#diary post

[emily8350]

(tripping over my own toys) who the fuck closed last night

[bloomzone]

may your spring be filled with solo dates , hangouts , strawberries , long walks and blooming energy

[romanczukowsky]

He Shouldn’t Know part. III

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Once, he was just a fantasy in her notebook. Now George Weasley stands in front of her — older, warmer, and still the only boy she ever wrote about. This time, it’s not just words. It’s real.

Warnings: Soft Smut/ Slow burn / Tender love / Age difference / Hurt-comfort / Diary

Author's note: I needed it. Happy reading, and thank you for joining me on this journey 🧡

Several months had passed since that day when George’s words hit me like lightning.

There was no longer any fierce passion between us, no sudden gestures reminiscent of that night.

Instead, there was a quiet, gentle presence — he would sit beside me at breakfast, sometimes bring me a hot cup of tea, carefully making sure I didn’t catch a chill. His gaze was soft, cautious, as if afraid to take another step that might hurt me.

Slowly, I began to see in him not just the man from the notebook of my dreams, but a real person who wanted to fix his mistake and be with me in a new way — more brotherly than romantic.

A little tired. Sometimes thoughtful. Often smiling. But quieter, calmer. As if he was also trying to put himself back together.

I spent the summer at their home, filled with Ginny’s laughter and the smell of freshly baked cake. The days passed lazily, and we passed with them. George was near but never imposing — like a brother who knows his place and respects boundaries.

Sometimes we’d sit side by side, sharing small talks and quiet jokes. I noticed how carefully he chose his words, how quickly he changed the subject whenever he saw me blush. He didn’t want to hurt me — he wanted to make things right.

Day by day, my fascination with him faded, replaced by other things — wild antics with Ginny, new friendships, simple childhood joys. George became a steady, calm part of my world, like the shade of a tree on a hot day. I smiled at him in the corridors, ate meals with him, but more and more I sensed he wanted to quiet the whole commotion.

Over time, the notebook stopped lying next to me. I no longer needed to write down my feelings because they began to transform into something more real — or simply fade away. Other boys appeared, filling my thoughts and my life.

The last time I saw him was on the platform. He walked past with Fred, laughing at something Ron had said. He tousled my hair in passing and said,

“Take care of yourself."

Now, after finishing school, George had become just a warm memory, a gentle melody from the past slowly fading away. Year by year, there was less of him in my thoughts. Fewer fantasies, more life...

And then, one day, I found a notebook on the doorstep — empty, but with a short note: “If you still want to write about me — I want to read it.” — G.

I couldn’t believe it.

Who was it from?

Why now?

I walked into George’s shop. The air smelled faintly of metal and old books — familiar, comforting. He looked up from his workbench, eyes softening when he saw me. That look — like an older brother who’s just happy to see you, no expectations, no pressure.

“Hey,” he said quietly, almost shyly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I smiled, holding the empty notebook tightly. “I found this on my doorstep. Thought it was a joke at first.”

He chuckled, a warm sound that somehow made the room feel smaller and closer. “Maybe it was. But maybe not.”

His eyes flicked to the notebook in my hands, then back to me, and there was something unspoken in that look — like this was never just about the pages, but about us. “Some things don’t disappear. They wait. And sometimes, they need a second chance.”

I just stood there, clutching the notebook like it was some fragile promise. His words echoed in my mind, heavy with meaning I wasn’t quite ready to grasp.

Some things don’t disappear. They wait. And sometimes, they need a second chance.

What did that mean for us? For me?

I wasn’t the same girl who used to scribble endless pages filled with dreams, confessions, and impossible fantasies. Time had changed me. Or maybe I had changed on my own, without even noticing.

Still, here I was, sitting in George’s little shop — surrounded by strange gadgets and half-finished inventions — feeling like I had stepped into a story I thought I’d closed long ago.

He didn’t pressure me. Didn’t rush me. Just gave me space, a quiet corner and an unexpected invitation to be part of his world again.

So I opened in evening the notebook.

And I started writing.

At first, it was awkward. Like dipping a toe back into a cold lake.

But the words came. Tentative, unsure, like a whisper.

I wrote about ordinary days. About the way George’s smile now felt less like a fantasy and more like a memory. About the little moments: him handing me tea, a joke shared, a look that lingered a bit too long.

Slowly, the pages began to fill.

And with each entry, something inside me stirred.

George noticed. I could see it in the way his eyes sparkled when I showed up after school, sometimes helping him with his latest invention, sometimes just sitting and laughing like we used to.

There was no rush. No pressure.

But there was a change.

A quiet, simmering heat beneath the surface.

I can feel it—the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. That subtle shift in the air whenever we’re alone in the workshop. It’s not just brotherly anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but neither of us said it out loud.

Sometimes he teases me, just a little too much. A brush of his hand against mine when he hands me a tool. A crooked smile that promises something just beneath the surface. And I catch myself leaning in, wanting more, daring to hope.

Last week, he stayed late, fixing something by the window. The light was fading, golden and soft, and I was pretending not to stare. Then he looked at me—really looked—and I felt my heart stutter. His fingers brushed my hair, a careless touch that set a fire under my skin.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly, but there was no anger. Only that same warm chuckle I remembered.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Because suddenly, the notebook felt less like a secret and more like a beginning.

He’s no longer just the men I wrote about. He’s the man who makes me want to burn all the pages and start writing something new—something real, something ours.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid.

The next evening, the workshop was quiet except for the soft ticking of the old clock and the faint hum of the streetlights outside. We were fixing a broken music box — his hands steady, mine trying not to tremble.

He glanced at me, his eyes darker than usual. “You’ve changed,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

I swallowed hard. “So have you.”

A silence settled between us, thick and electric.

Then, without thinking, I reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. His breath hitched.

“Don’t stop,” he said, voice rough, barely audible.

I froze for a moment, my fingers still resting gently near his ear. His gaze was intense, searching - sensitive, yet bold. The air between us thickened, charged with something neither of us dared to name out loud.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reduced the small distance between us. Not with force, but with a careful tenderness that made my pulse quicken and my breath catch. His hand found mine, our fingers intertwined like a promise - tentative, but undeniably true.

“I've waited a long time for this,” he whispered, and his voice was barely a breath.

For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to hope again.

And just then, Fred walked into the workshop, his smile breaking the spell of the moment.

I immediately stepped back as if I’d touched something burning hot. George didn’t move an inch; he stood there calmly, as if he’d been waiting all along for something to happen.

He glanced at me with a soft sigh—one that said it all: “Well, not this time either.”

A mischievous sparkle appeared in his eyes, and a shadow of a smile crossed his face—part disappointment, part challenge.

“Don’t give up so easily,” he said quietly, and I felt like this was only the beginning of our story.

Entry ... -

I caught myself again today — writing about him.

I caught myself again today — writing about him. Not like before, when every word felt like a gasp for air, filled with shy hopes and secret sighs. This is different now. It’s not just a fantasy. It’s desire.

The butterflies are back — just as intense — but now I know I don’t want to feel them only on paper. I want to feel them for real.

I don’t want to hide in my imagination anymore. I want to be with him — with George. The way I know him now.

Entry ... -

I’d started spending more time at the shop. At first, just an hour or two after classes — cleaning shelves, organizing joke powders, watching George charm customers with that easy grin.

But then it became longer. An afternoon turned into an evening. Homework left untouched. Books unopened. And I didn’t care.

One Thursday, I was restocking Extendable Ears when I heard Fred’s voice float from behind the storage door: “Oi, shouldn’t someone be studying for her O.W.L.s instead of flirting with shop owners?” I froze, cheeks going scarlet.

George just smirked without looking up from the counter. “She’s multitasking,” he said casually. Then he turned to me, winked, and added, “Brilliant at it, actually.”

My heart did something dangerous in my chest. He walked past me, close enough that his fingers brushed mine as he reached for a box. Not an accident — but not a move either. Deliberate softness.

And then, the worst part: he didn’t even glance back.

That kind of attention? It made me forget where I was.

Entry ... -

The following evening, I didn’t even pretend to bring my books. Instead, I sat on the workshop floor beside him, sorting trick wand pieces while he adjusted something above my head. His arm reached over me, and I could feel the heat of his skin through his sleeve.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re sitting in the middle of chaos.”

I looked up. “Then maybe I belong here.”

His gaze lingered. Long enough to say what neither of us dared put into words yet.

And then he moved — slowly — reaching past me. His body brushed mine, warm and solid. His hand still resting on the shelf.

He looked toward the workshop door — quick, casual — checking for Fred. It was quiet. No footsteps. No teasing voice.

When he looked back at me, something in his eyes had changed. Still gentle. But lit from underneath.

Without a word, he moved closer — until my back was against the wood of the storage rack. His body just a breath away from mine. Not touching. But enough to feel it. Enough to ache.

His hand slid down, fingers grazing my waist, barely there. I gasped — not because I was afraid, but because I had wanted this.

"You have no idea,” he whispered, “how many times I told myself not to do this.”

My throat tightened.

"And now?" I asked, breath shaky.

He smiled — slow, crooked, devastating. “Now I’m hoping you’ll stop me.”

His hand found mine, guided it to his chest — just over his heart. It was pounding. Like mine.

The distance vanished.

His lips brushed the corner of my mouth, barely a kiss, more a question. Testing.

And when I didn’t move away — he answered for both of us.

The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t urgent. It was careful. Reverent. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of me.

His fingers slid behind my neck, holding me like I might shatter. My hands curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, silently begging him not to stop — not this time.

“George…” I whispered against his mouth, almost a plea.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, breathing hard, his forehead against mine. “I know,” he said softly. “I know we shouldn’t rush this.”

But his hands were already on my waist, his thumbs brushing the edge of skin where my shirt had lifted. And the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Still, he waited — waited for my breath to steady, for me to nod, to want this just as clearly as he did. So I did.

I leaned in again, bolder this time, kissing him like the girl from the notebook was finally real. And he groaned — that low, almost desperate sound — as his hands tightened around me, lifting me just slightly, pinning me gently between him and the wood.

His breath was ragged now. His lips trailed from mine to my jaw, then lower, skimming the line of my throat that made my whole body tremble. I felt the warmth of his mouth press beneath my ear.

And then I felt him — unmistakably — as his hips pressed to mine.

The hard line of his arousal nudged just below my stomach, through the layers of clothes that suddenly felt too thin, too unnecessary. My hands slid down his back, gripping the fabric at his lower waist, pulling him in closer without even meaning to.

His mouth returned to mine, but this time slower — deeper — and he groaned again when I kissed him back with matching hunger. One of his knees shifted, nudging between mine, and instinctively I moved to meet him, letting my thighs part just slightly.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my lips. His voice was hoarse, thick with want.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

His hands slid under my thighs and lifted me effortlessly onto the edge of the old wooden table. My legs wrapped around his hips like it was the most natural thing I’d ever done, pulling him close, closer, until there was no space left between us — only heat and years of held-back longing.

And still, he didn’t rush.

His hands traced my back like he was trying to learn it by heart. His lips mapped a path from my mouth to my collarbone, every kiss slower than the last, until I was trembling under him.

I felt his breath hitch when my fingers found the edge of his shirt and slipped beneath it, tracing the warm skin along his spine.

Every touch spoke volumes — promises, regrets, hopes all wrapped in that silent language lovers share. His breath mingled with mine as our bodies pressed together, skin against skin, warmth spreading like wildfire.

And then — the moment when years of waiting, of wanting, of wondering — became real. When nothing else mattered but the two of us, at last.

[december-13th]

He is home 🤍

[strangeaxel]

Practicing my painting style

[ghost-girl-exe]

sex where your pussy aches all day from his cock.

[smimon]

announcement time, if anyone of y'all will be in Helsinki between 16 and 22 May and you want to meet, let me know! i don't have much plans because i'm on vacation haha, except for 21st May when i'm traveling to Tampere 🔥 (and if you're in Tampere then let's meet there, why not)