Imma just put this here and make it look pretty later:
Any characters I write or talk about are aged up to be well into adulthood, like Curse Child era but without the shit lore.
No minors are allowed here and if you DM me I WILL ask you your age to ensure I'm speaking with a fellow adult (if you're an adult tho please DM me about George's butt no one ever wants to talk to me about that)
I support the idea of kicking JK Rowling out if her own fandom and participating in ways that don't line her pockets (🏴☠️) fuck you Joanne
I often see famfics about either Fred or George cheating on the reader, and honestly, I just can't see it. Like, I feel like they would absolutely never cheat on their partner. None of the Weasleys would, they're big on loyalty. Like, they could have a thousand issues and fights with their partner, but cheating? They'd rather die. What's your take?
I can't see any of the Weasleys cheating. They're too fucking loyal. I could see a mishap where someone else kissed them and they froze in the moment, but that's as far as it would go.
I think the twins and Bill are probably flirts, and maybe when they were younger they had multiple people they were kissing or flirting with and didn't realize someone thought things were more serious than they were. But that's more of a misunderstanding than cheating.
Ron's patronous is a fucking dog there's not a single cheating bone in him.
Ginny doesn't have the time or patience for more than one partner, nor is she the cheating type.
Percy isn't getting ass. Get out my face with that.
A/N: I'm a strong sub!George believer, okay???? LIKE THIS MAN CRIES AND WHIMPERS. Anyways, here's filthy, self indulgent smut I'd like to share with you beautiful freaks.
Warning(s): SMUT, porn w no plot, overstimulation (m receiving), orgasm denial (m receiving), p in v, bondage (tying hands), light degradation?? george calls reader mommy like once, sub!george, dom!reader
Word count: 1.7K
Dividers by @angeliicide !!
Four days.
For four days, George had been ducking you left and right.
Late nights at the shop, early mornings in his office; it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Four days ago, after the shop closed, you and George moved to the shop’s back storage room. You’d barely gotten any time for each other, barely even, well, touched eachother. Not since the shop opened a couple months ago. Saying you were pent up was a wild understatement.
George leaned back in his chair, a soft shaky breath leaving him as you straddled his lap. He went red, hands moving to your hips as you began sucking on his neck—”God, it’s been ages, Georgie. I can’t. I miss you.” You shuddered against his skin. You felt him harden against your thigh, smiling against his neck.
You lifted your head, pushing your lips to his. He eagerly reciprocated, letting out soft moans into your mouth, making the heat pooling in your stomach begin to seep through your panties. Your hands trailed the back of his hair, travelling up to his hair, giving it a little tug. He whimpered, you took the chance to slip your tongue into his mouth.
The kiss turned wet, messy, hungry. He let out small gasps for air whenever your mouths opened, face flushed as he desperately clung to your hips like they’d hold him steady.
Your hand slowly trailed down, wrapping around his neck. At first he thought it was to pull him closer, and he’d very willing do so.
But, then you squeezed. He felt his head spin, and he gasped. A coil tightened in his stomach, and before he could even warn you—
“Shit!” He hissed, going even redder in the face, and you grinned even wider, quirking a brow. “Did you just–”
“No!” He huffed, pulling you off his lap and rushing out of the storage room, up the stairs to your flat above the shop to change. All you could do was snicker helplessly into your palm, which didn’t help with the sheer embarrassment filling him.
Yeah. He’d been avoiding you since. You’d gotten quite sick of it, really. God bless him, but was there really anything to be embarrassed about? If anything, you were flattered. George didn’t care, though. He felt stupid, juvenile. Teenagers spoil their trousers over pretty ladies in their laps, not him. He was old enough; he’s done it enough.
But your arm around his neck, god
He shrugged off his coat as he entered the flat from another long day; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t doing it on purpose. It was obvious enough. He clicked off his belt, tossed it on the couch, and moved to your shared bedroom. You’d be asleep; it was much too late for you to be awake.
He shut the bedroom door behind him and stepped into the dark before he felt something tug on his tie, his heart fluttering when he realized who it was—you.
“Hi, baby.” You cooed, tugging him down by the tie to plant a soft kiss on his lips. He flushed. He’d been avoiding you for days, and you were so sweet in return. He felt like a dick. “My love, I.. I’m sorry.” He mumbled, letting you push him onto the bed, sitting on his lap oh-so-sweetly. He shuddered, face going red.
“For what? Avoiding me because you finished in your pants?” You said crudely, making him fluster. “Th-that’s-”
You shushed him, pushing him down so he was lying on the bed. You undid his tie; he didn’t stop you. He was too busy looking up at you like a wounded puppy, already guilty. You gathered his hands and, using the tie, tied them to the headboard. By the time he figured out what was happening, it was much too late.
He frowned, more pouted, pulling at the restraints. You grinned, undoing his shirt before pulling it open, rendering it useless in its purpose to cover anything. You leaned closer, kissing down his chest before flicking a nipple, eliciting a whimper from the taller ginger. “Baby..” He breathed, face flushed red, his deep brown eyes almost pathetic in the way he looked at you.
You clicked your tongue, undoing his zipper before tugging his pants and boxers down; his cock sprang out, slapping against his stomach; the tip an angry red, pre-cum smeared on his abdomen. “So eager, hm?” You cooed, stroking him once. His hips bucked a pitiful whine, leaving him. “Worried about how long you’ll last, Georgie? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you last long.”
George let out a loud moan when you took him deep in your throat, the tip brushing the inside of your throat, making it constrict around his cock. He whimpered, bucking into your mouth. “N-Ngh..! Baby, I’m gonna- I-I can’t–”
He felt the coil in his stomach tighten; he waited for it, for the relief.
He almost screamed when he felt you pull off, eyes going wide. He pathetically bucked his hips into the air, almost tearing up. “Wait–wait, baby, please—”
“You wanted to last long, yes?” You cooed, stroking him slowly, infuriatingly, and he bucked into your fist; it wasn’t enough. He let out something akin to a sob, pouting at you with tears in his eyes.
“Aww, poor baby.” He flustered at the saccharine affection, looking away, bucking into your hand.
Then, suddenly, you were back on him. He whimpered when his tip touched the back of your throat again, tears springing to his eyes as his sensitive cock was practically suctioned into your mouth. You groaned around his dick, and that added to it. His muscled thighs began to shake, whimpers turning into soft pleas. “Baby–fuck, yes!” He hissed, eyes rolling back. He felt it, white spots in his vision forming, and then you pulled off.
He didn’t even try to hide it, a harsh sob breaking from his throat. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, he pulled at his restraints. “N-No, please–please-.. I’m good, I was so good. Please. I’ll be good.” He whimpered, bucking at air. Another sob left him along with his climax, thighs shaking.
You grinned wider, crueler. “C’mon, weren’t you embarrassed at how short you lasted? You even avoided your wife because of it, sweetheart. Let’s make sure you’re never embarrassed again.” You said softly, stroking his sensitive cock once, making him gasp and thrust his hips up against nothing.
“Please, please, please, please–” He cried, tears spilling out of his dark puppy eyes. He whimpered, his tip red and angry, pre-cum leaking out.
His begging worked, because the warmth of your mouth rewarded him again. He bucked into your throat, into your mouth, trying to chase his orgasm, trying to finish before you could stop him.
Broken whimpers left him when he felt his climax near again, almost painful from having been denied twice now. He sobbed, bucking into your mouth as another pathetic, needy moan escaped his mouth, followed by another—then another.
Just as he got close, you pulled off. He cried. Actually cried. He sobbed there, tugging at his restrains, legs shaking. He whimpered, his high fading. He gasped, so out-of-it. He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk.
“Mm–mngh..” He whimpered, looking up at you through glossy, fucked-out eyes. You pressed soft kisses to his cheeks, nose, and neck. He shuddered. Soft, breathy whines left him. His cock was twitching now, his orgasm having been denied repreatedly. He felt like something was hollowing inside him, all he could see was your cruel, cruel grin. More tears spilled from his eyes.
You cooed, cupping his face. “Is baby needy?” You hummed, moving his head to make him nod. You grinned, tilting your head. “Pathetic, aren’t you, love? A little desperate thing.” You purred condescendingly, moving his head to make him nod again. A broken sob left him. You kissed his forehead.
Slowly, tantalizingly, you stripped off your clothes. He moaned at the sight, almost drooling from how much his mind was turned to mush. You’d stretched yourself out before he’d gotten home; you’d been planning this. You settled ontop of him, his tip pressing against your entrance. He whimpered at the feeling of your warm heat pushing against his tip.
You tilted your head, patting his cheek. “Oi. Look at me, baby boy.” You murmured, making him move his eyes to you. With one hand, you pushed his face to your chest. He understood without much thought, taking one nipple in his mouth, whining around it, a soft muffled ‘mommy’ coming out. It made your core throb. You surged down, taking him to the hilt, his pubic hair pressing against your clit.
You gasped out, throwing your head back. His tip kissed your cervix so gently. You moaned, he whimpered against your nipple, sucking as you began to move up and down.
He was so sensitive, the mere feeling of you squeezing him made him sob, thighs shaking. You were relentless, moving against him so fast that he couldn’t take it. “I-I’m gonna— I’m gonna!!”
He came inside you with a cry, relief filling him at his orgasm not being denied.
But you didn’t stop, he whimpered, tugging at the restraints as you squeezed a hand around his throat. His eyes rolled back with a whiny moan, bucking. He was so sensitive, so overwhelmed. He couldn’t breathe, his head spinning.
You kept going, kept moving on him till you felt the knot in your stomach tighten. George was a whimpering mess beneath you. His throat is sore from his sobs—his whimpers. You finally come, your walls constricting around his hyper-sensitive cock. He cried, bucking into you.
You pulled off of him with a wet pop. He whimpered when the cold air hit his raw dick. You smiled at his state, moving closer to kiss the tears from his cheeks before untying his wrists from the headboard.
You pulled him closer to your chest. He slumped against you, shaking and exhausted. “Sorry.” He croaked, hugging you closer. “For avoiding you.”
Your smile softened, you kissed his forehead. “I think I’ve made you suffer enough for that, my love.” You cooed, letting the boy settle into your chest, letting him drift off to sleep.
Warnings: use of a love potion, obsessive, possessive, a kiss.
from the nymph: your humble fairy still doesn’t know English that well…
m.list: slytherin boys x amortentia
Ominis Gaunt had always known that the world was a lie.
Not because he couldn’t see it. On the contrary—it was his blindness that gave him what the sighted lacked: the ability to hear the truth. The truth resonated in a breath, in the pauses between words, in the quiver of a voice when a person tried to appear calm.
The truth about Y/N was unbearable.
He heard it on the very first day she sat beside him in Potions—a place where no one usually sat. "May I?" she asked, and in her voice, there was neither pity nor curiosity. Just a question. Just a girl who didn't care that he was a Gaunt, that he was blind, that the tip of his wand glowed, guiding his way like a hound.
She smelt of ink and apples.
Later—he couldn’t quite remember when—he began to count her steps. Twenty-three from the entrance of the Great Hall to the Slytherin table. Seventeen from the classroom door to their shared desk. He could recognise her gait among a hundred others—slightly hurried, somewhat uneven, as if she were perpetually afraid of being late.
He fell in love quietly. The way only those accustomed to the dark can—without hope, without illusions, simply accepting it as a given, much like his own blindness.
It happened in the library. He overheard a rather intriguing conversation whilst hiding behind a nearby bookshelf, making sure Y/N and Poppy wouldn't see or hear him.
"You're looking at him again," Poppy said with gentle reproach.
"I'm not."
"Y/N."
A pause. As long as a fall.
"It will pass," Y/N said at last, and her voice was so even, so carefully smoothed out, that Ominis's chest ached. He knew that tone. He used it himself every time someone asked what it was like not to see.
"Sebastian doesn't..." Poppy began.
"I know," Y/N cut her off. "I know he doesn't. Please, let's not."
Sebastian.
Of course. Of course, it was Sebastian.
Ominis stood between the shelves, pressing his fingers into the spines of the books so hard his skin turned white, thinking what a cruel joke it was to be burdened with the ability to hear the truth, yet lack the power to shut it out.
He began to observe—as much as a blind man could observe.
Y/N never showed it. That was what killed him. She didn't blush around Sebastian—at least, her voice didn't alter. She didn't seek excuses to be near him. She didn't laugh louder than usual at his jokes. She was flawless in her pretence, and Ominis simultaneously hated her and admired her for it, because he did exactly the same thing.
Two people drowning in silence, next to a person who noticed nothing.
Sebastian was his best friend. The only one who never spoke to him like an invalid. Sebastian was loud, confident, alive—everything Ominis wasn't and never would be.
And Sebastian looked at Y/N and didn't see her.
What irony. Sighted—yet blind.
The potion was not complicated.
Ominis knew the recipe. The Gaunts knew many recipes they ought not to know—it was in the blood, in the family library, in the whispers he heard as a child, hiding behind the drapery from his father and his guests. Amortentia. A pearlescent potion with a pinkish hue. He couldn't see its colour, but the smell... he would recognise its scent among a thousand.
When he uncorked the vial to check, the aroma of ink and apples rose to greet him.
His hands didn't tremble. That was what frightened him most. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was exactly what his parents would have done. His family. The Gaunts. Manipulation, control, violence wrapped in pretty packaging—"it's for her own good," "she'll thank us later," "it's for the best." He had heard those phrases a thousand times in the manor, where the walls had absorbed so much Dark Magic they seemed to whisper themselves.
He despised his family.
And yet.
Yet here he stood in the Room of Requirement, holding a vial of Amortentia, thinking: She suffers anyway. She loves someone who does not love her. I love someone who does not love me. What difference does it make—one unrequited love or another? At least I will love her back.
The logic was flawless. And rotten to the core. He knew that.
He did it anyway.
Just under half the vial was poured into her pumpkin juice.
She drank—he heard her take a sip, set the goblet down, laugh at something Natty said. A normal morning. A normal breakfast. Ominis ate his porridge, and every grain felt like sand.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened for an hour.
And then, in Transfiguration, Y/N sat next to him—in her usual seat—and he felt her edge closer. Not at a friend's distance. Closer.
"Ominis," she said, and there was something new in her voice. Something warm and thick, like honey. "You have an eyelash on your cheek."
Her fingers touched his face.
She had never touched his face before.
He stopped breathing. The world shrank to a single point—the pads of her fingers on his cheekbone, light, cautious, impossible.
"There," she said. "Make a wish."
"I already did," he thought. "And I've already made it come true."
It happened gradually.
First—the touches. Casual, seemingly accidental, yet too frequent to be a coincidence. Her hand on his elbow as they walked down the corridor. Her shoulder pressed against his in the library. Her fingers threading through his hair—"you had a stray lock, I just..."
And then…
"Do you know you have beautiful hands?" she said one day, and her voice was so sincere, so genuine, that for a second, Ominis forgot.
He forgot about the potion in the pumpkin juice.
"I have the hands of a Gaunt," he replied, and the sarcasm was meant to protect him like a shield, but she laughed and took his hand, and the shield shattered into shards.
"You have Ominis's hands," she said. "Just Ominis's."
This isn't what you want. You want Sebastian—his arrogant smirk, his foolish bravery, his ability to walk into a room as if he had created it. You want brown eyes that look and see. Not dead, milky, empty ones.
But she squeezed his fingers, and he stayed silent.
A week later, she kissed him.
It happened in the Astronomy Tower—she had brought him there in the evening, "just wanting to be with you," and they sat on the cold stone, the wind smelling of impending rain.
"Ominis," she said, her voice ringing like a taut string.
"What?"
"I think... I don't know when it started, but I..."
She didn't finish. Instead, her lips found his—hesitantly, missing at first, brushing the corner of his mouth, and then—perfectly, soft and warm. She kissed him as if she were afraid, as if he might break, and that sheer caution made his breath catch.
She was real. The kiss was real. The trembling of her hands was real.
Her feelings were not.
He returned the kiss. His hands found her face, and for the first time, he "saw" her this way—with his fingertips. The line of her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelashes—wet with tears? No, it was the rain. Please, let it be the rain.
"I love you," she whispered against his lips.
She became his shadow. His light. His personal, fabricated lie.
Y/N would hug him in the Great Hall, unashamed of the stares. Rest her head on his shoulder during dinner. Whisper "I love you so much." She laughed—that same laugh that made his heart clench—and her fingers always found him: his hand, his neck, a strand of hair behind his ear.
"You're the most incredible person I know," she would say. "Do you know that?"
"You have low standards," he would reply, and she would laugh and kiss his temple.
It was everything he had wanted. It was everything he had wanted for years—to be needed by someone, not out of pity, not out of politeness, not out of familial duty. To be chosen. To be loved. To be the one someone returns to, not walks away from.
And every evening, once alone, he would add a few drops to her morning pumpkin juice.
Routine.
Something inside him—something that used to be a conscience—stopped hurting. Hardened, like a callus. He didn't know exactly when it happened. Perhaps after their first kiss. Perhaps earlier—when he first thought that he deserved happiness just as much as Sebastian did.
He hated his family.
But the apple, evidently, doesn't fall far from the tree.
Sebastian noticed three weeks later.
It was surprisingly long for someone who considered himself observant. Though, come to think of it, Sebastian only ever noticed what he wanted to notice. He hadn't noticed that Y/N was in love with him. He hadn't noticed when his sister began to fade. He didn't notice warnings until it was too late.
"I need to speak with you," Sebastian said, catching up with him in the dungeons.
"Then speak."
"In private."
They stepped into an empty classroom. Sebastian closed the door. Ominis could hear him pacing the room—seven steps one way, a turn, seven back.
"Is this about Y/N?" Ominis asked. There was no point in drawing it out.
"You know it is."
"And what exactly troubles you? That your blind friend has finally found someone who wants to be around him? How touching that you care."
"Stop it." Sebastian halted. "I know what you did."
Silence.
Ominis felt something cold trickle down his spine, but his face—his face remained impassive.
"Enlighten me."
"Amortentia, Ominis." Sebastian spat the word as if it burned his mouth. "I found an empty vial in your trunk. Don't look at me like that—yes, I rifled through your belongings, and no, I'm not apologising."
"You rummaged through my things."
"Because three weeks ago, Y/N could barely look in my…" He caught himself.
"Finish your sentence," Ominis said quietly. "Three weeks ago, Y/N could barely look your way without suffering from unrequited love. And you were perfectly fine with that, weren't you? You relished it—being adored whilst giving nothing in return."
"That's not true."
"It is true. You didn't love her, Sebastian. You didn't even see her. And now that she sees me, you suddenly care?"
"She doesn't see you!" Sebastian exploded. "She sees the potion! That isn't love, Ominis, it's..."
"And how would you know what love looks like?"
The blow was precise. Ominis knew where to strike—he always did. Blindness made him cruel with words: if you cannot strike with a fist, you learn to strike with your tongue.
Sebastian was silent. Ominis heard his breathing—ragged, furious.
"You have to stop," Sebastian said at last. Quieter. More dangerously. "This is Dark Magic. This is what your relatives do, Ominis. This is exactly what you've spent your life running from."
But Sebastian knew where to strike as well; he didn't want his friend to feel superior. Ominis smiled.
"Do you know what, Sebastian? You're right. That is exactly what my relatives do." He took a step forward, and the wand in his hand lit up at the tip—not a guiding light, but something else, something sharp and cold, a reflection of what was happening inside. "You spent a year delving into the Dark Arts for Anne. You used Unforgivable Curses. And when I begged you to stop, you didn't listen. So what makes you think I will?"
"Because you're better than me."
"I was," Ominis said. "I was better."
He turned towards the door. Sebastian grabbed his shoulder.
"I won't let you do this. I'll tell her. I'll tell everyone!"
Ominis stopped. And what rose within him—that dark, viscous, ancient thing that flowed in the blood of every Gaunt, like a curse, like an inheritance one cannot refuse—filled him entirely, to the brim, to his fingertips, to his dead, unseeing eyes.
He turned to Sebastian. Slowly. Menacingly.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said in a voice Sebastian had never heard before. A voice that didn't belong to Ominis—the boy who feared his family. A voice that belonged to a Gaunt. "If you breathe a word to her. If you go near her. If you try to interfere—in any way, directly or indirectly, even with a hint—I will destroy you. And you know I possess the knowledge to do it. After all, I am my father's son."
Sebastian froze, his heart pounding dully in his ears.
"You don't even recognise yourself," Sebastian whispered.
"Perhaps," Ominis replied. "Or perhaps I've finally met the real me."
He walked out of the classroom.
Y/N was waiting for him in the Slytherin common room. He heard her jump off the sofa—recognising the spring that always creaked in a certain way—and a second later, her arms were around his neck, and she pressed her entire body against him, warm and alive, smelling of ink and apples.
"Where have you been? I missed you," she whispered into his neck.
He hugged her back. Tightly. Too tightly. His fingers dug into the fabric of her robes, and he buried his face in her hair and inhaled—deeply, desperately, like a drowning man.
"I love you," she said.
Three words. Sincere. Absolutely, unconditionally, unequivocally sincere.
And absolutely, unconditionally, unequivocally false.
"I know," he replied.
She pulled back slightly, and he felt her smile—with his cheek, with his skin, with that sixth sense that substituted his sight.
"You never say it back," she said without offence, with a tenderness that was worse than any reproach.
Because he couldn't.
Not because he didn't feel it. But because the only true words in this room were his.
"I..." he began.
I love you. I loved you before the potion. I loved you when you loved him. I loved you so much that I destroyed everything I held dear—my friendship, my morals, myself—just to hear my name in your voice.I am the worst person you know. And you will never know it.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
She hugged him again. He closed his eyes—a pointless, habitual gesture—and thought that this must surely be his own personal hell: to get everything he had ever dreamed of, whilst knowing perfectly well that none of it was real.
Tomorrow morning—a few drops in the pumpkin juice.
The day after tomorrow—more.
And so on—until the end.
The Gaunts always got what they wanted.
He hated his family.
He hated himself.
But her hands were around his neck, and her breath tickled his skin, and she was here, and she was his, and in the darkness that was the only world of Ominis Gaunt, it felt almost like light.
I think George would be down to try just about anything tbh, even if its less his own kink and more his partner's. If he doesn't like it he can at least say he gave it an honest shot.
J*anne has made mention that the Wizarding World is a little conservative when it comes to sex education, so I have a feeling he wouldn't be super aware of most kinks if that's the truth. You'd have to introduce a lot of them to him.
George's Kinks
There's something about being naughty that just gets him going. To be fair, he does have a knack for getting into mischief.
He loves to be a voyeur. Consensual voyeurism makes him feel so dirty. Just watching his partner undress when they don't realize he can see them gets him amped up
He's also a panty/boxer/briefs sniffer. Don't even @ me, it's canon idgaf.
He'll see his partner's laundry out and if there's underwear within sight he just sorta... sniff.
Will jack off with your underwear. There's something so dirty about it that he loves it. Rubbing the crotch of your undies against himself and thinking about where it's been gets him so hard.
Kind of into the idea of getting caught doing it too.
I think George would be down to try just about anything tbh, even if its less his own kink and more his partner's. If he doesn't like it he can at least say he gave it an honest shot.
J*anne has made mention that the Wizarding World is a little conservative when it comes to sex education, so I have a feeling he wouldn't be super aware of most kinks if that's the truth. You'd have to introduce a lot of them to him.
George's Kinks
There's something about being naughty that just gets him going. To be fair, he does have a knack for getting into mischief.
He loves to be a voyeur. Consensual voyeurism makes him feel so dirty. Just watching his partner undress when they don't realize he can see them gets him amped up
He's also a panty/boxer/briefs sniffer. Don't even @ me, it's canon idgaf.
He'll see his partner's laundry out and if there's underwear within sight he just sorta... sniff.
Will jack off with your underwear. There's something so dirty about it that he loves it. Rubbing the crotch of your undies against himself and thinking about where it's been gets him so hard.
Kind of into the idea of getting caught doing it too.
I personally think George would have a butt that gives a nice handful and a perfect clap noise when slapped. It would be highlighted by his legs from all the running from professors/his mum that he does.
Dude rides a broom for fun, that's gotta take so much core and leg strength. His legs and ass have to be fucking JACKED to shit.
I can imagine just walking by him in the shop while he's doing inventory or something and getting a little handful. His butt tenses out of reflex and he lets out a small, startled sound because he wasn't expecting to get grabbed.
His face turns red and he smirks as he watches you walk away snickering. Sometimes he'll dramatically call out "I'm not a piece of meat!" as if he doesn't adore the attention.
