ball glove

Quidditch Matches - Fred Weasley

Word Count: 4,223

Prompt: Fred and his Gryffindor girlfriend attend a Quidditch match together when other plans lead them back to Fred’s dorm room.

This is just based off and idea on what I could see happening if Fred Weasley brought his Gryffindor girlfriend to a Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

Warnings: Fluff, very light smut, mention of sex, unedited 

“Hurry up, love! We’re gonna miss the match if we don’t get there in time!” Whipping your head around you found the source of the voice. You rolled your e/c eyes abated at your eager boyfriend. Fred was practically dancing back and forth on his toes as he stood waiting for you in the light mist. His red hair was hidden under a dampen wool hat, the ends sticking to his skin.

“Give me a second, Fred. I just need to put my boots on.” You mumbled leaning up against the brick walls of the castle. Fred Weasley had been raving the entire week about the Quidditch match playing out Saturday night. It was set between Slytherin and Ravenclaw and for some reason your boyfriend was more than thrilled to attend. He managed to hook you in and when Saturday finally did roll around, the match was all he could talk about. At five o'clock on the dot Fred dragged you out of the Gryffindor common room, where most of your weekends were spent, before you could even get dressed for the occasion. You snatched your raincoat off the hook, lucky for you a pair of thin fleece gloves were buried in the pocket, your boots by the door, and a homemade tie blanket to sit on.

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Summer chores for sixteen-year-old Mike Wheeler included mowing the lawn, a task he used to dread. That was before El had begun showing up for breakfast on Sunday mornings, gardening gloves balled into the back pocket of her jean shorts; before El would follow him outside and set to tending his mother’s flowers and tomato plants while he worked at pushing the lawnmower back and forth across the brilliant green ocean that was the Wheeler’s backyard.

It’s on an especially hot Sunday morning–fry an egg on the sidewalk kind of hot–that Karen excuses Mike from his weekly outdoor chores and instead sets up the sprinkler for Holly (knowing perfectly well that her teenaged son and his girlfriend won’t be able to resist leaping through the cold water themselves). Mike busies himself making lemonade (with just a splash of peach juice stirred in) and brings out three tall glasses on a tray; one each for El, Holly, and himself.

Setting the tray down on the glass top of the patio table, he hears El come up behind him and turns just as she presses herself onto the tips of her toes, a full six inches shorter than he is. Deftly, El’s hand slips a soft white daisy behind Mike’s ear, pushing back the messy locks that curl softly to his cheekbones. Mike grins, stooping slightly to plant a kiss on El’s forehead.

“Looks pretty,” she laughs softly, a sound he’ll never get sick of hearing. Despite the sticky heat, Mike pulls her into a hug, her face pressed gently against his chest, his chin coming to rest atop her head. Mike is certain he could have stayed like that forever had Holly not come running over, shrieking with joy.

“Group hug!” the youngest Wheeler exclaimed, stretching her short arms around Mike and El as far as possible, causing the teens to burst out laughing.