ᴄᴏʀᴅᴜʀᴏʏ (fred weasley)

ꜰʟᴏᴜʀ & ᴇɢɢ

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☽

Euphoric. Veritably in seventh heaven. Lyra spent the most amazing dawn with Fred. It all felt logical, as though there was no other reality. With Cedric, it felt compulsory to share her body with him, to satisfy the other. But with Fred, it was meaningful.

But it was fair to say they where equally satisfied.

The gust with a smidgen of salt cavorted through the tiny cracks of the wooden shutters in the beach house. The bed covers where ruffled, the pair lay entwined with each others bodies. Lyra's head rest softly on Fred's bare chest, her head tucked under his chin as her leg wrapped around his waist, shared with one inevitably poor attempt to reclothe theirselves.

Lyra woke first, coming to terms with her surroundings. As she stood, her legs trembling underneath her slightly, she found herself wearing her bra, and Fred's pyjama bottoms. She bit her lip, immediately satisfied with her view of the boy. Fred sat up, his eyes adjusting to the light.

"Nice booty shorts, Freddie."

His face dropped from a cocky grin, noticing the shorts. He slid off the bed, looking at himself in the mirror, "Hm, do they make my ass look big?"

Lyra beamed, prowling behind him as he watched in the mirror. She squeezed his buttcheeks playfully, as Fred spun her sound, now facing each other.

"Now you wouldn't like if I did that to you, Lovegood" He rose his eyebrows, speaking in a hushed, growly tone. "Wouldn't I?" Lyra's head fell to the side, as her top lip curled into a grin. He slid his hands around her waist, slapping her ass.

Lyra was downstairs, raiding the cupboard to find something to make for breakfast when Fred came down a few minutes later, still in the bootyshorts. Aswell as repping a muggle band t-shirt, called 'The Beatles', he noticed Lyra at the kitchen counter.

"What're you making" His head reposed in the crevice of her shoulder.
"Have you ever made pancakes?"
"Well, not efficiently. Me and George burnt the kitchen side, and Mum's favourite apron."
"Well, do you want to try again? Or will you burn down this cottage?"

Fred followed Lyra's instructions, selling himself as calm and collected, but theoretically struggling to crack an egg, "Fred... no, you don't have to, bloody hell." He had managed to ruin four eggs, either dropping them, crushing them with his hands or getting all the shell in the bowl.

"Can I do the flour instead?"
"Yes, just don't..."
Poof, the flour had exploded all over Fred, his hair now fully white, no trace of ginger. He froze like a deer in a headlight, his hands outstretched as Lyra wheezed, utterly in stitches. "You are the pancake now, may as-well crack the bloody egg on your head."

They laughed together for minutes, until Fred decided to leave for a shower. Lyra mopped the floor and cleaned the surfaces, the aftermath of the flour explosion. Ten minutes later, he returned a little less white than before, as Lyra stood flipping the pancakes over the stove.

"I'm just going to leave that part to you."
"Probably for the best, Freddie."
It all fell silent, no sound other than the peaceful swishing of the wind chimes, and the sizzling stove. "Are you okay?" She asked, shifting slightly uncomfortably as Fred stared at her. Lyra was only used to people staring at school when she was whispered about, skipping innocently through the halls.

But Fred's stare was different.

"You're perfect."

"Come on Fred, no one's perfect." She said, slightly pink. She tucked a loose strand of her curly snow hair behind her ear, her eyes flickering between the pancake and his gaze. "Am I not perfect?" He moped sarcastically, as she sneered and chuckled.
"Maybe you'd be perfect if you could cook, hm?"
He scoffed, "I'm a perfectly capable cook, Miss Lovegood."