#weasleyxreader

[romanczukowsky]

Missed Stops

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: The Hogwarts Express is packed beyond belief, and Y/N ends up squeezed into the last available compartment with Fred, Lee, and Kenneth and.... George Weasley.

Warnings: Friends to Lovers / Fluff / Slow Burn / Soft Romance / George Weasley Being Soft

The Hogwarts Express had never been this full before.

At least that was what everyone kept saying.

Apparently Hogwarts had accepted an absurd number of first-years this year, which now resulted in complete chaos on platform.

Students everywhere. Owls screeching. Trunks rolling over people’s feet. Someone crying near the sweet trolley already.

You had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to find literally anyone you knew.

Unsuccessfully.

Every compartment you checked was packed shoulder-to-shoulder already.

“Sorry!” “Full!” “Absolutely not.” “I’m saving this seat.” “One more person and I die.”

At this point, death honestly sounded peaceful.

You adjusted your grip on your trunk and squeezed farther down the corridor just as the train whistle blew loudly overhead.

Perfect.

You were going to spend the entire trip standing between someone’s cauldron and a terrified first-year.

Then through the compartment window you spotted familiar red hair.

Actually, two familiar red heads.

Fred and George Weasley sat sprawled across opposite seats alongside Lee Jordan and Kenneth Towler, all four somehow taking up enough space for at least twelve people.

Fred was mid-story, waving his hands dramatically while Lee nearly choked laughing.

George looked up first.

And immediately noticed you standing in the corridor looking one inconvenience away from losing your mind.

Without hesitation, he slid the compartment door open.

“You look murderous,” he observed calmly.

“There are no seats left on this train.”

Kenneth leaned sideways to glance past George into the corridor. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

You sighed heavily. “Helpful.”

George’s eyes flicked briefly toward your trunk, then back to you.

“You can sit with us.”

Kenneth looked horrified instantly. “Absolutely not. We’re already dying in here.”

“There’s literally no space,” Lee added, although he sounded far less committed to the argument.

Fred, meanwhile, had gone strangely quiet, because George was already standing to make room for you.

He ignored the complaints entirely and reached for your trunk like this decision had already been made.

“Move over,” he said simply.

Kenneth pointed accusingly. “This is favouritism.”

“Yes,” George agreed easily.

Fred’s mouth twitched violently like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, this is fascinating,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You really don’t mind?”

George looked at you like the question itself was stupid.

“You’ll survive the tragic hardship of sitting near us.”

Fred immediately leaned forward. “Near George specifically, apparently.”

You climbed awkwardly into the compartment while George shoved Kenneth farther across the seat using one foot.

Kenneth looked deeply betrayed.

“Comfortable?” George asked once you finally settled beside him.

You exhaled dramatically. “You may have just saved my life.”

Fred immediately pointed at George. “Look at him, the gentleman of the year.”

George kicked his shin without even looking.

The train finally lurched forward moments later. And somehow despite the cramped compartment, despite Fred loudly stealing sweets from first-years every twenty minutes, despite Lee and Kenneth arguing over Exploding Snap rules you relaxed.

Slowly and naturally. Like you always did around them.

Especially around George.

You’d known the twins for years now, obviously. But Fred filled rooms effortlessly and George was different. Quieter, somehow, but not shy. Just calmer beneath the chaos.

People noticed Fred first.

You had too at first.

But George… He stayed in your head longer, and that was arguably worse.

“You’re thinking very hard over there,” Fred informed you suddenly.

You blinked. “Hm?”

Fred narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Dangerous behavior.”

“She’s trying to calculate how to escape this compartment alive,” Kenneth said.

“She’ll survive,” George replied lazily beside you.

Your shoulder brushed his slightly when the train hit a turn. Neither of you moved away.

Fred noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His grin became absolutely unbearable.

“Oh, wow,” he breathed softly. “This is already progressing beautifully.”

George didn’t even glance at him. “I’m going to throw you off the train.”

“Can I give a speech at the wedding first?”

Lee looked between both twins once before immediately lighting up with realization.

“Oh, hold on—”

“No,” George said instantly.

Lee pointed dramatically between you both anyway. “OH, THIS IS—”

George reached over and shoved chocolate directly into his mouth.

“Eat.”

Lee nearly inhaled the chocolate whole from excitement alone.

Kenneth looked between you and George slowly, and then “Oh, this explains so much.”

You frowned immediately. “Explains what?”

“Nothing,” George said flatly.

“Everything,” Fred corrected happily.

You looked even more suspicious now, which only encouraged Fred further.

Fred Weasley loved chaos, but more importantly Fred loved chaos that did not involve him personally for once. And watching George accidentally behave like a man in love was currently becoming his favourite hobby.

“You know,” Fred continued casually, stretching his arms behind his head, “George gets weirdly helpful around you.”

George looked exhausted already. “Fred.”

“It’s true,” Lee chimed in immediately after swallowing. “Remember third year when she said she liked sugar quills and suddenly George bought enough to bankrupt Honeydukes?”

Your eyes widened slightly.

George looked murderous. “That was not... for her.”

Fred gasped dramatically. “You bought romantic confectionery for another woman?”

“I bought them because they were discounted.”

Kenneth snorted. “You hate sugar quills.”

George opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You bit down on a smile immediately.

Fred noticed that too.

“Oh, she likes this,” he announced delightedly.

“I hate all of you,” George informed the compartment calmly.

“You especially,” he added to Fred.

Fred looked emotional. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The conversation dissolved into chaos after that. Lee started telling an obviously fake story involving a cursed owl. Kenneth argued every detail. Fred contributed increasingly dramatic lies just to worsen the situation.

And somewhere during all of it you stopped paying attention to everyone except George.

It happened gradually.

Easy enough that you barely noticed.

One second you were laughing with the group.

The next George was quietly pointing out which parts of Lee’s story were impossible while you tried not to laugh too loudly beside him.

Then somehow your knees brushed, George started leaning closer whenever he spoke, you started replying quieter too.

Until eventually the others became background noise entirely.

“You’re cold.”

You blinked and looked toward George. “What?”

Without another word, George reached down beside him, grabbed his jumper from his bag and held it out toward you.

Your brain stopped functioning briefly.

“Oh,” you managed intelligently. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re literally freezing.”

“I am not.”

“You’ve tucked your hands into your sleeves.”

You looked down and he was correct.

Fred looked up from his cards immediately and nearly burst into flames from excitement.

“You know,” Fred said conversationally to nobody, “when George starts giving girls his jumpers, it's usually serious.”

George threw a Chocolate Frog directly at his forehead. “Shut up.”

Fred cackled loudly while you pulled the jumper over your shoulders anyway.

It smelled faintly like smoke, parchment and something unmistakably George. Which honestly felt unfair.

“There,” George said quietly beside you.

Better?”

You looked up at him. And something about the way he was already watching you made your stomach flip stupidly. “…Yeah.”

Fred saw that look exchanged between you both and immediately sat up straighter like a man witnessing history.

Lee noticed too.

Kenneth remained tragically oblivious.

Hours passed like that.

The train grew quieter gradually as students disappeared compartment by compartment at different stations.

Sunlight faded gold. Then orange. Then softer still.

Lee eventually fell asleep upside down against the window. Kenneth vanished at some point in search of food.

Fred lasted the longest. Mostly because he refused to stop staring at George with the expression of someone watching an extremely slow-moving romantic disaster unfold in real time.

“You know,” Fred said eventually, breaking the quieter atmosphere, “this is painful to witness.”

George didn’t even look up from where he sat beside you. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

“Oh no, I need to see how this ends.”

You laughed softly beside George, sleepier now than before.

Your head had started dipping occasionally during conversation.

George noticed every single time.

“You can sleep if you want,” he murmured quietly.

You blinked slowly. “M’not tired.”

Fred made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disbelief.

“I hate him,” George muttered.

“Impossible,” Fred replied. “You’re in love.”

You laughed quietly beside George, too tired now to properly hide it.

The compartment had gone soft around the edges.

Dark windows. Low voices. The rhythmic sound of the train against the tracks.

It felt strangely cozy now that most students had left.

George glanced sideways at you again just in time to see your eyes slipping closed for the fifth time in ten minutes.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

Then immediately yawned.

Fred pointed dramatically. “Compelling argument.”

You rolled your eyes weakly before letting your head fall back against the seat.

George watched you for a second too long. Then quietly “You can lean here if you want.”

The entire compartment went silent.

Even Lee woke up slightly.

Fred slowly turned toward George with the expression of someone witnessing divine intervention.

George ignored all of them completely.

Your heart did something deeply embarrassing inside your chest.

“You sure?”

George shrugged one shoulder like this wasn’t affecting him whatsoever. “Better than sleeping against the window.”

Fred looked personally devastated by how smooth that sounded. “Oh, he’s good,” he whispered to himself.

George closed his eyes briefly. “I regret teaching you how to speak.”

But you were already moving slightly closer. Carefully, like you were trying not to make it obvious this affected you too.

Your shoulder brushed his first. Then your head rested lightly against him.

George went completely still. Fred’s eyes widened instantly. Lee looked like he might scream. Kenneth returned at the worst possible moment carrying crisps.

“…Why does George look like he’s been shot?”

“Nobody speak,” Fred whispered urgently. “You’ll scare him.”

George very calmly reached across the compartment and kicked Fred directly in the knee.

But he never moved away from you.

Not once.

And after a while... after the warmth of the compartment and the steady movement of the train and George beside you melted together into something soft and safe... you fell asleep.

George realized it when your breathing changed first. Then when your hand relaxed slightly against his arm. Something in his expression softened immediately.

Fred saw it and nearly lost consciousness from secondhand emotions. “Oh, he’s gone,” Fred mouthed dramatically toward Lee.

Lee nodded solemnly. “Tragic.”

George ignored both of them. Mostly because he couldn’t stop looking down at you.

You looked comfortable, warm and peaceful.

Trusting him enough to fall asleep on him this easily did something dangerous to his chest.

Fred watched his brother carefully for another minute before grinning slowly.

“Your arm’s dead already, isn’t it?”

George answered without looking away from you. “I can’t feel my spine.”

Lee snorted loudly.

Fred looked delighted. “And yet look at you. Still refusing to move.”

George finally glanced at him once. Very calm and very serious.

“She’s sleeping.”

And somehow that shut all of them up for a second.

Because there it was again. That thing George did.

No dramatics. No flirting. No showing off.

Just quiet care like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred leaned back against the seat afterward with the biggest smirk imaginable.

Because oh, this was bad.

George Weasley was finished.

By the time you woke up, the train was almost empty.

The compartment lights had dimmed softly overhead and outside the windows the world had dissolved into darkness broken only by the occasional flicker of passing station lamps.

For one confusing second, you had absolutely no idea where you were.

Then warmth beneath your cheek.

A steady heartbeat.

George.

Your eyes blinked open slowly. And you realized you were lying against George.

Your head tucked against his shoulder. One of his arms trapped awkwardly beneath yours. A jumper draped over you at some point during the night.

Your eyes blinked open lazily.

Outside the windows, darkness stretched endlessly across the countryside.

The train compartment was nearly empty now.

Only you. George. Fred.

Fred sat across from you looking deeply offended by life itself.

“Oh good,” he muttered the second he noticed you awake. “Sleeping Beauty returns.”

You straightened instantly. “Merlin's beard— I fell asleep.”

George’s voice came low beside you. “Bit, yeah.”

You rubbed at your eyes. “What station are we at?”

Silence.

Immediate. Suspicious. Terrible silence.

Slowly you looked up.

Fred pointed directly at George. “His fault.”

George looked unimpressed. “You were also there.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who looked physically ready to fight me when I tried to wake her up.”

Your brain caught up several horrifying seconds later. “…Wait.”

Fred crossed both arms dramatically. “Congratulations. We are now approximately nowhere near where we were supposed to get off.”

You stared.

“You missed the station?!”

George had the audacity to shrug slightly. “You looked comfortable.”

Your heart did something catastrophically stupid at that answer.

Fred made a violent disgusted sound immediately.

“See? That! That exact tone! We could’ve been home an hour ago!”

“I said we should wake her eventually.”

“And then you said: ‘No, she’s tired.’”

George looked entirely unapologetic.

At some point after falling asleep against him, you’d curled closer unconsciously and George had known immediately he was doomed.

There was genuinely no recovering from a girl trusting you enough to sleep on your shoulder like that.

Especially not when she kept making tiny sleepy noises every time the train moved.

Fred threw his hands upward dramatically.

“I cannot believe I suffered through this for romance.” Now Fred looked between both of you again and narrowed his eyes. “You know what’s sick? Neither of you even look upset.”

“I am upset,” you argued weakly.

George glanced sideways at you.

You were still wearing his jumper. Still sleepy. Hair slightly messy from sleep.

You looked devastating, actually.

George smiled before he could stop himself.

And unfortunately—

Fred saw that too.

“Oh, he’s finished,” Fred announced immediately. “You missed your own stop for her!”

George looked thoughtful for a second. “…Worth it.”

Fred gagged loudly.

Your face burned instantly.

And George only looked more amused about it now.

Fred complained the entire walk across the empty platform.

Loudly.

Dramatically.

“With proper planning,” he informed the universe, dragging his trunk behind him, “I could currently be home eating my mother’s cooking instead of wandering the countryside with two emotionally compromised people.”

“You’ll survive,” George said calmly.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re in love.”

You nearly tripped.

George shot Fred a warning look immediately.

Fred gasped. “Oh, so now we’re pretending that wasn’t obvious?”

“Fred.”

“No, because personally I think missing an entire station for a girl should qualify as a medical condition—”

George shoved him lightly toward the exit doors.

“Walk faster.”

Fred grinned victoriously anyway.

Outside, the night air felt cool against your skin. Quiet. Still.

The station was almost empty now, lit only by soft golden lamps overhead.

You adjusted the sleeves of George’s jumper around your hands unconsciously.

George noticed instantly.

“You can keep it,” he said before you could speak.

You looked up. “George—”

“I mean it.”

His voice softened slightly then, quieter beneath Fred’s continued complaining somewhere ahead of you.

“Looks better on you anyway.”

Your chest hurt a little at that.

Fred turned around abruptly while walking backwards.

“If the two of you start flirting again before we find transportation home, I’m leaving both of you here.”

George didn’t even look away from you.

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

Fred stared at him in horror.

“Oh, you’re gone gone.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

George looked at you immediately at the sound.

And just like that—

everything else disappeared again.

The station. The cold. Fred’s dramatics.

Just you smiling at him beneath dim station lights while wearing his jumper like you already belonged there.

George felt something settle quietly in his chest then. Like maybe this had been happening long before either of you finally noticed it.

And honestly?

Missing the train stop suddenly felt like a very small price to pay.

[romanczukowsky]

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.”

[romanczukowsky]

Reflections of Desire

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: A midnight escape turns into something far more dangerous when a forgotten room reveals a mirror that doesn’t show reality… but desire.

Warnings: Mature content / Soft Smut / One-shot

Castle corridors felt different at night.

Quieter. Darker. Full of secrets that only revealed themselves after curfew.

Your laughter echoed too loudly as you ran, breathless, heart pounding from more than just the sprint. Somewhere behind you, Filch’s furious voice bounced off the stone walls, growing closer, sharper.

“THIS WAY!” George hissed.

You split without thinking—George and Angelina disappearing left, while Fred caught your wrist and dragged you right, boots slipping on cold stone as you turned the corner at full speed.

You barely made it three steps before he pulled you through a half-open door and slammed it shut behind you.

Darkness swallowed you whole.

For a second, neither of you moved. Only your breathing filled the room—fast, uneven, tangled together.

Fred pressed a hand lightly over your mouth, the other braced against the door as he leaned in to listen. His chest rose and fell close to yours, warm even through layers of fabric.

Footsteps passed in the corridor.

Filch muttered something vicious.

Then silence again.

Fred slowly removed his hand. You both stayed frozen another heartbeat… two…

And then you burst into muffled laughter, shoulders shaking as you tried—failed—to stay quiet.

“Oh, we are so dead if he finds us,” you whispered.

“Worth it,” Fred breathed back instantly, grin audible in his voice. “Absolutely worth it.”

Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The room looked abandoned—dusty shelves, covered furniture, the faint shimmer of old magic clinging to the air.

“Reckon George and Angelina made it?” you murmured.

Fred snorted softly. “Probably hiding in some tiny broom cupboard that smells like mold and regret.”

You stifled another laugh, biting your lip to keep quiet.

While Fred stayed by the door, still half-listening for danger, you stepped deeper into the room, curiosity tugging you forward.

That was when you saw it.

The mirror stood against the far wall—tall, ornate, silver curling around the frame like frozen smoke. It shouldn’t have been beautiful in a room like this.

But it was.

You moved closer without meaning to.

For a moment, it showed only you—flushed cheeks, messy hair, eyes still bright from running through forbidden corridors in the middle of the night.

You reached up automatically, smoothing your hair, straightening your clothes.

Then the reflection shifted.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just… enough.

Someone stood behind you in the glass.

Fred.

Closer than he really was. Head tilted slightly. That slow, dangerous smile playing on his lips—the one that always meant trouble.

Your breath caught.

You turned sharply.

Fred was still at the door, back to you, listening.

Empty space behind you.

A chill ran down your spine—half fear, half something else.

“Fred…” you whispered. “You need to see this.”

He crossed the room quietly, curiosity winning.

“What is it, love—”

He stopped.

You saw it in his face before he spoke—the way his teasing vanished, replaced by something deeper. Something unguarded.

“What do you see?” you whispered.

Fred didn’t answer at once.

He looked at the mirror. Then at you. Then back at the mirror again—like his brain was trying to decide which version of reality made less sense.

A slow, disbelieving breath left him.

“…You’re not going to like this,” he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched in that very Fred-like way that meant the opposite.

Your pulse jumped. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching, almost checking if you were serious.

“You really want me to say it out loud?”

Your voice came softer now. A little unsteady. “Yes.”

For a heartbeat he just stared at the glass, jaw tight, like the words themselves were dangerous.

Then—

“You’re looking at me,” he said quietly. “Not like you usually do.”

A pause.

“Like you’re about to do something you definitely shouldn’t.”

Heat rushed straight to your cheeks.

“And?” you breathed.

Fred swallowed, gaze still locked on the reflection.

“And you’re… stepping closer.” His voice dropped, rougher around the edges. “Slow. Like you’re giving me time to stop you.”

You didn’t move in reality. But your chest rose faster.

“I’m not stopping you,” he added under his breath.

Silence tightened around you.

Your turn.

“What do you see?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted before you could think better of it.

“You’re behind me,” you said. “Closer than you really are.”

Fred’s shoulders went still.

“Your hand’s on my waist,” you continued, voice trembling now—not from fear. “Like you already know I won’t move away.”

A quiet, shaky exhale escaped him.

“Merlin…” he muttered, half breath, half laugh. “This mirror’s got a sick sense of humor.”

“Is it humor,” you whispered, “or… something else?”

He didn’t answer.

Because in the glass— you were closer still.

“And now?” he asked, voice lower than before.

Your fingers curled into your palm.

“You’re touching me like… you’ve wanted to for a while,” you said softly.

Fred let out a slow breath, eyes darkening in a way that had nothing to do with the room.

“That’s interesting,” he murmured. “Because what I’m seeing is you doing exactly the same thing.”

Your heart skipped.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“You’re the one who starts it.”

The words hung between you—warm, dangerous.

For a second he huffed a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“Funny,” he said softly. “Spent years thinking of you as just my partner in crime…”

His gaze slid back to the mirror. “…and now this stupid thing shows me you touching me like that—”

He stopped.

Not because he wanted to. Because finishing the sentence felt too real.

“And?” you pressed, barely breathing.

His voice came out rough.

“And now I can’t really pretend I don’t want it.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Hotter.

“What if it’s showing the future?” you whispered.

Fred gave a quiet, crooked half-laugh. “Dangerous thought, love.”

“But what if,” you continued softly, “it’s just showing what we’d do… if we stopped pretending?”

That wiped the humor from his face completely.

Because without noticing— you had both moved closer.

Just an inch. Then another.

Until—

Your arms brushed.

The contact hit like lightning.

You both jerked back slightly, breath catching at the exact same time.

Reality crashed in.

Fred dragged a hand over his face, exhaling hard.

“Right,” he muttered. “Okay. Maybe we should… stop staring at the magical truth-telling torture device.”

You didn’t move.

Your eyes were still on the mirror. Still caught in the heat of it.

“Y/N,” he said more firmly.

Nothing.

So he reached out— closed his fingers gently around your wrist— and pulled you back a step.

The sudden closeness knocked the air from your lungs.

You were right in front of him now. No mirror between you. No distance left to hide in.

His voice dropped, quiet but steady.

“If this wasn’t a mirror,” he said, “would you actually want it to happen?”

Your answer came out breathless. Honest. Immediate.

“Yes.”

Something shifted in his expression— the last piece of hesitation burning away.

“…You know that changes everything,” he murmured.

“I know.”

One heartbeat of silence.

Two.

Then he kissed you—

sudden, warm, certain— like the decision had already been made somewhere deeper, long before tonight.

And the mirror behind you— full of almosts and maybes and dangerous possibilities—

didn’t matter anymore.

Because this—

the heat of his mouth, the way your hands found him without thinking, the sharp, breathless pull of something finally real—

was no longer a reflection.

[romanczukowsky]

The Letter in the Quidditch Book

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: You never meant for him to find out this way. A hidden letter, a string of misunderstandings, Fred’s relentless teasing, and George’s own doubts all tangle into knots you don’t know how to undo. But when one cold night by the fire finally brings the truth into the open, you learn that sometimes the scariest confessions can lead to the warmest endings.

Warnings: Slow Burn ➝ Mutual Pining / Fluff & Angst & Fluff Again / Mild emotional hurt/comfort / Sibling teasing / First kiss

The Gryffindor common room smelled faintly of smoke from the fireplace and something sweet—someone must have smuggled biscuits from the kitchens again.

You sat curled up in an armchair, sipping tea that had long gone cold. Your quill scratched softly against the parchment as you tried to find the right words, though you knew none of them would ever feel good enough.

"Dear George..."

Just writing those words made your cheeks burn. It felt like you were doing something forbidden, something dangerous. But you couldn’t take it back.

You had carried this for too long—every laugh at his jokes that came a little too quickly, every skipped heartbeat when his hand brushed yours, every smile that made the world a little brighter.

A letter filled with months of feelings: the glances, the warmth, the way his presence alone could lift you out of the darkest day. You folded it neatly and slipped it between the pages of a book about the Irish Quidditch team. A perfect birthday gift—innocent enough that no one would ever guess the secret it carried.

What you hadn’t expected was that the hardest part wouldn’t be writing the letter… but waiting for George to finally open the book.

Days slipped by. Each time you caught a glimpse of George in the common room, laughing with Fred or plotting their next prank, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had even cracked the book open. Probably not.

Patience, you told yourself. Patience.

And so, one quiet evening, you sat near the fire with your homework spread across the table. Your tea had gone lukewarm again, untouched as you tried to wrestle with a particularly tricky Transfiguration essay.

The portrait hole swung open, and in came George, Fred, and Lee, laughing together about some prank you couldn’t quite hear. Their voices carried through the room, light and mischievous, but when George’s eyes found you, his grin softened immediately.

“Hey, how’s the essay going?” he asked warmly, settling onto the couch beside you. His shoulder brushed yours, just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Need a hand with anything?”

You blinked, cheeks warming instantly. “No, I’ve got it. Almost done,” you murmured, trying to sound calm even though your pulse had jumped.

Lee flopped down on the other side of you, grinning at George. “George found something good today.”

George raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

Lee leaned closer, teasing. “Yeah, go on, read it. ”

George laughed softly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. Your stomach dropped into your boots.

“I don’t know who it’s from,” he said, frowning slightly, “it’s not signed… but it’s addressed to me.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as he unfolded it. He began to read aloud, his voice casual at first:

“Dear George…”

Your stomach lurched. You tried to look away, but your eyes were glued to him.

“You are the most handsome, the funniest boy I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing…”

Your breath caught. That wasn’t yours.

“…I feel butterflies every time you greet me in the corridor…”

Your hands tightened around your quill. Wait, that’s not mine.

George continued, oblivious to the turmoil you felt, and your face flushed crimson as each word hit. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like everyone in the room could hear it.

Fred, lounging nearby, leaned toward you just as George reached for a treacle tart from the plate on the table. He kicked your shin lightly, silently asking, Was it you?

You shook your head so fast it was almost comical, mouthing No!

George, still smiling as if nothing had happened, shrugged and licked a trace of sugar from his thumb. “When you were younger,” he said, eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief, “did you ever send notes like that to older boys? Is that how people do it now? Can’t just come and talk to me? How am I supposed to know who wrote it?” He leaned back with a small scoff. “Not wasting time on someone so shy.”

The words stung like a slap. You barely managed a muttered “Goodnight” before gathering your books and slipping upstairs, praying the shadows would hide how shaken you were.

But sleep never came.

The next morning, you hadn’t gone down for breakfast. Not yet. Not while the Great Hall buzzed with the clatter of plates, the chatter of students, and the tempting smell of bacon and toast drifting up the staircases. You stayed behind, curled up in the quiet of the Gryffindor common room, waiting. Waiting until the morning rush had passed, until the room was empty, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire.

When the last footsteps faded and silence settled over the empty common room, you took a deep, steadying breath. Heart hammering in your chest, you crept toward the boys’ dormitory, every step measured, every floorboard avoided as if it might betray you.

At the door, you paused, hand on the doorknob, fingers trembling slightly. Then, with one careful push, the door creaked open, and you slipped inside.

George’s bed was unmade, his trunk half-open, papers and books scattered in the charming chaos that was so uniquely his. You crouched down, careful to avoid making any noise, and began rifling through his belongings. Quills, scraps of parchment, textbooks… your hands shook slightly as you searched for the Irish Quidditch book—the one that contained your letter.

But it wasn’t there.

A sharp throat-clearing behind you froze you in place. Slowly, you turned.

Fred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. In one hand, between his fingers, he held your letter.

“Looking for this?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement.

“Give. It. Back!” you snapped, reaching for it, but he held it high, as if daring you to try.

He straightened dramatically and began to read aloud, his voice mock-serious, every word exaggerated as if he were performing for an audience:

“Dear George…”

Your hand shot out again. “Fred! Stop it!”

But he ignored you, his grin growing as he continued to read. You gave him a sharp kick in the shin, making him yelp and bend forward just long enough for you to snatch the parchment from his hand.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You clutched the letter to your chest like a lifeline.

“Ow! Easy there,” Fred said, rubbing the sore spot, still smirking. “Relax, it was just a joke. I saw you tuck something into his gift, but there was nothing in mine —figured it had to be something juicy.”

You turned away, too furious and humiliated to answer, storming past him toward the door. But as you shoved it open, you nearly collided headfirst with George.

He froze, eyes flicking between your flushed face and the crumpled parchment in your hands. Concern replaced his usual easy grin. “Y/N? What’s going on? Are you… okay?”

Fred stepped out from behind you, suddenly less smug under George’s questioning gaze. “Nothing,” he said quickly, voice casual. Then, with a sly glance at you, he added lightly, “Just a little secret between me and Y/N. Isn’t that right?”

George frowned, clearly trying to read the situation. “What did you do?” he asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

Fred clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder with exaggerated cheer. “Don’t be so nosy, Georgie. You’ll only make her blush more.”

You muttered something under your breath, still fuming, and slipped past them, determined to escape before your embarrassment got any worse. Fred’s eyes followed you with an amused sparkle, while George’s gaze lingered, trying to make sense of your flustered expression.

All day, you avoided them like the plague. You ducked into side corridors, skipped lunch in the Great Hall, and pretended to be deeply fascinated by the library’s dustiest shelves. But Fred was persistent, showing up wherever you went.

“You like him,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning against a bookshelf while you tried to focus on your notes. “So why don’t you just tell him? You heard him—he hates guessing games. Go up to him and say it. Simple.”

Simple. As if it were that easy.

You buried your face in your arms with a groan. Fred chuckled, unbothered.

George had started noticing. Noticing that Fred hovered around you more than usual. Noticing the way you turned pink whenever his brother teased.

And yet, Fred refused to let it go.

“Come on,” he insisted for what felt like the hundredth time as he flopped into the armchair opposite yours. “You can’t just bottle it up forever. One sentence, Y/N. That’s all it takes.”

You shook your head firmly, hugging your knees to your chest. “No. Fred, please—just stop. I’ll never say it to his face. I don’t have the courage.”

Fred leaned forward, frowning. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Your stomach twisted as you whispered, “What if he laughs? What if he says nothing at all? What if he just… stares at me like I’m insane? I couldn’t survive that.”

For a moment, Fred was quiet. Then, with a wicked grin, he stood up and crossed to you. “Alright, let’s do a little rehearsal. Pretend I’m George. You walk up to me, look me in the eye and say, ‘Hi, I like you. Fancy a snog? I know a great spot.’”

“Fred!” you hissed, glaring at him.

He grinned wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What? Too forward? Fine. Maybe add a flower crown and serenade him with a mandolin while you’re at it—”

“Stop.” You said, but he only laughed.

Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair, and for once his teasing smile softened. He reached out suddenly, taking your hand in his. The playfulness melted into something quieter, more sincere. His thumb brushed your knuckles as he met your eyes.

“Listen,” he said gently, “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while—you’re someone special. Really special. And if you ever wanted to… maybe we could get a butterbeer together? My treat.”

Your eyes went wide. It made you laugh, shaking your head.

“It was much better…” you said softly, unable to keep from smiling despite yourself.

And that was when the portrait hole creaked open.

George stepped in with Lee Jordan, both mid-conversation, but George’s words died the moment his eyes fell on the two of you—Fred still holding your hand, your cheeks flushed, laughter caught on your lips.

Lee’s eyebrows lifted, smiled. “We won’t disturb you. Carry on.”

George’s jaw tightened in a way you’d never seen before; the easy amusement slipped from his face and something sharper took its place. He didn’t speak, but the change made the air between you feel suddenly thin.

Fred, waved a hand. “Sit down. I’ll beat you both at Exploding Snap.” He flopped into an armchair with theatrical flair. “Seriously, sit. I’ll smash you.” His grin was outrageous, meant to defuse and distract, and for a second it worked: Lee chuckled and settled, and you let out a small, shaky laugh too.

George sat on the couch beside you, though there was a polite, cautious space between you that twitched at your nerves. Fred and Lee arranged themselves opposite, cards already in hand. The common room hummed low with the dying fire and the soft shuffle of cards. It should have been ordinary. It should have felt safe.

You slid a little closer, almost by reflex—you wanted the warmth, the closeness —but as your knee neared his, George’s whole posture shifted. He drew back just enough that the gap widened instead of closing. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but it slammed into you like a cold wind.

For a moment you registered the absurdity: how a simple inch could feel like betrayal. Your pulse jumped into your throat; your hands went clammy on the cards.

You tried to smile, to meet his eyes, to catch whatever had slid away, but George’s gaze flicked down to the table then away again, his mouth a tight line. He was present—physically—but distant, like someone who’d walked into the wrong scene and wasn’t sure how to leave.

The game ended in a blur of laughter and shouted curses as Fred theatrically declared himself the undisputed champion of Exploding Snap. You laughed along, but your eyes kept flicking to George, whose expression remained distant, his usual warmth muted.

Fred noticed immediately. “Hmm, clearly my victory wasn’t impressive enough,” he said with a sly grin. “Alright, next round.”

You glanced at George, hoping he might crack a smile, but he just gave a faint shrug, still staring at the table as if it wasn’t even there.

“Or,” Fred continued, undeterred, “we could practice some dueling spells. I can teach you a new hex that’s guaranteed to make someone hop on one leg for a minute—entirely harmless, but oh-so-entertaining.”

Lee chuckled, clearly enjoying Fred’s relentless energy, while you felt a little embarrassed, realizing just how obvious Fred’s attempts were to distract George—and perhaps you too.

George’s eyes barely lifted. He murmured something about needing a “quiet moment,”. With a faint, apologetic glance toward the three of you, without another word, he headed for the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, leaving the game and laughter behind him.

And for the first time that evening, the playful, teasing atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken words, with something waiting—just beyond reach.

The following days were quiet, almost painfully so. George no longer carried that radiant, easy grin when he walked past you in the corridors. He didn’t bump shoulders playfully or tease you lightly as he once did.

Instead, he met your gaze with careful politeness, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. Every encounter left you with a hollow ache in your chest—your courage failing to bridge the gap between misunderstanding and confession.

You hated it. You hated how wrong everything felt, how impossible it seemed to tell him the truth without feeling as if the world itself would collapse. And yet, the thought of letting him think something else—that he had misread your feelings—was unbearable.

It was in the library, bent over another essay, that Fred found you. He came skidding around the corner, eyes wide, clearly flustered.

“We’ve got trouble,” he said, voice low but urgent.

You looked up, puzzled. “What kind of trouble?”

“All your fault,” he accused with a wagging finger. “If you’d just told him—told George—you liked him—none of this would have happened.”

“What happened?” you asked, alarm creeping into your voice.

Fred’s lips twisted in a grimace. “He agreed to go on a date with that girl—the one from the letter. Can you believe it?” He shook his head, exasperated. “Her name’s Clarisse… she’s… not bad-looking, I guess…”

He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

Your heart lurched. “And? And what?” you pressed, trying to keep your voice steady.

Fred blinked, “And he said yes!”

You felt like you’d been punched in the stomach. “He… agreed?!”

“Yep.” Fred grabbed your sleeve and started tugging you toward the exit. “Come on! What are you waiting for? Go stop him! Tell him! Now’s your last chance—I’m done helping after this.”

You stumbled along, barely keeping pace. “What am I supposed to do?” you murmured, flustered.

“Kick that date right out of his head! Say it! Tell him! Now, Y/N!”

By the time you reached the common room, Fred had already asked around. George had left—long gone, headed off with some girl.

Now all you could do was wait. Hours trickled by. The sky outside darkened, the fire dwindled to a faint orange glow, and the castle sank into near silence.

It was very late by the time the portrait hole creaked open again. You’d half-dozed off in the armchair, your knees tucked under you, your head resting on your hand, when the door swung inward and George stepped inside. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, his hair a little damp from the frost in the air.

He stopped when he saw you and blinked, surprised. “Y/N? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you asleep?”

Because I’ve been sitting here like a fool, waiting for you, the thought flickered through your mind. But instead you straightened a little and managed a sleepy smile. “Got caught up in reading. Lost track of time, I guess. You must be freezing. Sit down, warm up.”

He hesitated only a second before moving to the couch, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his hands together, staring into the flames.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You could hear the faint crackle of the fire, the distant whistle of the wind against the windows. Then, quietly, you asked, “Where were you?”

George let out a heavy breath, his voice low, almost like he was confessing something to himself. “On a date.”

Something inside you tightened. You kept your tone soft, even, though your pulse had sped up. “How was it?” you asked, hoping—against hope—he’d say it had been awful.

He shrugged, still staring at the fire. “I suppose it was fine. She’s very nice. But…” He paused, frowning a little. “I didn’t feel comfortable. It was… weird.”

Before you’d even realized you were moving, you’d left the armchair and crossed to the couch, sitting beside him. Without thinking, you reached for his hands. “Here,” you murmured, “this will warm them faster.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and for a heartbeat the room shifted. His gaze softened, darkened, flickers of something unspoken sparking behind his eyes. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Then, suddenly, he pulled his hands back and turned to the fire. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “Can’t what?”

His jaw tightened. “I can’t… you’re with my brother.”

You blinked, stunned. “What? Who told you that?”

“No one,” he said, finally looking at you again, confusion written all over his face. “I saw you. The two of you. I thought—aren’t you…?”

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” you said, almost laughing from the shock. “Fred isn’t—he’s just been helping me with something. That’s all.”

George’s brows furrowed as the realization sank in. “Helping you?”

You took a shaky breath, your heart hammering. “George… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a long time.”

His eyes searched yours, wide and uncertain.

You swallowed hard. “I—” Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. “I like you, George. I really like you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened. The corner of his mouth quirked up, relief flickering in his expression. He reached out, taking your hand again, slower this time, deliberate.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“I like you,” you said, steadier now.

Something in him broke open at those words. George let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, before leaning closer—so close the firelight painted his freckles in gold. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, then higher, tracing the inside of your wrist where your pulse raced wildly.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice rough, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

Before you could reply, his hand slid up to cup your cheek, warm and careful, like he was afraid you might disappear. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to shrink—just you, him, and the fire crackling softly beside you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t shy—it was desperate in its gentleness, like he’d been holding back for too long and finally, finally let go. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of honey and firewhisky, and the way he angled closer made your whole body spark.

Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him nearer, until there was no space left between you. His laugh rumbled against your mouth, half joy, half disbelief, before it melted back into another kiss—slower this time, deeper, every second heavy with all the things neither of you had been able to say.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His smile was boyish, radiant, but his eyes burned with something that made your chest ache.

“Please tell me, why didn’t you tell me sooner? And... are you angry about the date? Merlin, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve agreed to it—I just thought…” His jaw worked nervously. “I thought you and Fred—”

“I wrote you a letter.” you cut in, squeezing his hand.

His eyes widened. “You did? For me?”

You nodded, cheeks warming. “On your birthday. I slipped it into that Quidditch book.”

He frowned. “But—I never saw any letter.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, shaky but real. “That’s… kind of a complicated story.”

So you really did write me a letter,” he murmured. “Will you let me read it?”

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. “No,” you whispered, “because you said that you wouldn’t waste time on someone too shy to—”

He silenced you with another kiss, firmer this time, leaving you breathless when he finally pulled back. His forehead rested against yours, his voice low, steady. “If that letter had been yours, I never—never—would’ve said that.”

Your laugh caught in your throat, half relief, half disbelief, but he was smiling now, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. He tugged you closer, teasing, “Come on, Y/N. Show me. What did you write?”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back, flustered but grinning.

George chuckled, that warm, unguarded laugh of his that made your chest ache. “You’re going to make me chase after my own love letter? That’s cruel.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to live with the mystery,” you teased.

And somehow, in the soft glow of the dying fire, with his arm wrapped around you and laughter tumbling from both your lips, it didn’t matter that the letter was still hidden away. Because now he knew. And that was enough.

[romanczukowsky]

Midnight Remedy

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Fred Weasley ended up on the infirmary wing after a disastrous Quidditch fall, bruised but stubborn. You decide to skip the usual post-match chaos and visit him late at night, when the castle is silent and the lights are dim.

Warnings: Explicit content / Smut / Public-ish setting (Hospital Wings) / NSFW / One-shot

Author’s Note: So… it’s been a while since I’ve written something bit spicy, and I hope it still works. Fingers crossed I didn’t completely forget how to get hearts racing. 😅

That morning was alive with the hum of anticipation. The whole castle buzzed with it — banners charmed to shimmer red and gold, scarves twisted around necks, the air practically vibrating with chants that hadn’t even begun yet.

I should’ve been nervous for the match. Instead, I was standing just outside the locker room, pretending I was simply passing by, when in truth I was waiting. For him.

The door burst open with its usual chaos, and there he was — Fred Weasley. Hair wild, grin brighter than the torches on the walls, broom slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

George trailed behind, “Merlin help the other team,” he muttered. “Mostly because I won’t.”

Fred spotted me instantly. His grin sharpened. “Oi, fancy seeing you. Hoping to catch me shirtless?”

Heat pricked my cheeks. “I was just—passing.”

“Sure,” George cut in, smirking. “Passing… this exact door… at this exact time. Totally natural.”

“Shut it,” Fred said quickly, elbowing him, but his eyes never left me. “Don’t worry, love. After we win, you and I have a date. Butterbeer, bad music, me talking about how brilliant I was. Sound good?”

I tried to scoff, but it came out softer than I wanted. “What if you lose?”

Fred leaned close, voice dropping just for me. “Then you’ll have to console me. Either way, I win.”

George groaned. “He’s unbearable before a match. Imagine living with it.”

“See you after.” Fred shot back, then winked at me.

And then they were gone — a blur of scarlet and gold heading toward the pitch, their laughter echoing behind them.

The stands were overflowing, a sea of shouting voices and painted faces. I pushed my way to the front, heart pounding harder than the drums. My scarf whipped in the wind, hair sticking to my cheeks, but none of it mattered. Not when Fred soared onto the field like he was born to the air, his broom slicing clean through the sky.

The whistle blew. Chaos erupted.

Quidditch was never quiet, never calm, but this match felt even fiercer — Bludgers whizzing dangerously close, players colliding midair, the crowd roaring so loudly my throat hurt from screaming. Fred darted across the pitch, laughing as if danger itself amused him, bat swinging with ruthless precision.

I barely noticed the score climbing. My eyes found him, always him.

And then—

It happened fast. Too fast. A Bludger, a sharp turn, the crack of impact. Fred’s broom jolted violently. He slipped.

Time fractured.

One heartbeat, he was in the sky. The next, he was falling.

Gasps tore through the stands. My own voice caught in my throat, hands gripping the railing so hard it burned. He hit the ground with a thud that seemed to echo inside me. Players swerved, whistles shrieked, Madam Hooch sprinted across the grass—

But the game didn’t stop. Not really. Gryffindor surged ahead, the crowd erupting in a victory scream as the Snitch was caught. Red and gold confetti burst into the air, cheers thundered like a storm—

And I couldn’t feel any of it.

All I could see was Fred, still, too still, on the grass.

The path to the hospital wing was a blur. George was beside me, his usual smirk absent, though his hand found my shoulder, steady and firm.

“Don’t break down yet,” he muttered. “Fred’s tougher than he looks.” His voice cracked slightly, but he covered it with a cough. “I mean—he’s bloody indestructible. Fell off the shed when we were eight, headfirst, and got up laughing. Reckon this’ll be the same.”

I nodded, though my chest felt hollow.

When we finally reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey met us at the door, arms folded, face carved from stone.

“He’s stable,” she said before either of us could ask. Relief surged through me—until her next words dropped like lead. “But he hasn’t woken yet. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for visits.”

George exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. Then he forced a grin, weak but trying. “Hear that? He’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up, crack some stupid joke, and we’ll all wish he’d stayed unconscious.”

But even he couldn’t hide the tremor in his laugh.

That night, the Gryffindor common room exploded into chaos. Music, butterbeer, banners glowing with charmed sparks. George declared they’d won thanks to Fred’s sacrifice and demanded the party last until sunrise. And it did.

Everyone danced, sang, spilled drinks, shouted themselves hoarse.

Everyone but me.

I sat curled in an armchair, nails bitten to the quick, heart drumming out an uneven rhythm. My gaze kept drifting to the portrait hole, as if he might stumble in at any second with that stupid grin, complaining about missing the party.

George dropped onto the armrest beside me, handing me a butterbeer. “Stop chewing your fingers, you’ll have none left.”

I tried to smile. Failed. “What if he doesn’t—”

“He will,” George interrupted firmly. “Fred doesn’t quit. Ever.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “Go on, drink. For him.”

I raised the bottle, but it tasted like nothing.

Hours blurred. The fire dimmed, voices thinned, bodies slumped into sleep. By the time silence settled, my chest ached from holding everything in.

I couldn’t wait.

The hospital wing was cloaked in shadow, lanterns burning low. My footsteps sounded too loud against the stone as I slipped inside.

And then—

“About time,” a hoarse voice rasped.

My head snapped up. Fred was awake. Propped awkwardly against his pillows, hair a mess, eyes heavy-lidded but alight with mischief.

“Guess falling off a broom isn’t the smoothest way to cancel our date?” His grin was weak but there.

Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled. “Fred—”

“Shh.” He winced slightly, shifting. “I’m fine. Bit bruised.”

Tears prickled hot behind my eyes. I grabbed the water jug, desperate for something to do, but my hands shook as I poured. Too much. The glass slipped, splashing cold all over his chest.

“Oh, brilliant,” Fred sputtered, but his laugh was genuine. “Nothing like a bath in bed.”

Mortified, I grabbed a cloth, dabbing at his soaked shirt. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut in, voice low, teasing. His eyes glittered in the dim light. “Could get used to this, actually.”

I laughed nervously, heat prickling at the back of my neck, and snatched a handful of tissues from the bedside table. Anything to distract from the way my hands were shaking.

“Here—let me just—” I stammered, pressing the cloth against his chest where the water had soaked through his clothes. I wiped the fabric against his skin, trying to work quickly and efficiently.

But the moment I dragged the tissue lower, along the direction of his stomach, the damp shirt stubbornly clung to him. I had to press harder, moving down the delicate lines of his muscles.

Fred gasped, almost moaning.

My fingers froze, the tissue still pressed against the dip of his stomach.

Our eyes met. His gaze was dark now, heavy with something unspoken.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, lips quirking, though his voice was huskier than usual.

I held his gaze, letting my hand drift lower, sliding beneath the waistband of his pajama pants. My fingers pressed gently against the warmth and hardness there, feeling the tension of him, while my eyes never left his.

Slowly, I leaned in, brushing my lips against his. He responded immediately, tilting his head, lips parting, fingers threading into my hair, tugging me closer. The kiss deepened, urgent and hungry, mingling breaths and soft groans. His body, though bruised and tender, pressed up against mine, guiding me subtly.

“Sit on me,” he whispered between kisses, voice rough, teasing yet needy.

My heart skipped. My fingers trembled, hovering over his shoulders, careful not to press too hard on the bruises that marked him from the fall. I swallowed, leaning closer, and slowly lowered myself, straddling his thighs. Every inch was deliberate, gentle, measured, so as not to hurt him, my hands trembling slightly as they rested on either side of him for support.

Fred’s breath hitched. “Good… just like that,” he murmured, voice ragged, lips brushing against mine again.

The moment I settled, our lips met in a deeper, hungrier kiss. His hands, though cautious at first, slid over my waist and hips, learning my curves, memorizing the way I moved above him. Every press, every gentle grind, sent shivers through both of us.

He pulled me closer, fingers threading into my hair, tugging gently, guiding me, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that made me shiver.

My hips began to move almost instinctively, brushing against the fabric of his pajama pants. Each press, each subtle grind, sent a jolt through both of us, the friction sparking heat that made my breath catch.

Fred groaned against my mouth, hands sliding over my waist and lower back, steadying me, encouraging me. I pressed harder, moving faster, the warmth of him beneath me making my pulse race.

“Fred—” I gasped against his lips as he shifted slightly, trying to maneuver us.

“Shh,” he murmured, rough but amused. “I’ve got this. Nothing wrong with me.”

“Are you—”

“Trust me. I can handle it.” He grinned against my lips, voice low and ragged.

With that, he gently rolled us, careful but firm, until I was lying on the bed, his hands still holding mine, keeping me close. My back pressed against the sheets. Fred hovered above me, lips brushing my jaw, teeth grazing lightly as he teased the sensitive skin of my neck.

His hands slid over my hips again, fingers tracing over the edge of my underwear, catching the thin fabric and tugging it slightly aside. I shivered, heat pooling between us, my breath hitching as his touch became bolder, more deliberate.

A low, ragged murmur escaped his lips as he pressed gently, exploring, testing my reactions. I arched instinctively, pressing into him, fingers clutching at the sheets, heart hammering. Every careful, deliberate movement made me flush, every brush of his fingers against me sending shivers through my body.

He paused for a fraction of a second, tilting his head to glance over my shoulder at the door. The hallway was empty, silent. Satisfied, he returned his attention to me, eyes dark and intent, and gently, carefully, he slid inside me.

I gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders as I adjusted to him, every nerve alight, every touch amplified by the slow, deliberate tension between us. His hands remained on my hips, steadying, guiding, while his mouth claimed mine again, desperate and hungry.

“Fred—” I whispered against his lips, voice trembling, heart racing.

His lips curved into a soft, wicked smile, rough and ragged. “Shh… just focus on me. You’re perfect,” he murmured, pressing closer, every movement measured, every touch attentive to the tenderness of his bruises.

We moved together, slow at first, savoring every brush, every press. Then, as the tension spiraled, our motions grew faster, more urgent. Heat pooled between us, skin pressed to skin, every shiver, every sigh, every low groan mingling in the charged air.

Fred’s lips trailed down my jaw, nipping lightly at my neck, and his hands slid along my waist, holding me close, guiding me with a hunger that made my knees weak. “… you feel amazing,” he murmured, voice ragged, his own desire echoing in the tight catches of breath between kisses.

I gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pressing into him, meeting every movement with equal urgency. His lips returned to mine, deep and desperate, hearts pounding in perfect unison.

Each gasp, each whisper of a name, each brush of lips and hands sent waves of heat through us, a fire that left us both trembling. We pressed closer, tighter, a tangle of arms, legs, and heated skin, every movement building, spiraling, until the world outside vanished completely.

We came together in a heated, desperate kiss, bodies pressed tight, hearts hammering, breaths mingling. The tension that had built between us finally unraveled in a wave of warmth and trembling, leaving us gasping, flushed, and wrapped around each other.

Fred flopped back against the pillows, one arm draped over my waist, hair sticking up in wild spikes. “Bloody hell… I survived a broom, survived a fall, and now… survived you,” he said, voice rough, teasing. “I deserve some kind of heroic medal, or at least a cup of tea. Maybe both.”

I laughed, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Honestly… you did amazing. Mr. Hero of the day.”

He grinned lazily, tilting his head. “A week of praise? Too short. I expect… a lifetime.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling. “I think I can manage that. But only if you promise not to fall off any more brooms for a while.”

“No promises,” he said, snuggling closer, “but I’ll try. For you.”

And there we stayed, tangled together, the fire from the lanterns flickering across his mischievous, bruised face, the chaos of the day forgotten, leaving only the quiet warmth of us.

[romanczukowsky]

Something Worth Remembering

Pairing: FGeorge Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: From quiet study sessions to stolen touches under the summer sun, Y/N and George discover that sometimes the best lessons happen far away from textbooks — and that love can bloom right alongside desire

Warning: Explicit content / Smut / Detailed sexual content / suggestive themes/ light public intimacy /One shot

The warm air on the meadow wrapped around us softly, and the wind gently swayed the branches of the old tree.

We sat on the grass, a book about herbs open in front of me, but my mind was wandering elsewhere. George sat beside me, wearing an impatient smile that promised nothing scientific.

“Repeat to me once more what you said about nettle,” he murmured, leaning closer until I felt his breath on my neck.

“It’s used for… treating inflammations,” I answered uncertainly, trying to focus.

“And then?” — his voice lowered into a quiet whisper, sliding over my ear. “Maybe it’s good for other, much more pleasant ailments?”

I shivered, trying to ignore how his fingers lightly touched my shoulder, slowly moving down until I felt their warmth under the sleeve of my dress.

“George!” I gasped, half-smiling, though my heart was pounding wildly.

He just grinned wider, like he’d just won some bet. His hand slid gently along my side as he leaned closer, weaving his fingers through the hair that fell over my shoulders.

“Come on, tell me more about it,” he whispered, his voice lower, filled with the promise of playful mischief. “How does it work? Is it as effective as the other herbs?”

I felt warmth spreading through my whole body, his breath caressing the skin of my ear as he spoke. I tried not to laugh, though I wanted to pull him into my arms and shout how much he annoyed me — and yet how much I wanted him.

“Maybe it would help you remember better?” he murmured, slowly moving his hand down until his fingers gently traced lines along my waist. “Or maybe… we could try it together? As a bonus?”

I looked him straight in the eyes, unsure if it was flirtation or an invitation to cross a line we’d never dared to cross before.

His fingers slid slowly beneath the fabric of my dress, tracing the curve of my waist with deliberate pressure. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin material, igniting sparks along my skin. I swallowed hard, my breath hitching as his hand moved lower, grazing the sensitive spot just above my hip.

“Tell me, does the nettle’s sting teach you anything about pain... or pleasure?” His voice was low, teasing, his lips barely brushing the shell of my ear.

I shivered, trying to stay focused, but his fingers were relentless — slipping over the smooth skin beneath my dress, mapping every inch with confident, possessive strokes. The book forgotten, the world narrowing down to the heat between us and the whispered promises in his breath.

“George...” I breathed, half warning, half invitation.

He smiled against my skin, a slow, satisfied grin, before pressing closer, his hand daring to explore further, as if testing boundaries neither of us wanted to acknowledge out loud — but both were craving.

His fingers curved with more confidence, sliding higher under the fabric, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath. A slow, electric shiver ran through me, breath catching as his touch grew bolder. I pressed back instinctively, craving more even as my thoughts scrambled to keep control.

“Let go,” he murmured against my ear, voice thick with promise and something like a challenge. “Just trust me.”

I felt the heat pooling deep inside, the world shrinking until it was only the two of us—his hand, my skin, and the quiet rhythm of our breaths mingling in the warm air.

When my body finally tensed, the wave breaking free like a secret finally told, he held me steady, his touch grounding and sure.

“See?” he whispered softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. “You’re more than ready. You’ve got this.”

A slow smile spread across my lips, the nervous knot inside unwinding. With him, I wasn’t just studying herbs or memorizing facts—I was learning how to trust, how to surrender, and maybe, just maybe, how to let myself feel alive.

The day of the exam came faster than I expected. I was already sitting at my desk, in a room full of whispers and nervous glances from other test-takers. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my hands trembled slightly. Fear wrapped around me like an invisible rope, reminding me how much depended on this one day.

I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered his words: “You’re ready.” And then that warm touch — gentle fingers sliding over my skin, their calm, almost promising presence. That memory acted like a quiet balm, melting the fear away, warming me from within, and giving me strength.

I opened my eyes and looked at the exam paper in front of me. I took a deep breath, feeling like I could do this.

After the exam, I barely held back my excitement as I rushed out into the hallway. My heart was still racing, but now with pure joy.

And there he was — George, leaning against the wall, looking casual but somehow exactly what I needed.

I didn’t even think twice. I ran straight at him, throwing my arms around his waist and yelling, “I passed! I actually passed! We have to celebrate!”

His eyes lit up, and a slow grin spread across his face. “I knew you would,” he said softly, pulling me closer. “You’ve got this. You’re unstoppable.”

For a moment, everything else faded away — the stress, the doubt, the waiting. It was just us, caught in that perfect instant of victory and something more.

We decided to celebrate at the pub under the Three Brooms. The warm buzz of laughter and clinking glasses wrapped around us as we slid into a corner booth. George ordered two pints of beer — his eyes never leaving mine.

Around us, others who had struggled with the herbology exam gathered, some relieved, some still nervous about retakes. But George just leaned closer and said quietly, “You’re the best.”

His hand found its way to my thigh, resting there lightly, a quiet claim that made my pulse quicken. The hum of voices faded into the background as his fingers traced slow circles, steady and reassuring.

“Let’s forget about everything else tonight,” he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. “You earned this.”

I felt the heat spread through me as his fingers stayed steady on my thigh, grounding me amid the buzz of the pub. I looked up at George, catching the spark in his eyes — that mix of pride and something more, something daring.

“Maybe we should make a habit of this,” I teased, my voice low. “Celebrating wins together.”

He grinned, leaning in closer so his lips brushed my ear. “Oh, I like the sound of that. Especially if it means I get to hold your hand — or more — a little longer each time.”

The music shifted to a slow tune, and for a moment, the world shrank to just us, the clatter of glasses and chatter fading behind the warmth between us. I felt bold, reckless even, and when his hand slid a bit higher, tracing teasing lines under my skirt, I didn’t pull away.

“George,” I breathed, half warning, half invitation.

He smiled, his fingers pausing as if asking permission, then nodded ever so slightly. “Tonight’s ours.”

We sank into that moment, a promise hanging in the air — from friends to something more, a quiet rebellion against the rules and worries of the world outside the pub’s doors.

Suddenly, one of our classmates nearby glanced over with a teasing smile. “Hey, are you alright? You’re looking a bit flushed—too much excitement or the heat?”

I glanced at George, who wore that mischievous grin that made my heart skip. Without missing a beat, he replied with a sly chuckle, “Definitely the beer’s doing its magic.”

His fingers, still resting gently beneath my skirt, slowly withdrew from under my underwear, leaving a warm, lingering touch that sent a shiver through me. Then, louder so everyone could hear, he added, “Maybe it’s time for some fresh air?”

I nodded silently, my cheeks still warm from the attention. George laughed softly, stood up, and offered me his hand. Together, we slipped out of the pub, leaving behind the buzz of conversation and curious glances.

The cool evening breeze welcomed us as we stepped outside, and I felt a thrilling mix of relief and anticipation. This was just the beginning.

Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. George kept hold of my hand, his fingers interlaced with mine, grounding me in the moment. We walked slowly, the sound of our footsteps mingling with distant laughter from the pub.

He glanced down at me with that familiar spark in his eyes and whispered, “You really were incredible today. I knew you’d pass—no one studies like you do.” His thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand, sending a thrill through me.

I smiled, feeling the weight of all the stress and hours of studying melt away. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without your… ‘help’,” I teased, nudging him gently.

He laughed, pulling me a little closer. “Anytime.”

George led me down a narrow alley just off the main street, shadows wrapping around us like a velvet curtain. He pressed me gently against the cool brick wall, his body close enough that I could feel every heartbeat.

“It’s thrilling,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, “when someone might catch us… when the risk makes everything sharper.”

I swallowed hard, my breath hitching, and nodded without hesitation. His hands slid under my dress, warm and insistent, tracing every curve as he leaned in closer.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he entered me, his eyes locking with mine—dark, hungry, and full of promise—while my hands found their way to his shoulders, holding on tight as the world around us blurred into a distant hum.

The tension between us thickened with every shallow breath. His hands roamed, gripping my waist firmly as he moved with a quiet urgency, the danger of being seen fueling a fire inside me.

His whispered words traced down my neck, “You’re incredible… just like I knew you’d be.”

I bit my lip, a mix of nerves and desire flooding through me. The thought that someone might stumble upon us only made the moment more electric.

He pressed deeper, slow and sure, his touch both demanding and tender, sending waves of heat rippling through my body. My fingers tangled in his hair as I clung to him, losing myself in the thrill of the hidden, the stolen.

Then, barely audible over the pounding of my heart, he promised, “You’ll pass every test… not just today.”

His pace slowed, more controlled now, drawing out every sensation until I was trembling against the wall, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His lips brushed my ear as he whispered, low and hoarse, “Let go for me.”

And I did — everything inside me unraveling, the world blurring into heat and quiet bliss. My fingers dug into his shoulders, my head tipping back as the waves crashed through me, leaving me breathless and barely standing.

“You love it,” he said smugly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as we straightened up.

I fixed my skirt, heart still thudding, cheeks flushed. “You’re lucky I did pass. Or I’d be hexing you into next week.”

He wrapped an arm around my waist as we stepped out of the alley, the sun already dipping low.

“Then I guess we’ll have to celebrate again tonight,” he murmured, his grin wicked but soft at the same time.

I nudged him with my hip, half-laughing, still flushed. “This wasn’t celebrating?”

His wink made my stomach flip. “Just the warm-up.”

And somehow, I knew he meant it.

[romanczukowsky]

Whispers in the Infirmary

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: After colliding during the Quidditch match, Y/N and George end up in the infirmary. Spending time together, they get to know each other better, discovering shared interests and beginning to grow closer.

Warnings: Explicit content / Soft smut /Public-ish setting (Hospital Wings) / Slow burn, warmth & intimacy

The crowd was going wild. The stadium trembled with cheers as broomsticks whooshed through the air and the commentator's voice echoed across the pitch. The sun glinted off the golden hoops, and the wind tugged at the players’ robes as they soared around the field in full concentration.

I was flying fast, too fast maybe—but the Quaffle was just within reach. My fingers stretched toward it, my heart pounding in rhythm with the roar of the stands. I barely registered the blur of red coming at me from the side until it was too late.

CRACK.

The impact knocked the breath out of me. My shoulder slammed into something—someone—and then the world spun. A flash of red hair. A grunt. And then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, the light was too bright. Everything felt heavy. My head throbbed, my body ached, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was.

The sterile scent of potion-soaked linens and the faint clink of glass told me before my eyes adjusted: the hospital wing.

I blinked, groaning softly. My limbs protested even the smallest movement. Turning my head just slightly, I caught sight of another bed—and then I saw him.

George Weasley. Lying flat on his back, leg in a cast, with a bruised temple and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite it all.

“Hey,” he said, voice raspy but amused, “you’ve got a pretty solid shoulder.”

I blinked again, then gave a hoarse laugh.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I mumbled, voice rough.

He grinned. “Though next time, maybe we don’t try to tackle each other midair, yeah?”

Before I could reply, the infirmary door creaked open and in tumbled a group of Gryffindor boys, loud and laughing, still in their red robes, carrying bags of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs, and other sweets.

“Oy, our hero!” Lee Jordan called out, heading straight to George’s bed. “You’re alive. Thank Merlin. Thought Madam Pomfrey might turn you into some kind of anatomy model.”

“Still breathing after that slam—unbelievable,” another added, giving George’s shoulder a pat.

They all started replaying the collision, laughing and mimicking the moment of impact like it was some grand prank.

“But the way you flew, George, it was like—WHAM!” Lee flung his arms dramatically. “And the other one—who even was that?”

No one looked at me. Not even a glance.

I was right there, barely a meter away, lying in the next bed. It was like I didn’t exist.

A tight knot formed in my chest.

George cleared his throat loudly. Deliberately.

“She’s right there,” he said flatly, tilting his head slightly toward me. “Still breathing too, in case you were wondering.”

The Gryffindors froze, as if just now remembering they weren’t alone.

They all turned toward me at once.

“Oh. Hey,” they said in near unison, a weird chorus of awkward realization.

“Glad you... made it,” one of them added, and just like that, they turned back to George, continuing their chatter as if I’d vanished again.

I just smiled faintly to myself. Honestly? I didn’t expect much else. Gryffindor had its own rhythm, its own bubble.

Eventually, they filtered out, leaving behind empty wrappers and a pile of sweets dumped at George’s side. The room quieted, shadows deepening as evening set in. Somewhere in the back, I heard the clink of potion bottles as Madam Pomfrey tidied up.

“You want one?” George asked, holding out a Chocolate Frog toward me.

I gave him a sideways look, then smirked, reaching for it.

“Only if it doesn’t try to hop out of my hand.”

He shifted upright a little, wincing as pain shot through his leg.

“Didn’t expect the match to end with me stuck in a hospital bed,” he said, exhaling. “Though I’ve had worse roommates.”

I laughed, biting off a corner of chocolate.

“I wasn’t planning to collide full-speed with a Weasley today, but here we are.”

George grinned, almost proudly.

“Well, at least you’re fast. Most people can’t keep up.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment or a challenge?”

“A bit of both.”

Silence settled for a moment — not awkward, just... easy. Warm.

“You following the World Cup?” he asked suddenly.

I perked up.

“Ireland. Always. Their Seeker is unreal.”

George’s grin widened.

“Knew you had good taste. Me too. And their Beaters? Brilliant. Especially the younger one—always goes in from the left. Genius.”

We started talking. About teams, strategies, unfair fouls, jaw-dropping plays, childhood favorites, unforgettable moments. Time slipped away unnoticed. The lights dimmed fully, but I didn’t care. George’s voice was alive and full of fire, and that was enough.

And I realized — maybe this hospital stay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The days slipped by almost unnoticed.

Every evening, almost like clockwork, Fred would sneak into the hospital wing with a bag stuffed full of sweets. Biscuits, eclairs, sometimes even magically-warmed cocoa that never went cold. He always said it was for George, but his eyes would flick toward me with a silent grin.

He shared with me too. No words — just pushing the plate my way, then disappearing again with a cheeky remark tossed over his shoulder.

George and I talked. About everything. Quidditch, classes, professors, nonsense. Dreams. Annoyances. Things that made us laugh.

We laughed a lot. And sometimes we just sat in silence — and that was enough too.

My body healed quickly — bruises faded, muscle aches eased, and Madam Pomfrey's spells worked their magic. George looked better by the day as well. The swelling was gone, the cuts on his face were now faint lines. The only thing keeping him in bed was the cast still wrapped around his leg.

That afternoon, Madam Pomfrey came to my bed with her clipboard and a faint smile.

“You’ll be ready to return to your dorm tomorrow, dear. Everything’s looking good.” She turned to George. “But you, Mr. Weasley… you’re staying with us a bit longer.”

I nodded, but there was a weight in my chest — a strange tightness, a quiet ache. I wasn’t ready for this to be over.

That evening, it was just the two of us. For the first time.

"It’s a bit of a shame you’re getting released tomorrow," he said quietly, with that slight smile that always appeared when he tried to hide something more sincere. "You know, I’d probably feel a lot better if I got a kiss to help with all this pain," he joked, looking at me with a spark in his eye.

I stood up and leaned over him, kissing him on the lips. His hands immediately wrapped around me more firmly, pulling me closer. "If you’re uncomfortable" he murmured softly "you can sit on my bed."

I hesitated for a moment, wondering what exactly I was doing. But I did it… gently, sitting down right on him.

Our lips met again, and during the kiss, I felt myself move slightly. A soft moan escaped his lips, adding a little spice to the moment. "That seems to really help," George joked with a grin. "I’m glad you think so," I replied, smiling at him before we lost ourselves in the kiss once more.

With every closeness, I could feel his body more and more through the thin pajamas.

His hands settled gently on my hips, as if trying to make sure I was really there.

He kissed me. At first, softly, like he wanted to memorize every inch of my skin. Then more deeply, with growing intensity. His hands roamed over my back, fingers tangled in my hair. Soft sighs mixed with shallow breaths. His body trembled beneath mine, and mine responded to his touch.

He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. We touched slowly, cautiously, but with an increasing need, until everything else ceased to exist. Just him and me. Skin, whispers, kisses.

There was no rush — only warmth, tenderness, and breath mingling in the darkness.

I sat down on him slowly, feeling his weight beneath me. His hands tightened around my waist, pulling me closer. Every movement was deliberate, gentle, yet charged with tension.

I closed my eyes as I felt him enter me—deeply, slowly, with anticipation. I let out a soft sigh, and his breath quickened against my neck.

My body tensed, craving more, gently gripping, molding to him. His hands roamed my back, holding me steady as I moved slowly, rhythmically.

I felt every movement, as if time slowed down and the world outside ceased to exist. With each motion, our bodies fit more closely together, and the tension grew. I let out a louder sigh, gripping his shoulders tightly as we approached the edge.

“Are you okay?” I asked, breathing lightly, not wanting to break the moment.

He looked at me through half-closed eyes, a slight sweat on his brow and a smile that said more than words.

“I feel amazing,” he replied, his voice slightly breaking, his eyes shining more intensely than ever.

His hand moved slowly against my skin, tracing a path between my thighs — right where my heart fluttered wildly. I clenched tightly around him, my body taut with longing and hunger. I tilted my head back, eyes closing as a soft sigh escaped his lips — I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain in his leg or the rising pleasure between us.

Every small movement sent a shiver through me — the brush of his fingers, the warmth radiating from his body.

Then together we reached the peak, lost in that moment as if nothing else mattered.

And as I lay on his chest, calm and happy, my fingers lazily tracing his shoulder, I spoke softly. "Tomorrow, I’ll bring you a bag full of sweets. I promise."

He laughed quietly, kissing my hair.

"If there are eclairs, I’m already in love."

[romanczukowsky]

The Winning Bet

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!Slytherin reader

Summary: In the potions classroom, an unexpected collaboration develops between Y/N and George Weasley. Their joint work on a potion becomes a pretext for a rivalry and a bet that quickly turns into something much more intimate and electrifying.

Warnings: Explicit content / Smut / Public-ish setting (potions class) / One shot

The glass jars lining the shelves trembled in sync with the uproar that shook the dungeon walls like an explosion in a potions lab. Then again—like every week—the culprits were always the same: Fred and George Weasley.

I was already in my seat, cheek resting against my palm, when something suddenly exploded on the left side of the classroom. I let out a heavy sigh.

“Merlin’s beard…” I muttered under my breath, glancing toward the two redheaded culprits who were now doing a poor job pretending absolutely nothing had happened—despite the fact that a giant inkblot was slowly spreading across half the classroom.

“Silence!” Snape snarled, sweeping into the room like a shadow that instantly killed every lingering whisper.

“One more word, Weasley, and I’ll turn your tongue into a leech.”

Fred only bowed with mock solemnity. “Yes, sir. I swear it on my brother’s tongue.”

George let out an exaggerated sigh and cast a fleeting glance toward the back of the classroom—toward me—as if to silently warn us: Yes, we’re annoying. Deal with it.

Snape stalked between the desks with that signature dark aura of his, eyeing us like he was deciding who to mentally grind into potion ingredients today. Eventually, he stopped and announced:

"Today, due to the remarkable incompetence of some…" — his glare toward the twins was like a dagger — "…we’ll be switching partners. According to my own judgment."

A wave of quiet groans and whispers rippled through the room. I wasn’t thrilled, but I wasn’t surprised either.

"Y/L/N," he finally said. "With Weasley."

Someone snickered from the back and called out, "Which one?"

Snape didn’t even blink. "The one who doesn’t hold his wand backwards."

George, who had just been whispering something to Fred, looked up at us like the universe had just betrayed him.

"Seriously?"

"Move, Weasley," Snape growled.

George looked at me like I was some kind of personal punishment from fate. He stood with exaggerated reluctance, dragging his feet like he was heading to the gallows, and dropped into the seat beside me.

"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath. "This is going to be such fun."

I didn’t respond. But I did raise an eyebrow. This was only the beginning.

Snape paced the room with an icy glare, his cloak rustling ominously against the stone floor. He stopped at our desk and looked down at us.

“Today, we’ll be preparing a mandrake potion. Each pair must gather the ingredients and then brew the potion according to the recipe. You will be graded on precision and speed.”

He looked us over as if judging whether we were up to the task, then turned and began to walk away, stirring whispered conversations throughout the classroom.

George let out a heavy sigh, resting his elbows on the desk and staring at the vials in front of him as if already regretting having to work with me.

“So, what do you think?” I asked with a slight smile. “Think we can manage?”

George squinted at me and paused for a moment, considering. His lips twitched into a half-smile, but there was still a skeptical spark lingering in his eyes.

“I don’t know…” he began slowly, as if searching for the right words, “…but if we manage not to destroy everything and not blow up the classroom, that’ll already be a success.”

I laughed quietly, knowing that was typical George.

We went back to work, carefully mixing the ingredients, the quiet concentration between us slowly breaking down the walls of skepticism.

After a few minutes, George looked at what we had brewed and smiled.

“Well, Snape won't be in a good mood when he sees what we brewed here,” he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow, confident.

“I bet he'll even smile,” I said.

George's eyes lit up with challenge.

“All right,” he said, leaning closer. " What do you want to bet on?"

I smirked, leaning in just a little.

“How about this?” I whispered. “If I make Snape smile, you come to the next class without any underwear.”

George blinked, then laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh.

“You’re on.”

He shook my hand like it was the deal of a lifetime, though I could see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Snape paused, his eyes narrowing as he inspected our cauldron. Then, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

A ghost of a smile — sarcastic, dry, but unmistakably a smile.

“Apparently, even you can avoid complete disaster,” he said, voice dripping with mock surprise.

George’s eyes went wide. I bit back a triumphant grin.

“Well?” I whispered.

George groaned.

The next day, when I walked into the Potions classroom, I saw George sitting exactly where we had sat together yesterday. I was a bit surprised — I didn’t expect him to choose the same spot on his own.

I sat down in my seat next to him. He looked at me with that typical, slightly cheeky smile.

“So, did you keep your end of the bet?” I asked, tilting my head.

George just shrugged and replied with a smirk, “Check for yourself.”

I chuckled quietly. The lesson began. I glanced around the classroom — no one was paying attention to us. When I was sure of that, I slowly placed my hand on his thigh and slid it a little higher.

“What are you—” But he didn’t get to say more because I slipped my hand under his trousers.

After a moment, I pulled it out and said mischievously, “I’m glad you’re a man of your word.”

George looked surprised, and I, with complete seriousness, returned to taking notes and preparing the ingredients for today’s lesson.

George sat still, glancing at his notes, but it was clear his mind was somewhere else. Throughout the lesson, he barely spoke, as if trying to control what had happened, yet it was obvious he was clearly flustered.

I couldn’t help myself. Every time our eyes met, I lightly traced a finger along the edge of his notebook. I did it so subtly that no one probably noticed—except him.

As he stirred the potion, I leaned in just a bit, so our arms barely touched. I gently brushed his hand when he reached for another vial.

George managed a shy smile only made him more charming—and confirmed for me that this bet was the best idea we’d had.

I was stirring the ingredients, and his fingers occasionally brushed against mine unnoticed, which only heightened the tension between us.

As the clock neared the end of the lesson, George finally turned to me and, with a slight embarrassment, said. "Listen, maybe you’re not as bad as I thought."

I smiled softly, pretending not to notice how his hands trembled slightly. "You know, maybe we should do these potions together more often." I added, catching his gaze from under my lashes.

As I started packing up, I saw George suddenly stand up, walk over to Fred, and say something while gesturing lightly. They both looked at me. I felt a little flustered. George’s gaze returned to Fred’s face, and it seemed like he was explaining something further. Fred just nodded, but his eyes stayed on me. Feeling confused, I looked down at my bag and began packing my things even faster.

“Could you stay a moment longer? I’d like to discuss something… just the two of us,” I heard a voice say.

My heart started pounding faster.

I looked at George, who was standing right in front of me.

“Sure,” I replied, trying to keep calm, though I felt a slight tingle inside.

As everyone else left the classroom, my eyes caught Fred’s, who silently mouthed what was probably “interesting,” and he was the last to leave, quietly closing the door behind him.

George stood in front of me, his hands in his pockets, as if unsure what to do with them now that no one else was watching.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

The classroom was quiet — too quiet — save for the faint bubbling of an abandoned cauldron somewhere in the corner. My heartbeat suddenly felt too loud in my ears.

He shrugged, taking a small step closer. Not enough to touch — but enough to notice. “I just didn’t expect you to mess with me the way I usually mess with people.”

“Oh?” I tilted my head, letting my voice drop slightly. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? All I did was check if you were true to your word.”

George laughed under his breath and looked down for a second, then back up. This time, his expression was different. Calmer. Still playful — but with something else behind his eyes.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” he said, voice lower.

That caught me off guard. The air between us shifted. The teasing tension… suddenly wasn’t so funny anymore.

I swallowed and turned toward my bag on the desk, pretending to search for something — anything — to break the weight of his gaze.

Before I could find a distraction, I felt him step even closer. Not touching, not speaking. Just being there — letting me feel him behind me.

I stayed still, hands resting on the desk.

Then his voice, barely above a whisper. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if Snape didn’t assign us together?”

I turned halfway toward him, catching his eyes. “No. Because he did.”

And just like that, it was back — that hum of tension, the static charge between us.

George lifted a hand and very gently, almost like he was asking for permission, brushed a strand of hair from my face.

His fingers lingered for the briefest moment near my cheek, and I couldn’t help but lean into the touch — not fully. Just enough to admit I noticed it.

His hand dropped.

We were close now. So close that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. And I realized something: George Weasley could flirt with anyone. But this? This wasn’t flirting anymore.

This was hesitation.

This was patience.

This was… something waiting to unfold.

I took a shallow breath, and finally asked, “So what now?”

George’s lips parted slightly, like he had an answer. But instead, he smiled softly and said:

“I think we both know. We’re just pretending we don’t.”

Before I could reply, he took a slow step forward. Then another.

And then, without warning, his hand moved to my hip — firm, intentional — and nudged me gently back against the desk.

The edge of the tabletop hit the backs of my thighs, and I looked up at him. He stepped between my legs, hands braced on either side of me on the desk. Close. So incredibly close that I could feel his breath on my skin.

I met his eyes.

And this time, there was no grin. No distance. No act. Just something deeper, darker — a quiet pull that had been lingering between us from the start and was now impossible to ignore.

George leaned in slightly, his voice just above a whisper. "Tell me to stop if you want me to."

I didn’t answer. Instead, I tilted my forehead forward, resting it gently against his.

That was all it took.

His lips met mine in a kiss that was slow at first — like he wasn’t sure this was real. But when I kissed him back — truly, without hesitation — it deepened, turning hungry. Warm. Electric.

His hands gripped my thigh, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my robes, while the other hand slid into my hair, anchoring me to him.

My breathing hitched. My whole body responded like it had been waiting for this.

We only broke apart when air became necessary, our lips separating with a quiet gasp. But our foreheads stayed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing.

"That was a bit more than checking if I kept my promise," George said in a low voice, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips again — only now, it felt different. Softer.

I smiled too, a little breathless, a little dazed.

"Maybe I wanted to test something else."

My hand moved almost involuntarily over his chest. Slowly, through the fabric of his shirt, I traced the line of his body until I reached the spot where his breath suddenly hitched.

I looked into his eyes—and I knew that if I said one word, he would do whatever I wanted.

But instead of speaking, I slid my hand even lower, feeling a clear reaction to my presence beneath my fingers.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his voice lower, rougher than before.

“Or maybe… you just have that effect on me,” I whispered softly, tilting my head slightly.

George leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing mine. “I’m not planning to stop you anymore,” he whispered.

My hand tightened its grip, moving deliberately as I began to massage him through the fabric, fingers pressing, kneading, exploring with intent.

My hand never stopped massaging, pressing harder, provoking a reaction I could feel in every twitch of his body. I sensed the tension building in him — muscles tightening, breath quickening, and his gaze losing itself somewhere between my eyes and lips.

His hand, which had been holding the buttons moments before, slowly slid down along my side.

George tilted his head back to look me straight in the eyes.

Slowly, his hand slid even lower — fingers boldly tracing along my hip until they finally settled between my thighs. The touch was confident, deliberate — pressing lightly while exploring, igniting that quiet, burning response we both craved.

His fingers moved with intention beneath the fabric of my delicate lingerie, the soft lace yielding under his touch, heightening every nerve ending.

My hands moved with purpose. My fingers grasped the worn leather belt. Without hesitation, I began to undo the buckle — the metal clicked softly in the quiet room.

His trousers slipped down to the floor, revealing him completely — no underwear, nothing, in all his full glory. My eyes involuntarily lingered on his length, which clearly showed it had been waiting for nothing.

My hand rose, wrapping around him with my fingers. I tightened my fingers, gently massaging, feeling George’s breath grow heavier, his body stiffening under my touch.

His fingers moved faster now, rougher, less careful — driven by a single, desperate thought. There was no hesitation, no gentleness left; every stroke was a silent demand, urgent and insistent.

I let out a slow, breathy sigh and parted my legs wider, letting him see everything — my desire, my need, my surrender. “I want you. Now,” I whispered, my voice low but steady, carrying all the weight of what I felt.

George paused for a moment, looking me straight in the eyes — in them burned an uncontrollable tension. His hands were clenched tightly on my hips, steady and sure.

He entered me, each movement both decisive and intense — as if he wanted to feel every inch of me, every reaction of my body.

I let out a soft moan, breaking the silence, letting him hear how much it stirred me. His breath quickened, and his lips hovered by my ear, whispering words that heated me even more.

“You’re so damn sexy,” he whispered, his voice low, thick with desire.

His hands tightened their grip, fingers digging lightly into my skin, as if wanting to hold this moment forever. And I felt a wave of pleasure wash over me stronger and stronger, binding us in a moment that seemed endless.

His body moved deeper inside me, every pulse and thrust sending waves through my core. My muscles clenched around him instinctively, gripping tight.

His breath hit mine, his voice rough and urgent in my ear. “I'm going to come,” he growled, the tension in his chest coiling like a storm about to break.

Each movement grew more deliberate, more uncontrollable.

A wave of pleasure spread through my entire body, and he exploded with me in one hot breath.

When George slowly pulled out of me, the warmth of his body gradually faded, but I could still feel his presence, pulsing in the air between us.

I leaned back, resting my hands on the edge of the desk, trying to steady my breath, which was still uneven. My heart was still pounding wildly, and my skin seemed to throb all over.

George slowly moved back to the back bench, leaning against it. His breath was heavy, and the same spark of wildness and satisfaction shone in his eyes.

For a moment, we sat like that, our eyes locked, unhurriedly sharing what had just happened between us.

As we got dressed, George chuckled quietly under his breath. “Thanks to you, I won that bet with Fred,” he said, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

I raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly did you bet on?”

He just smiled mysteriously, gave me one last lingering look, and then turned to leave the room.