humour.

“That's how I would say it,” Fred nonchalantly shrugged, retracting his knees from their near-contact and turning his attention back to the Quidditch field.

“And who told you my protagonist is based on you, Weasley?” she quipped, tilting her head and arching an eyebrow.

Instead of being hurt by her tone of voice — this was the reaction she anticipated and expected and perhaps wanted — Fred smiled teasingly.

"Well, if you create a character described as handsome, muscular, silky-haired, and unmistakably tall, it's quite obvious to any reader that it's me," he retorted playfully.

Her mouth fell open in mock astonishment at his audacity. With an exaggerated flourish, she dropped the book onto her lap.

“And, of course, you're the female protagonist,” he continued, his smirk growing wider. “Hot-headed and cranky, who else could it be?”

(y/n)'s face contorted into a permanent grimace.

“(y/n), are you writing a fanfic about us?” he inquired, leaning closer into her personal space.

That was the final straw. (y/n) propelled herself to her feet, fueled by her irritation and fixed Fred with an accusatory finger.

“Listen here, Fred. The day I write a book about us, you can call me insane.”

Fred chuckled heartily, clearly relishing her reactions. (y/n) couldn't fathom why he found it all so amusing. Her book centred around fairies battling to regain political power; it had nothing to do with their personal lives. Fred was the one acting irrationally, suggesting it was some sort of “fanfic” and daring to entertain the notion that she would include flattering descriptions of him within the story.

If what he suspected were true, that she harboured a crush on him, then he shouldn't have found the idea humorous. Even if it were indeed fiction, he should have been repelled. (y/n) couldn't help but think that he might be secretly pleased with the notion, which irked her further. She didn't have a crush on him!

She turned on her heel with an exasperated huff and stormed away from the bleachers. However, just before she could escape earshot, she heard Fred's voice, laced with a hint of melody.

“Don't dieee!”

She was on the Quidditch pitch stands again. Only this time, there was an actual match on the field, not just a training session.

The Slytherin team zipped through the air on their latest-generation broomsticks, an annual tradition courtesy of Draco Malfoy's father. They faced off against Gryffindor, known for its fiercely competitive players. Whenever the green and red houses clashed, it was always a breathtaking spectacle.

(y/n) was gladly sitting next to Lee Jordan, narrating the game animatedly. Even when the Slytherins executed brilliant plays, his narration remained spirited. He occasionally mumbled comments about some Slytherin players but also praised them when deserved.

Only three days had passed since Fred Weasley had playfully accused her of basing her book's protagonist on him. Since then, they had seen each other and talked, but the book's topic hadn't resurfaced.

“Wow!” Lee's voice broke her concentration. “The Slytherins are really going after our beaters! I mean, sorry, they're going after the Gryffindor beaters!”

Engrossed in the match, (y/n) confirmed Lee's observation. The Slytherin beaters were prioritising targeting the Gryffindor beaters over the usual strategy of interfering with the opposing Seeker. (y/n) knew little about Quidditch's strategy, so she couldn't discern whether this was a wise move by her fellow Slytherins. However, she grew concerned for the Gryffindor beaters, who happened to be Fred and George.

She rose from her seat, her eyes following the twins' every move.

“The crowd is getting worried!” Lee Jordan's voice resonated, and (y/n) turned to face him. He raised his shoulders innocently as if to say he was just calling it as he saw it. Before she could reprimand him, Lee resumed narrating the game. “Oh, no! They're targeting Fred Weasley. Both beaters against one guy; not fair!”

Fred Weasley's name caused (y/n) to search the sky anxiously, her eyes scanning the field for his broom. The atmosphere was tense. She had attended the match in neutral black attire and sat beside Lee, determined not to favour any team. Although she had recently become acquainted with half of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she couldn't help but feel allegiance to her house. Despite her intentions, the sight of Fred being targeted stirred worry within her. She left Lee's side and hurried down the bleacher stairs, seeking a better vantage point of the unfolding events on the pitch.

“And Fred's been hit! Fred Weasley is hit. Was it fair?” Lee's voice reached her ears as she made her way down. “Oh, I see. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s captain, is asking for a break, a time-out. Let’s give them ten minutes to regroup. We'll be back shortly.”

(y/n) turned back against the field and found Lee’s eyes through the crowd. She was grateful for the encouragement he silently offered with a nod. It was the nudge she needed to practically leap down the remainder of the bleacher steps, racing toward the Gryffindor Changing Room.

Luckily for her, the stands were consistently high, so in the actual field, there was nobody. She quickly reached the right spot but hesitated behind the curtain doors, listening intently. Oliver was addressing the team, urging them to regain their focus. Harry only needed to catch the Golden Snitch, and with Oliver as the Keeper, they would fend off the Slytherins from scoring further.

Summoning her courage, (y/n) poked her head through the curtain doors.

“Fred?” she murmured, but her voice carried to all the players.

(y/n) saw Fred, all sweaty, squeezing a water container over his face, drinking only half of it. “(y/n)?” he asked, confused by her presence.

She took the opportunity to step fully into the Changing Room. The other players exchanged knowing glances but remained silent; they understood she wasn't an enemy. (y/n) had interacted with Oliver, Angelina, and, of course, Harry Potter himself. Their glances spoke more of intrigue as if they were silently questioning the stage of her relationship with Fred.

Fred handed his now-empty water bottle to George, who appeared equally puzzled about what to do with it. Fred then retrieved his bat from the floor and approached (y/n), who remained fixed in her spot, somewhat intimidated by her unfamiliar surroundings.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her worry palpable. “Are you hurt?”

Fred kept moving closer. “I'm fine,” he assured her.

She nodded, darting over Fred’s shoulder, peeking at George. “And you, George? Are you alright?”

George nodded affirmatively just as Oliver cleared his throat.

“Well, let's regroup outside,” Oliver instructed the team. With that, the players rose from their seats in a flash.

They left the Changing Room, leaving only Fred behind, and George was the last one to go, for he lingered a bit, moving with deliberate slowness. His eyes remained fixed on Fred and (y/n), and as the others filed out, it became evident that Oliver had called them out to grant the pair some much-needed privacy.

As the room emptied, (y/n) seized the chance to scrutinise Fred's face. The water had washed away the grime, revealing his striking features. He looked almost dishevelled, his heart beating fast, and a rosy hue tinged his cheeks. His damp hair was in complete disarray, the ends defiantly pointing in all directions. He seemed to sense her gaze on his unruly locks and ran a hand through them to tame them, achieving only partial success.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Her voice was soft, carrying genuine concern as she narrowed the gap between them, her fingertips yearning to touch Fred's face. “Lee mentioned you got hit.”

Her gentle touch seemed to kindle a fire within Fred. His face flushed, and he stuttered slightly, turning his head to the right when she reached for him.

“Where did the Bludger hit you?” she inquired, studying his face for any signs of injury. His features appeared unscathed, although his cheeks radiated with warmth.

“It grazed my right ear,” he replied, and she instinctively turned his face further to examine the ear. It was only slightly reddened, no worse than the rest of his face.

“I'm sorry they're targeting you,” she uttered with a slow breath, her concern deepening. Her hands left his face, but Fred turned his chin to face her.

“It's part of the game,” Fred shrugged.

Fred had never seen (y/n) like this before. After weeks of their friendship, this was the first time he had witnessed her express genuine concern.

“I know,” she sighed. “That doesn’t mean it’s fair. Or easy to watch.”

“It’s not a battle,” he noted, gingerly alluding to her book. “No one’s gonna die.”

“But some are going to get hurt,” she stated, her gaze fixed on his ear, her worry etched across her features.

Fred loomed over her, his taller stature requiring her to tilt her head upward to meet his eyes and see his facial expressions. Usually, she appreciated that he was taller, but at that moment, it seemed to create an unwelcome distance.

An unspoken question lingered in (y/n)’s mind: What was she doing there? Why had she hurried to the Changing Room?

“Well,” she cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze, “if you're okay, then I should head back. You know, to watch you win or whatever.”

He smiled at her awkwardness, a not uncommon sight when it came to (y/n). He'd witnessed her awkwardness before, often finding it endearing. She sometimes struggled with conversation, especially with other people, leading to uncertain moments. Fred couldn't help but find those moments rather cute.

“You're not cheering for your own house?” he inquired, the corners of his mouth hinting at an impending smirk.

She pressed the inner corner of her mouth with her teeth, pondering her response. “Not when they're being unfair.”

“Three days ago, I swear you wouldn't have said it's unfair if they were targeting me,” he finally allowed that smirk to surface. It was the second subtle reference to her book, or at least a hint at that day, making (y/n) shy.

“Sometimes I want to hit you, Weasley,” she teased, her tone playful despite her lingering concern.

Fred chuckled, closing the distance between them, if that was even possible.

“Do it,” he taunted, his eyes dancing mischievously.

Her gaze met his, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was genuinely asking for it. She certainly had her reasons to want to hit him. First, for teasing her relentlessly. Second, for insisting on being her friend. Third, for involving her with all of his other friends. And now, that — whatever that was. She was eager to touch him, just not to do it in the form of a slap.

Something else fluttered in her stomach, and she hated it, and she hated Fred for it.

“Come on, (y/n),” he teased again, his smirk widening.

Her frustration reached its peak. How dare he jest with her after all the concern she had shown? She had never rushed to find someone before and loathed how unappreciative he seemed.

Without thinking, (y/n) closed the distance between them. Not with a slap, as Fred had half-expected, but with a kiss. It was so swift that Fred barely registered it until he felt her cool lips against his warm ones. A sigh escaped her as she realised he wasn't pushing her away.

And how could he? Fred had yearned for this moment for so long, through countless sleepless nights, because sleep meant dreams, and every dream was about her. Whether he imagined (y/n) seeking help with a prank and then kissing him, or (y/n) struggling with grades and asking for comfort through a kiss, or even the most sensual dreams where she broke into his Gryffindor dorm room wearing nothing but her panties.

Whatever had prompted (y/n) to kiss him, Fred was beyond caring. He hoped she wouldn't stop. He abandoned his mantra of ignoring his romantic feelings for her, forgetting they were meant to be just friends.

Fred kissed her passionately, willingly, leaving his bat forgotten on the floor as he held her close. His hands found her waist, lifting her slightly, bringing her nearer as he devoured her lips.

For (y/n), it felt like paradise. She'd never been kissed before, though she had read about it. Still, she'd assumed a kiss was just lips meeting, nothing more. She hadn't expected her first kiss to be like a scene from a romance novel, but it was. She experienced everything the heroines in her favourite books described: a warmth that started low in her belly and surged upward, a desire to merge completely with Fred. She clutched his red hair as if her life depended on it as if she depended on him.

“Fred! Come on!” a voice from outside yelled so loudly that it snapped both of them back to reality.

Fred was in the middle of a Quidditch match, but somehow, he had just kissed (y/n).

Slowly, he released her, and she stared back at him, her face flushed a deep shade of red, much like his hair. Her hand reached for her own lips as if trying to comprehend that what had just happened was real. She had been kissed. By Fred Weasley.

“We have just a minute, Fred!” the voice shouted again, and this time, (y/n) realised it was Oliver Wood, their captain, yelling.

“I think you have to go,” she said, her voice slightly shaky.

Fred nodded, placing his hands on his hips.

“Like now, Freddie,” she added, and her raised eyebrows conveyed the situation's urgency.

He burst back to reality, hastily retrieving his bat from the floor. Rushing toward the curtained exit, he glanced back at her.

Did he really kiss his best friend when he swore he wouldn’t?

They shared a glance. He would have to be content with that one kiss, for he could never pursue anything more if he wanted (y/n) to maintain her friendships because she was now finally opening up for that possibility.

“Don't die,” she murmured, her tone serious, but a laugh escaped her as she made the witty remark.

Finally, he left the Changing Room. For if he stayed any longer, he feared he would have to kiss her laughter away from her lips.

#fred weasley #harry potter #george weasley #fred and george #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader

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jamilelucato · 8 months

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possibility - fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(it can be read as a one-shot) (part 02 here!)