Jul 1
Guys I have a new obsession, and I don't regret a thing
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Guys I have a new obsession, and I don't regret a thing
| fratjo has a crush on shoko's new shy roommate, she's never had a boyfriend or a requited love, cuteness, fratjo is a yearner
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satoru gojo was in awe, eyes wide, mouth agape. it was, for once, not moving.
when shoko first introduced you to her two best friends, she had previously heeded them of your shy, nerdy personality, threatening them to be normal to you.
she was mostly worried about the white-haired boy.
gojo was a known flirt, womanizer, manwhore. he'd had his fair share of encounters with only the most gorgeous girls on campus. mostly sorority ones or mutual friends of shoko's.
geto was the same way, but did it quietly, pursuing girls much more mindfully.
she made it clear that you were different, though. you were off limits, that you were someone very special to her.
childhood friends, you and her. she kept in close contact with you since you moved away back in high school, and considered you a true friend.
ecstatic to hear you were transferring to her university, shoko didn't need geto and gojo, despite being her best friends, instinctual hoe-like tendencies scaring you off.
but gojo was speechless after seeing your beautiful face when you walked through the door of his dorm room.
it was different than anything he'd felt before. sure, he had small crushes in high school and in college he ran wild.
every weekend he'd flash his signature smirk, whisper a few slutty things in a girl's ear, and get his dick wet.
it was easy like that.
but he never felt like this before, completely captivated.
it wasn't just your physical beauty that struck him. it was the shy smile you wore on your face, the quiet greeting and head nod you offered him.
"hi," was all he could manage to get out.
from then on, you were all gojo could think about. whether it was in class, at practice, hanging with geto, at his damn frat parties.
his mind kept wandering to your pretty face, how much he wanted to talk to you. to tell you how he felt.
he found himself slowing down on the girls on the weekends. at parties, he felt distracted, often wishing you were there.
he would ask shoko if you'd ever come to a frat party of theirs with hopeful, pleading eyes. she would always dismiss it, reminding them that parties "weren't your speed".
it only made him want you more, imagining you in your cute pajamas doing something nerdy in bed on a friday night. reading, maybe.
it got to the point where he completely stopped hooking up with anyone, merely showing up to the parties to show support for his fraternity, or some bullshit.
the times he really got to see you were slim to none. you liked gojo and geto. when you first met them, you found them quite cute.
the guys at your old university were lousy compared to them, and it excited you.
at meals, sometimes gojo and geto would join you and shoko in the dining hall, taking a break from the food at their frat.
gojo practically jumped at any opportunity to eat with you, begging geto to ask shoko any time your schedules all aligned.
he would change around you, often letting his cocky, fuckboy attitude rest. he'd ask you about how you were adjusting, if you liked it so far.
you would nod your head with a soft smile, and his heart felt like it was bursting at the seams.
things changed, though, when he stumbled upon you at the college library. so typical of you, he thought.
your textbooks were sprawled on the rectangular desk, glasses on and hair tied up with a giant claw clip. your nose buried in your notebook, writing notes with your earphones in.
so cute.
he strode up to you, tapping your shoulder lightly. this was his opportunity, a chance to talk to you one on one without shoko staring daggers into him.
"hey, there," he would say, smiling.
you took out your earbud, eyebrows raised, lips parting delicately.
he took your warm greeting as an invitation to sit down at your table, asking you how your studying was going.
he was thanking his stupid literature professor for making him borrow the physical copy of the book for annotations, otherwise he wouldn't be caught dead there.
you shared what you were up to, how interesting your current unit in philosophy was and how hard you were studying for the next doozy of a calc test you had coming up.
it was the most you'd talked to him up till then, and to say he was happy was an understatement.
he figured that these academic interests of yours were what made you passionate, invigorated you to speak without hesitation.
loving your newfound openness, he continued asking you questions about what you'd been learning, how it compared to the way your professors taught at your old university, if you preferred this subject over that one.
any possible question that popped into his mind, he asked. just so he could continue to hear you talk.
your voice was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard before, and he wanted it to last forever.
it was what he, shamefully, palmed himself to the thought of every night. a hand would snake under his grey sweats, imagining your sweet voice whispering pleas from underneath him.
finally, realizing how long you'd been talking, you shyly tucked a hair behind your eye and adjusted your glasses, apologizing for rambling on and on.
he shook his head vigorously, insisting he was interested.
this routine continued.
he'd come to the library everyday around that time to come and see you, ask about your studies and day, even bringing cute drinks and snacks he saw you post on your instagram stories.
you found it all really nice. he was a great listener, just coming each day, pulling up a chair, and asking you really quality questions about your work.
movies, tv shows, animes, comic books he saw you repost about on your tiktok account he'd non-chalantly drop into conversation, and you'd light up immediately.
your eyes widened, and you launched into talking about your favorite characters, plot lines you hated, and cool things the directors or authors did intentionally he might have missed.
mentally, he'd fist bump himself for doing his research on you, along with all your favorite things.
he'd cut in at times, adding his two sense into a particular opinion you held on a character or story-line, and you'd smile brightly, surprised he was into the same media as you were.
it got to the point where his frat brothers were worried about him, wondering why on earth he had stopped his generational run he had with the sorority girls.
gojo seemed distracted, not really seeming fulfilled by all the partying and drinking.
even geto, his best friend, was confused as to why he had been acting this way.
he'd simply shrug, saying he didn't feel like it, jokingly saying that maybe he just grew up.
but it wasn't far off.
each visit he made to the library made your heart grow fonder of satoru gojo. you expected him, at a certain point, and without fail, he'd be there.
but you reminded yourself of the type of guy he was.
when weekend plans would get brought up, on the rare occasion you two talked about something like that, he'd mention a party of some sort.
you knew those parties happened each weekend, shoko practically came back drunk out of her mind from them, time and time again.
it just wasn't your scene. not that you thought that made you better than anyone, but it just wasn't.
even in high school, you were never very popular, keeping to yourself. shoko was one of your only friends in middle school, and it didn't get easier when you moved.
big events, like prom and formals, you often skipped out on because of the pressure you felt of having no date. it felt embarrassing to go without one, so you just didn't.
guys were another foreign area in your life.
you didn't have any guy friends, up until that point. in high school, you had your fair share of crushes.
none of which you talked to or had even the semblance of a chance with. it made you feel weird, never having even gotten to first base with anyone in your sophomore year of college.
gojo wasn't like you. he was a shining star, everyone loved him.
you weren't stupid. shoko told you, jokingly of course, that her two best friends were whores, popular amongst the female population.
you saw it in the way they got approached by beautiful girl "friends" in the dining halls or when they'd occasionally walk from class to class all together.
shoko would roll her eyes to the very back of her head.
the point was, you knew there wasn't a chance with him, no matter how friendly he came off to you each day. it was useless having a crush on him.
but you were stupid like that, biting off more than you could chew. that's how you got your feelings hurt, most times.
you were still smart enough to agree to go on a date with a guy you thought fit you will.
he was in your computer science class. he wasn't as handsome as gojo, nor did you have even half as good conversation with him, you thought.
but he was kind, quieter, did well in class.
he wasn't the type to party, and you overheard he'd never had a girlfriend before. it was a perfect match.
shoko urged you to say yes, happy that you'd finally get some.
she was so excited she decided to spill the beans to her two best friends at their pre-game before the friday night frat party.
when gojo heard you were going on a date with a guy seemingly perfect for you, his heart started racing, seething with jealousy.
shoko, of course, exaggerated him. that he was handsome, just your type, nerdy, incredibly intelligent, quiet, shy, low-key. all the things he wasn't.
that you were finally going to get your freak on, or however she described it, and that you and him probably were at that very moment.
he thickly swallowed, suddenly feeling incredibly nauseous.
quickly making up some bullshit lie that he ate some expired yogurt that morning and he was feeling sick, he ushered them out of the room.
as soon as he saw them leave, he raced out the door, not able to think straight.
there was no way in hell he'd let some random let all his efforts go to waste. i mean, it'd been months of intense and miserable yearning for you, as much as he hated that word and found it corny.
it was truly how he was moving.
his legs carried him fast, sprinting to the girl's dormitory. he knew it well, not just from shoko, shamefully.
almost falling on his face from running so fast, he stopped at your door.
he was scared, for once in his life, about a girl. this should be easy, but his mind was racing.
finally mustering up the courage to knock, you opened the door with a very confused expression.
"gojo?", you asked, staring up at him with those adorable eyes.
"don't date him," he was out of breath, chest heaving dramatically. he felt like he had just run a marathon, the adrenaline of seeing you shooting him to a runner's high.
"please. i-", his voice cracked, almost whimpering, "i like you. no- i'm obsessed with you. and i can't stand the thought of you dating someone that's not me. so please-",
you cut him off with an abrupt kiss, lips awkwardly clashing against his, teeth colliding and mouths not quite as fluid as in the movies.
but he didn't care. his brain was short circuiting from the fact that you had just kissed him.
smiling like an idiot, he shut the door behind him, exhaling and crashing his mouth onto yours again.
this time, he was in complete control, starting off fast, then slowing down against your lips, gently kissing you while holding the side of your face tenderly.
he couldn't believe this was happening. he was kissing you, and you were kissing him back.
breathless, you pulled away from him, eyes slightly glassy and face extremely warm and red. you looked away, exhaling loudly like you'd just did some intense exercise.
gojo was looking at you with a soft expression, the side of his mouth turned up.
"i- uh," you'd start, fumbling with a piece of your hair. the two of you were sitting on the edge of your bed.
"that was my first time," you smiled softly.
it was your first kiss.
his eyes felt like they were going to pop out of the sockets, his heartbeat increasing by two times.
he had just taken your first kiss. it was his forever, he was your first.
that made him so happy he could kiss you. again.
wearing a stupidly large grin on his face, he replied, "it won't be the last," pulling you in for another quick kiss.
you smiled into it, not sure of where to put your hands and settling them on his shoulders awkwardly.
"gojo!", you laughed softly.
“satoru,” he whispered near your ear.
you shuddered at the sensation, correcting yourself "satoru. i... didn't know you felt that way. about me,"
"I came to the library. a place i'd never be caught dead in. every day. to see you," he paused between each sentence, "how?",
he sounded genuinely confused, "i don't know. i think i just thought we were too different. that... i guess you were out of my league,"
gojo let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head, "there's no way you actually believe that. you're miles out of my league,"
you let out a breathy laugh, "no, i'm serious. i quit all of it. i haven't... been with a girl since i first saw your face. all i wanted to do was to talk to you,"
your heart could probably burst at that moment, your face growing warm, "that's-",
he cut you off, taking your hand in his, "you're way too good for me. trust me. that's why i didn't- i couldn't tell you how i felt," he started, "but i want you to be mine. for real,"
you smiled that soft, gentle smile, the one he loves, "i want that too,"
"yeah?", he rubbed his thumb over your knuckles delicately, looking down at your hand, "i'll be good for you, i promise. i don't care about any of that other bullshit, i just wanna make you happy,"
"then let's be together then," you said, feeling shy at the confidence of your statement.
"that's all i've ever wanted, baby," he breathed out, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.
satoru gojo was down tremendously.
first kiss
Has this been done yet?
Some Things George Weasley Doesn’t Joke About
Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader
Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.
Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing
It started the way most bad decisions usually do.
With laughter.
With noise.
With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.
You weren’t the quiet type.
Never had been.
If anything, you were worse.
Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.
Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”
George called it “friendship.”
And you just called it home.
You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.
Which, most of the time, you did.
Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.
Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.
“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.
Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.
George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”
You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”
Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”
You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.
Sharp.
Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.
You didn’t even have to turn around to know.
Professor McGonagall.
“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled.
You stood up slowly. “Professor.”
Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”
Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”
You shot him a warning look.
McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”
Silence.
Even Fred stopped smirking.
You swallowed.
“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.
“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”
That hit a little harder than you expected.
Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”
Fred blinked.
George’s eyebrows lifted.
You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.
Cedric Diggory.
Perfect grades.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
Perfect everything you were not.
You exhaled.
“…Right.”
McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Leaving silence behind her.
Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”
“Shut up,” you groaned.
George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.
Just watching.
Then he smiled.
“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.
Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
You blinked. “You’re joking.”
George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”
You threw a pebble at him.
It missed.
Unfortunately.
Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Even if none of you said it out loud yet.
The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.
Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.
You stopped at the end of the table and stared.
“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.
Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”
“I said hello when you walked in.”
“That barely counted.”
Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”
“I do color-code my notes.”
“Of course you do.”
Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.
You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.
The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.
That would’ve been easier.
No, Cedric was patient.
Calm.
Infuriatingly calm.
Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.
By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.
“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.
“Barely.”
“You answered everything correctly by the end.”
You froze slightly. “…I did?”
Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”
The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.
Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.
You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”
“I’m trying a new strategy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”
A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”
“Disgusting.”
Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.
And for some reason—
you smiled back.
The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.
Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.
Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”
George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.
You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.
“He organizes his notes by color.”
Fred made a horrified face.
George snorted softly.
“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”
“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”
You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.
The fact that you were still talking about him.
“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.
You blinked. “No I’m not.”
“You are,” he replied calmly.
Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”
“I am not.”
“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.
You threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily.
“Shut up.”
George was still watching you though.
Quieter than Fred now.
More observant.
“What’s he actually like?” George asked.
You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.
Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.
The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.
Your stomach did something strange.
“…Annoying,” you answered finally.
Fred grinned. “There she is.”
But George noticed the hesitation.
And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.
Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.
At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.
George just watched.
And noticed things.
Small things.
The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.
It was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.
You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.
Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“But you laughed.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”
Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”
“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.
George stayed quiet.
Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.
The next study session was somehow worse.
“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.
“I’m literally reading.”
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”
Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”
You blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“You act louder around the twins.”
“That’s because they’re loud.”
Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.
You looked down quickly.
“I still think you’re annoying.”
“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”
You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.
Cedric noticed the silence instantly.
And smiled.
George was already in the common room when you came in.
Alone.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.
He looked up the moment you stepped in.
“You’re late,” he said.
It sounded like a joke.
It wasn’t.
“I had study sessions.”
“I noticed.”
That made you pause.
“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.
You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.
“I’ve got something for you.”
You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”
“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”
You stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Notes.”
That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”
George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”
You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.
It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:
‘this part is evil, good luck’
and
‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’
You looked up slowly.
“…You did this?”
George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”
“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.
The room shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… quieter.
You looked at him properly now.
“George…”
He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”
You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”
“You’re always with him lately.”
Cedric.
The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”
“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.
He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.
There were faint ink stains on his fingers.
Like he’d been writing for hours.
Like he’d actually sat there and worked.
For you.
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then softer, almost careless again:
“But I did it anyway.”
You looked down at the notes again.
Then at him.
Really looked.
The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.
“You highlighted half of it,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“With different colours.”
“Helps with memory.”
“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smiled.
And that was the problem.
Because George noticed that too.
His eyes softened just slightly.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”
“I always listen to you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”
Something shifted again.
He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t pretend it was accidental.
Just stayed there.
Close.
“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”
You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.
Not properly.
Because George was too close.
His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.
“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”
“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.
A small smile.
“You do when you panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
“You absolutely panic.”
You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.
Not joking now.
Not teasing.
Just watching.
The air between you changed again.
Slower.
He stopped talking.
You stopped pretending you were reading.
“George…” you said, quieter this time.
He didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.
Then back up.
And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.
“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.
“You know I’ve been studying.”
“With him.”
The words weren’t sharp.
But they landed like something heavier than anger.
You opened your mouth—
Nothing came out.
George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.
“I don’t like it,” he admitted.
That made you freeze.
Because George didn’t say things like that.
Not seriously.
Not like this.
“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.
George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”
Your throat went tight.
Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.
“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”
And this time there was no joke at all.
“For you.”
Your breath caught slightly.
That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.
He was close now.
Close enough that if you moved even slightly—
Your knees brushed his.
He leaned in just a fraction more.
His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.
Intentional.
And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.
His hand slid to your cheek.
Warm.
Real.
And then he kissed you.
It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.
Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.
George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.
Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.
The world narrowed.
Fire crackling somewhere behind you.
Paper forgotten.
Everything else gone.
Just him.
Just warmth.
Just—
The door slammed open.
“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”
You both moved apart too fast.
Too obvious.
Fred froze in the doorway.
Looked at both of you.
Slow smile forming.
“…Oh,” he said.
Long pause.
Then brighter:
“Oh, this is bad.”
George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”
Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”
You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”
Fred raised an eyebrow.
Then grinned wider.
“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”
George sighed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Fred walked further in, shaking his head.
“This is going to be so entertaining.”
And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:
“…We’re dead.”
summertime at midnight
Pairing: Steve Harrington x shy!reader
Summary: Your parents are getting a divorce and when your mother decides to move in with her best friend Mrs. Harrington… things start to change between you and her son Steve.
Warnings: reader being shy. having a crush. forced proximity. kissing. Steve being so soft for you. no use of y/n.
_______________
The first time you step into the Harrington house, it doesn’t feel real.
Your mom is already laughing—actually laughing—with Mrs. Harrington like the last few days never happened. Like heartbreak can be packed into boxes and left behind with the rest of your old life.
You linger by the doorway, fingers curled into the strap of your bag.
Then—
“Hey.”
You look up. And there he is. Steve Harrington.
He looks exactly like he does at school—effortless, confident, like the world just… works for him. But there’s something softer in his expression now. Less performative. More real.
“I—uh—hi,” you manage. Smooth.
He nods once, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal. “Didn’t know you were… coming to stay,” he says.
“Yeah. It’s, um… kind of sudden. You know with the ...”
“The Divorce. Yeah my mom told me,” he answers, quieter now.
There’s a pause. Not awkward—just… new.
“Well,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you need anything, just—y’know. I’m around.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
And just like that, he gives you a small smile and steps back. But as he turns away ... You swear you see him glance back.
The first few days pass like you’re watching someone else’s life. Mrs. Harrington insists you make yourself at home. Your mom starts to look lighter. Less… breakable.
And Steve?
Steve is everywhere.
Not in a loud way. Not overwhelming. Just… there.
Leaning against the kitchen counter when you sneak in for water at night. Tossing you a casual “hey” when you cross paths in the hallway. Letting you sit on the couch when his friends are over and absorbing the effortlessness of their connection, never drawing attention to you—but never ignoring you either.
It’s confusing. Because at school, he’s Steve Harrington. And you’re not one of the popular girls. Your more like a shadow, trying to avoid any sort of light or attention.
But here? Here, the lines blur.
One night, you can’t sleep. The house is quiet, your thoughts too loud. So you slip outside. The water glows faintly under the pool lights, soft and inviting.
“You always sneak out this late?”
You jump.
Steve’s sitting on one of the lounge chairs, hair damp, a towel slung over his shoulders.
“I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You hesitate. “Me neither.”
He gives you a boyish grin. Which was only a bit distracting. “You can come closer, you know,” he says. “I don’t bite.”
You roll your eyes—but you walk over anyway.
After that, it becomes a thing.
Late nights by the pool. Quiet conversations that start small—favorite movies, stupid school gossip—and somehow drift into deeper waters without either of you noticing.
Steve listens. Like, really listens. And you talk more than you usually do. More than you thought you could.
Then come the movie nights.
It’s always “just a group thing” at first—his friends sprawled across the living room, popcorn everywhere, someone arguing about which tape to pick.
But somehow you always end up next to him. Not touching. Not obvious. Just close enough that your arm brushes his when one of you moves. Close enough that your heart forgets how to act normal.
And then the parties.
“Come on,” Steve says one evening, leaning against your doorframe. “You can’t spend the whole summer hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You are absolutely hiding," he says with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
You hesitate. “I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me.”
Your heart stumbles. “That’s… different.”
He softens, just a little. “I’ll stay with you,” he says. “Promise.”
And he does. The party is loud, bright, overwhelming. But Steve never strays far.
A hand at your back guiding you through the crowd. A quiet “you okay?” when it gets too much. A grin when you finally laugh at something instead of just watching.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
You shake your head, smiling. “I’m standing in a corner.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing it confidently.”
You laugh—really laugh—and Steve looks at you like that was the goal all along.
Somewhere along the way—It changes. The glances last longer. The space between you feels smaller.
You start noticing things. The way he looks for you when he walks into a room. The way his voice softens when he says your name. The way he always, always keeps his promises.
And Steve? Steve notices everything about you.
So one night when he’s halfway down the hall, on his way to grab a glass of water—definitely not because he was thinking about stopping by your door to say goodnight—he sees it.
A sliver of night air slipping through your room. Curtains shifting. And something in his chest tightens.
Steve frowns, stepping closer. The room is dim, empty. But the window was still open.
And then he remembers. He used to climb out there all the time as a kid. When things got too loud inside. When silence felt worse than shouting.
When he needed somewhere to exist without being in the way.
And before he can overthink it ... He climbs.
The night air is cooler on the roof. Quieter. The world feels farther away up here. Steve pulls himself up carefully, steadying his footing—
And then he sees you. Sitting near the edge. Knees pulled in. Shoulders shaking. And suddenly, everything in him stills.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Because he knows this moment. Knows how fragile it is. Knows what it feels like to be found when you’re trying not to be.
“…Hey.”
Your head snaps up. You wipe your face too quickly, like that might erase it. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—I thought everyone was asleep.”
Steve shrugs lightly, stepping a little closer but not too close. “Yeah, I was just… uh. Water mission.”
You nod, eyes dropping again. “Right.”
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches.
Steve shifts his weight. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asks gently.
“I’m fine.” It comes out automatic. Too fast.
Steve almost smiles. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I used to say that too.”
You glance at him. Just for a second. But it’s enough. “I just…” your voice cracks, and you press your lips together like you can hold it in.
You can’t. “I don’t get how he could do that,” you whisper. “To her. To us.”
Steve’s chest tightens but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“I keep thinking maybe if I’d noticed something—if I’d said something—” your breath stutters. “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened like this.”
“Hey,” Steve says softly.
You shake your head, tears spilling again. “Everything was fine. And now it’s just… gone.”
Steve exhales slowly, stepping closer now—careful, like approaching something fragile but important. “I get it,” he says.
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “No, you don’t—”
“I do.”
That stops you. You look up at him properly this time. And there’s nothing joking in his face now. Nothing easy. Just honesty.
“My dad?” he says quietly. “He doesn't even bother pretending anymore. He's never around at the same time as my mom. Barely around at all.”
You blink, surprised.
“I used to think it was my fault,” he admits. “Like if I was… better, or different, or less of a screw-up, maybe he'd actually want to stay.”
Your chest aches. “Steve…”
“But it’s not on you,” he continues, voice steady but softer now. “What your dad did? That’s on him. Not you. Not your mom.”
You swallow hard. “It just… hurts,” you whisper.
“I know, sweetheart.” And he does. You can hear it. That’s what breaks you.
The tears come harder this time. Not quiet. Not controlled. Just real. And for a second, you try to turn away—to hide it, like always.
But then Steve sits down next to you. Close enough. Careful. “You don’t have to do that,” he says gently.
“Do what?”
“Pretend it’s not a big deal. And to hide."
Your shoulders shake. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
Steve frowns immediately. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, firmer now. “You’re not a problem. You’re just… hurting.”
The words hit something deep. Something you’ve been holding tight for too long.
“I don’t know how to make it stop,” you admit, voice breaking.
Steve’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache even more.
“You don’t have to make it stop,” he says quietly. “You just… don’t have to go through it alone.
He hesitates for half a second. Then opens his arms. Not pushing.Just… offering.
And something in you—Something tired and scared and aching gives in.
You lean into him. Slow at first. Then all at once. Your face presses into his chest, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only steady thing left.
And Steve freezes for a heartbeat. His arms come around you carefully. Then tighter. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on properly.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I’ve got you.”
Your tears soak into his shirt. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t move. Just stays.
And his heart is pounding. So loud he’s sure you can hear it. Because you’re here. This close. Trusting him with something real, something messy. Something that matters.
Steve swallows, resting his cheek lightly against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “Okay?”
You nod against him. Just a little. But it’s enough.
Something changed between you that night. You couldn't describe it, but you felt it with absolute certainty in your heart. And so did he.
“You ever think about… before?” you ask softly, sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water.
“Before what?”
“Before all this. Like—if things had been different… would we have talked?”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh, sitting beside you. “I wanted to.”
You blink. “What?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish now. “You think I didn’t notice you? You were—” he stops, searching for the word. “Different.”
Your heart races. “Different how?”
“Better,” he says simply.
You don’t know what to do with that.
“I just figured you wouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he adds.
You stare at him. “I’ve had a crush on you since, like… forever.”
There’s a beat.
Then Steve laughs—soft, disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
He shakes his head, smiling like he just found out something unbelievable. “Wow,” he murmurs. “We’re both kind of idiots, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
The laughter fades. But the closeness stays. His hand shifts—just slightly—until his fingers brush yours. You don’t pull away.
"I've been thinking about this ... you ... I've been thinking about you a lot. From the moment you moved in, I wanted to be close to you every chance I possibly get."
You smile at him, soft and a little nervous. "It's been the same for me, Steve. As a matter of fact ..." You swallowed, trying to keep you racing heart inside your chest. Be brave. Just once. "I never stopped having a crush on you."
Your cheeks flare up and Steve smiled. Adorable, he thought.
“God, you're too good to be true” he starts, then stops. And then—
He kisses you.
Soft at first. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
You don’t.
Your hand comes up to his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt as you lean in just a little more. And suddenly it’s not careful anymore—it’s warm, and real, and everything.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling like you don’t know what to do with it.
“You’re—” Steve starts, then laughs. “Wow.”
You giggle—actually giggle—and cover your face. “Oh my god.”
“No, don’t hide,” he says quickly, gently pulling your hands away. “I like this.”
“Like what?”
He caresses your jaw with soft fingertips and dips your chin up just as gently. "Being with you."
You grin despite yourself. He leans in again—just a quick kiss this time, like he can’t help it.
“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Definitely worth the wait.”
You nudge him, laughing. “Shut up.”
“Never.”
Later, when you’re both lying back on the cool concrete, staring up at the stars his hand finds yours. Easy and natural.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you came here.”
You turn your head to look at him. “Me too.”
And for the first time since everything changed. It doesn’t feel like something was taken from you. It feels like something found you instead.
_______________
Thank you so so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
STEVE HARRINGTON MASTERLIST
How to write a First Kiss!!<3
Don't fall in love with my brothers, please
Ron Weasley x reader
Summary: His only request: don't fall for his brothers. But love, sometimes, is the most disobedient of all.
wc: 1.7k
Masterlist
Ron paced back and forth in the Burrow's dining room. The cramped, furniture-filled space made his task difficult, but he'd found a small, clear path, perfect for working off his nervous energy.
"If you keep going like this, you'll leave a hole in the floor," Molly scolded him, but he paid her no mind.
Ginny casually walked down the stairs, drawn by the tantalizing smell of dinner. But as she tried to approach the kitchen, Ron bumped into her, nearly knocking her off her feet.
"What's wrong with you, idiot?!" she complained angrily, hoping to start an argument, but she was also ignored as her brother continued pacing, muttering something incomprehensible.
"Ginny, love, just ignore him," suggested her mother. "He's nervous about tonight."
"What's going on tonight?" A pleasant smell suddenly reached her nose. "Ron, have you put on perfume?"
"Today we'll meet our dear Ronnie's girlfriend," George chimed in, crossing the room quickly, pushing past his other brother in the process, who glared at him.