i wanna take up all your time | george weasley x reader
summary: You ask George to be your (fake) boyfriend so your family will get off your back. He says yes, even though he's not pretending.
warnings: george centric, fluff, mutual (but george doesn't know it), fake dating, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, real world au
note: long-ish bc apparently i'm incapable of getting to the point.
ps. thank u to everyone who's been reading and commenting, u mean the world to me <3 lmk if u wanna be tagged on the next part !
pss. can u guess what the twins do in this fic's universe? (not a joke shop!) big reveal coming in the next part (:<
part 1, part 2, part 3
∗
George has never felt this way before.
He's never been shy around women, never thought twice about a text, a look, a date. It might sound cocky—but maybe he is sort of proud of it, of the way he's always been lucky with women. Most of all, of knowing how to treat them.
With you, it's different.
He blames your arrangement—what a God-awful way to describe this thing he's gotten himself into. But he knows, deep down, that feeling both miserable and exhilarated, like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, is more about him wanting to do something reckless and, just as desperately, trying not to ruin it.
He stares at his phone like he wants it to dial your number on its own. He's saved you as ‘Y/N L/N’, no emojis, lest you somehow snoop around and, through sheer deduction, figure out all the embarrassing things he wants to do with you. Your contact photo beams at him; he took it himself, on a day when you asked him to go try a new Thai restaurant together. Why are the simplest things so hard, he wonders.
With a defeated sigh, George presses the green button.
You pick up on the second ring.
“Hi, handsome.”
George Weasley is very glad you can’t see him through the phone, a very uncool grin almost splitting his face in two.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Can’t a man just casually ring his fake girlfriend to ask about her day?”
“He can,” you muse. George can hear a grin identical to his in your voice. “Although there’s not much to tell. We did just see each other a few hours ago.”
“We did? Feels like forever.” He prays to God his theatrics come across as just that.
You laugh on the other end. There’s the sound of metallic clatter, like you’re in your kitchen moving pots and pans around.
“What are you doing?”
“Meal prep,” you say, “I have to go to the office tomorrow. I always forget how depressing Sundays can get.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he says. Then, more confident than he actually feels, “Can’t have my girl feeling sad on a weekend.”
George is used to getting away with things like this. He’s been calling you all sorts of pet names for years. It used to throw you off; he remembers the bewildered look on your face the first time he called you princess. You’re used to it now, have even told him you know there’s nothing behind it except his usual playfulness.
He’s not sure that’s still the case.
“You know, I feel like you’re taking this awfully seriously.” Your tone is mocking but not unkind. “One would think a business owner would have much busier weekends.”
“What can I say? I have a strong work ethic.”
“Oh, so this is business.”
“It can be if you want it to.”
"I don't", you reply swiftly, "I don't like working on Sundays."
"Neither do I," says George. He feels something tighten in his stomach, like a rubber band pulled taut. He decides it’s now or never. "Let me take you out. On a date."
There's a silence on your end of the line, long enough for George to freak out and consider hanging up.
“Okay,” your voice is soft, almost breathless. “What kind of date?”
“A fun one. Wear something comfortable. Pick you up in an hour?” George says this all in one breath, fast enough that he doesn’t have time to second-guess himself.
“An hour?” You sound taken aback and he likes that.
“Would you prefer two?”
“No. An hour is fine.”
“Good.”
∗
The thing about being a fake boyfriend is that George starts noticing things. Not only that, but he's also bothered by them. Things he would've previously deemed unimportant, ridiculous even. Case in point: the way his hair refuses to cooperate.
He's spent the better part of the past half hour staring at the mirror, finding new things to feel self-conscious about. Not only is his hair not cooperating, but also—has his nose always looked like that?
"I'd make fun of you if I genuinely didn't feel sorry for you right now," says Fred from where he leans against the bathroom doorframe.
He's been kind enough to let George know that his outfit is fine, thank you very much, but seems to be at his wit's end over George's sudden vanity.
George decides it's time to give up and accept himself as he is. He pats Fred on the shoulder as he squeezes past him and heads for the door.
"Go get her, tiger."
∗
"You weren't lying!"
The roar of the rollercoaster and the screams of its passengers make it so that you have to practically scream into George's ear.
"About what?" he screams back.
"The fun!"
Your smile makes George swoon.
He'd refused to let you know where he was taking you when he picked you up, and you'd spent the short car ride trying to guess.
"The museum," had been your first guess.
"I said fun," he'd replied.
"You're a fiend, museums are fun."
"To whom?"
"People of culture, obviously."
"Right, so niether of us."
You'd laughed so loudly you'd gotten shy about it. He'd thought he wanted to make you laugh like that as often as he could.
George hadn't been able to keep the location of your date secret for very long because a ferris wheel had come very evidently into view before he'd reached your destination.
"Oh my God! Are you taking me to the fair?"
"No."
"We're literally pulling into the parking lot."
"We're just running some errands," he'd said, trying mightily to fight the smile that was making its way across his face.
George had let you drag him wherever you'd wanted to go, which turned out to be every single attraction, including the ones for children.
He finds himself in line beside you for an intimidating rollercoaster, a shaky wooden structure that threatens collapse. It's by far the attraction with the longest line, but also the one you're most excited about. George has never been able to say no to you.
"I didn't know you were such a fan of rollercoasters," he says, half teasing.
"Are you kidding? Greatest human invention, right after drainage."
"What else don't I know about you?" he asks, suffling along a few spaces as the line moves forward.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say, your grin wolfish. "Tell me something about you for a change."
George figures he can't say I think I'm in love with you umprompted, so he settles for something else. "Remember that party when we first met?"
"Mm. At Mary's house?" You furrow your brow and he nods. "It's been so long. What about it?"
"Remember how it ended?"
"Yeah, someone broke the sink. Mary was furious, poor thing." You lift an eyebrow and consider him for a moment. He fixates on a beauty mark under your eye.
"That was me. Well, us." He clarifies, "Fred and I."
"Unsurprising. Tell me something else."
"W-what?" The line moves forward another inch and he stares at you in disbelief. You seem rather pleased with yourself.
"I knew that. You offered to pay for it afterwards."
"How d'you know that?"
"Mary's my friend. She told me some redheaded jerk– her words, not mine— had offered to pay for it." Your smile is so self-satisfied George wants to kiss it off your face. "Figured t'was you 'cause you have this weird sense of justice that none of your brothers have."
"Pshaw," he says, waving a hand in the air, "Don't flatter me."
"I'm not trying to!"
The roar of the coaster's metallic wheels interrupts your conversation. George glances at the tracks ahead, the line advancing faster than he'd like it to. Your hand brushes his against the railing and he feels his fingers burn where you touched him. He thinks he makes a sound.
You cock your head and look at him, eyes squinting.
"It's rude to stare," he says.
"Is this fear I'm sensing?" You bite your lip, bearly able to keep your grin at bay. "George, are you afraid of roller coasters?"
George Weasley is not afraid of roller coasters.
"I just rode, like, twelve with you!"
"Then why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to be sick."
Suddenly, you're at the front of the line, and some teenager in uniform is ushering you toward your seats. You choose the ones at the front, but turn to George and lean in, whispering like you're conspiring. A sudden whiff of your perfume hits his face.
"We can skip this one if you want to," you say. "I won't make fun of you." He knows by the softness in your tone that you mean it.
George is only slightly anxious. The creaks and groans of the wooden structure make it seem like it's about to plummet to the ground at any second, but the tremors reverberating through it are nothing compared to what his heart is doing.
"I'm not scared," he says. "Just—overwhelmed, maybe."
"You don't have to prove anything to me."
George would much rather have you think he's afraid of roller coasters than find out what your presence does to him.
"I'm not," he says quickly. "Proving anything, I mean."
So the ride starts, and it's not half bad. You grab George's hand and lift both your arms in the air, your happy laugh almost lost beneath the clatter of the machine. He feels like he left his stomach at the start of the ride, unsure of what exactly is to blame. The cold air nips at his face, the sky and the lights of faraway buildings blurring into one continuous motion.
Then it ends, almost as suddenly as it started, and you climb out of the coaster so fast he has to look around for you.
George finds you bent over a trash can.
"Y/N! What happened? Are you okay?" He brushes your hair away from your face, confused and panicked, before putting two and two together.
Oh.
You retch weakly and he almost laughs. Not cruelly, just disbelieving.
"You're awful," you say, still hunched over. "You're mean and awful."
He does laugh this time, rubbing absent-minded circles over your back. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, George realizes he wants to take care of you.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He says it and means it, although there’s a smile that never leaves his face. “Let me get you some water. Wait here.”
He leaves you for a total of thirty seconds and comes back with a plastic water bottle and some napkins, only to find you sitting on the ground, hugging your knees.
You accept the water wordlessly.
“Stop looking at me,” you say meekly, all your bite from before gone. "You're enjoying this."
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re very pretty. Can’t help myself.”
You snort and immediately regret it.
“Oh, God, I’m serious. Stop harrassing me.”
George lets you do your thing, turns around without ever leaving your side. He meant it, is the thing. You are very pretty, even now.
He knows this is going to be a problem.
You shuffle around and George turns to help you onto your feet. You look like yourself again, albeit a bit pale. He has to resist the urge to touch your face.
“Better?” he asks.
“Physically? Yes.” You let out a small laugh and press your face briefly against his shoulder. George fears he might pass out. “Emotionally? I don’t think I’ll recover. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’ve had worse dates,” he says, and it’s true, although mainly because they weren’t with you.
“Pshaw,” you echo him, a lopsided smile curving the edges of your mouth.
The sky is that purple-blue color that comes right before night. There’s a light breeze and the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and hot chocolate. Fairy lights and neon signs twinkle all around. You slip your right arm through George’s left and start walking.
“I can’t believe I ruined this,” you say, shaking your head. “It was going so well.”
George looks at you. You look down at your feet. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I threw up on you.”
“Not on me. Just—in my general direction.”
The pink glow of the neon lights from a nearby shooting gallery makes you look almost angelic when you turn your face up towards him. “George Weasley, you’re a liar.”
George likes the way you say his name, no real heat underneath. He chuckles, hyperaware of the place where your hand meets his arm.
“You do have to admit it’s a fun anecdote. And it works.”
“Works for what?”
“Your family?” He clears his throat. “Like, if they ask about us on Sunday?”
You blink at him. “What would they even ask? Our top five most humiliating moments?”
George laughs loudly. “Top five? I can list at least ten of yours.”
You nudge his shoulder and throw him an unconvincing annoyed look. “It’s a family dinner, George, not an immigration interview.”
“Need I remind you,” he says, amused, “that you’re the one who wants to be convincing?”
That makes you go quiet. George feels like he’s on a tightrope, never quite sure which way to lean. He gently unhooks your arm from his, and you start to protest before he places his arm over your shoulders. You press the side of your face into him, so natural a movement that George doubts you’re aware of it. He starts guiding you towards the car, the soft glow of the street lamps lighting the way.
“So,” he asks, “how am I gonna convince them that I’m mad about you if I can’t get the story of our first date right?”
“They won’t ask,” you say into his shoulder.
“Think of it as method acting.”
“Okay.” You indulge him. “How long have we been dating for?”
George doesn’t notice when you reach the car. He finds himself standing in front of you, the toes of your sneakers almost touching his. Your closeness makes him dizzy.
He tries to remember the first time he thought of you as more than a friend. It’s embarrassing, really, how far back he can go without finding a definitive answer. You’ve always been there, an insistent presence in his chest.
“Six months ago,” he settles for something that doesn’t feel too incriminating. “But we were keeping it secret because you wanted to go slow.”
Your laugh is equal parts surprised and sweet. The cold evening breeze makes you shiver a little. George hurries to open the car door for you.
“Me?”
“Obviously.”
George would never want to take things slow with you.
∗
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