sugar rush

request from anon: hiiiiiiiiii! c: i love your stories, and the way you write a fluffy george gets me every time. can i request a super shy, easily flustered, head in the clouds, gryffindor fem!reader with a hilariously soft and smitten george? 👉🏼👈🏼 i just really need my fill on fluff and fluff and fluff ;-; if that’s okay? thank you

pairing: george x gryffindor fem!reader

word count: 4.4k oops

A/N: i love flustered reader and i love flustered smitten george even MORE; hope she’s flustered enough? hope he’s flustered enough??? this literally took me 12 hours to write lol

tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @bobduncanlover @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove | message me if you’d like to be added loves!

George Weasley doesn’t normally find himself so very easily nervous around girls. If anything, his charm normally puts forth a bit of confidence. But with you, it’s different. He finds his heart hammering in his chest, sometimes he’s at a loss for words, or your actions take him by surprise in the most wonderful of ways.

When you both go for the last sugar quill at Honeydukes, the clerk behind the desk shrugs his shoulders as if to say, That’s the final one—work it out amongst yourselves.

When he turns to look at you, his face flushes red and he feels as though his feet are cemented into the ground. He’s frozen. He blinks a few times—it’s almost as if you aren’t real, you’re so beautiful— “For the lady, then,” George says and smirks at you. As a nervous smile tugs at the edges of your lips, he spots the Gryffindor colors when you pull your scarf out from your coat pockets. Your sparkly eyes are intriguing.

“Thank you,” you reply nervously, paying the clerk and turning back toward George. “That’s really nice of you.”

And before he can say anything else or get to know you better, even your name, you float out of the store and out of sight. George stands there, still frozen, before coming out of his daydream-like state, and rushes out of the store.

“Wait!”

He runs out of Honeydukes, leaving his very confused brothers and friends behind, and catches you before you get back to the castle. Blimey, you’re a quick walker. You freeze, whirling around to face him.

“I’d at least like to know the name of the girl I gave up my favorite sweet for,” he says, panting a bit, and smiles softly at you. When you grin back, he feels a tug at his heartstrings.

Your face goes rosy, and you shake your head in utter embarrassment. “Oh my, I’m so sorry—I can’t believe—should’ve introduced myself.. I’m Y/N—”

He can’t help but laugh a little at your flustered form. “Y/N,” George repeats, your name swimming through his mind. “I’m George.. Weasley, by the way. Thought I recognized you.” He points at your Gryffindor scarf. “We’re in Potions together, yeah?”

You nod in reply, biting your lip, giving the same smile that you had given him in Honeydukes. He comes to realize this is a huge hint to your nervousness, finding amusement in the fact that your eyes shift down toward your shoes, as well, avoiding any and all eye contact. Then you glance up at him, “Really brilliant match last week, by the way.”

George is caught off guard by this. “Oh—thanks,” he says brightly, excited to know that you’ve been watching Quidditch matches. He points to the Ballycastle Bats team pin you have on your bag, “Northern Ireland fan, are you?”

“Think I’d be shunned by my family if I wasn’t.”

“Won’t be able to convert you to a Cannons fan, I reckon?”

Your lips twitch. “Afraid not.”

He laughs as he watches you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear nervously, “Ever play before?”

“Oh, god,” you reply, nearly dropping your sweets onto the muddy ground beneath you, “No—I’m complete, complete rubbish.” George can see your cheeks go rosy again, but is it from the cold, or the nerves? “No, I mean, I’d love to play, really would, but I reckon I’d send Gryffindor’s rep plummeting.”

George slams his hands into his pockets, as if this is going to help him fight his own nerves, “I’m sure you’re not that bad.. maybe you just need a few lessons,”

Was this an offer? He doesn’t break the gaze you two are holding. You say softly, “Yeah—maybe. But not Seeker—my eyesight is awful.”

Again, George laughs. “Well what would you play?”

You tilt your head in thought. “Always wanted to be a Chaser. Or Beater, maybe.”

This impresses him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply very shyly, “but I wouldn’t be nearly as good as you and your brother.”

His insides turn gooey and warm at this compliment and he thanks you. It’s now aware that George’s brothers have found him as they call out to him from behind, and he’s wishing that they hadn’t. He wants more time. “Well—it’s nice to meet you, Y/N. Careful with that quill, now, don’t want to go and give yourself a sugar rush.”

Your shy laugh catches him by surprise. He didn’t think his comment was particularly funny. He sucks in a breath as you adjust your scarf, giving him a tiny grin once again and raising your hand before turning back around and heading toward the castle. He runs a hand anxiously through his hair, thinking to himself, What the bloody hell was that? but then pauses, because he remembers that whatever the hell he’d said—it had made you laugh—and he’d say it over and over if it meant he could continue to listen to that sound escape your lips again.

Behind him, he can still hear his friends calling out his name in confusion, but it’s easy to ignore them as he watches your scarf move slightly in the wind before you’re back into the castle and out of sight yet again.

“Mate,” he hears Fred say, as the other Weasley brothers and friends finally catch up with him, “you are rubbish at this flirting thing.” They all fall into a fit of raucous laughter—guess they’d heard more than George originally thought.

But he just ignores them and turns back, staring at the spot you just were, merely a few feet away from him, the echo of your laugh still playing back in his mind on repeat. With a small smirk, he tries to suppress the butterflies in his stomach and he says to nobody in particular, “Reckon I’m better than you think I am.”

The Great Hall is absolutely buzzing during dinner—finally, the weekend. George is completely ignoring the game of exploding snap in front of him, when Ron smacks him across the face.

“Oi!” George yells, bringing a hand to his stinging cheek, “what the bloody hell was that for?”

“Quit ignoring the game!” Ron says a bit angrily.

“Do I need to play Weasley mediator?” Harry asks sarcastically.

Ron softens a bit, grunts something that slightly resembles a sorry, and waits for George to take his turn. He does this quickly, and turns back toward the end of the table, where you’re sitting, reading intently some book clutched tightly in your hands. Fred stifles a laugh and a female voice beside him says, “What’s up with him?”

George is caught off guard and whips his head around, only to see Ginny and Hermione take their places next to Harry and Ron. He’s ready to tell his sister that there’s nothing up, nothing at all, because George hates it when his siblings get involved in his personal life, but regrettably, Fred beats him to the punch.

“Oh, not much,” Fred replies, stretching his arms back behind his head, shoving a treacle tart into his mouth, “Georgie boy here is just in love with Y/N and can’t handle his own feelings. ‘Tis adorable. Never seen the bloke so flustered before.”

George shoots his twin an angry look and the feeling of dread creeps up inside his chest. Ginny’s eyes widen. “Oooh,” she prods a bit teasingly, “since when?”

“I’m not in love with her,” George snaps, making everyone go silent for a moment as they all try and hold back their laughter. “I—just—don’t know her very well—”

“But he’d like too.”

George flicks a treacle tart at Ron, who catches it at the last moment and glances toward Hermione, who he’s sad to see doesn’t look quite as amused at his teasing as he hopes she would. He focuses once again on George, whose ears are bright red. A little bit more quietly, he says, “Caught them together in Honeydukes the other day—” another tart hits Ron right across the face.

“She’s really sweet, she is,” says Ginny brightly, the mocking tone to her voice now gone, “you know, if you’re looking for that sort of thing.” Almost immediately as it had gone, the sarcasm came back. Fred playfully nudges his little sister in the ribs.

George tries his best to hide his curiosity about how his sister knows you by pretending to be distracted by a game of exploding snap and picking at the food on his plate. When you stand up from your seat, clearly making your way toward the Gryffindor common room for the night, George’s eyes lock with yours and he raises a hand and grins before he realizes that everyone is watching him.

You smile back and hug your book tighter before heading out of the Great Hall, and even as the cackling and teasing around him continues, George can’t seem to take his eyes off of you.

When he’s trudging through the hallways with his twin, watching as passerbys head into their next classes, he doesn’t expect to see you.

You should be in class already, no?

Fred catches this. “Oh boy,” he teases, nudging his twin in the ribs, “going to get more than a smile out of her today?”

George shoves him into a nearby wall when Fred begins to snicker as George yells your name down the corridor. “Hey, Y/N!”

He catches up with you in the now empty corridor and you grin shyly at him. “Hello, George.”

“Coming to the match this weekend?”

He tries not to get his hopes up, but is pleasantly surprised to hear you say yes. “Wouldn’t miss it,” you tell him, now walking toward him. “Versus Ravenclaw, yeah?”

George nods in agreement.

You look around the corridor, making sure nobody else is around, and when you are finally satisfied to see that the coast is clear, you tell him, “Their team is rubbish this year. You guys have it in the bag.”

He beams at you. “Thanks,” he replies, “well—hopefully, you never know with Quidditch. Maybe afterwards we could have those lessons I promised?”

You peer at him in surprise, a little taken aback. “Was—was that a promise?”

“Well, I’d certainly like to—if you still do.”

His heart flutters when you agree. Switching the books in your one arm to the other, albeit clumsily, you stand across from him, careful not to drop your belongings to the ground. “Yeah—that, um, sounds nice.” A small, nervous chuckle escapes your lips.

There’s a bit of comfortable silence between the two of you as he processes this, excited beyond belief. His insides are swirling nervously and he fixes his bag across his shoulder.

“Free period?”

“Yes,” you reply breathlessly, clutching your bag tighter around your shoulder. “Just heading to the library to finish that Potions essay,” you roll your eyes. George grins sheepishly at you, remembering the assignment but figuring he’ll worry about that later. “Did you have a good lunch?”

“Yeah—good, really good,” he replies, tugging at the edges of his robe sleeves, “and you?”

You smile sweetly. “Very good, thanks.” There’s another bit of silence between you when George realizes he has absolutely no idea what to say next, but thankfully, you come to the rescue—for more than one reason. “You have a free period, as well?”

George’s eyes widen in horror when the realization hits him like a ton of bricks—only mere seconds have passed, but he should be in his Transfiguration class by now. It’s as if the thought of her brings her out of her classroom, because Professor McGonagall pokes her head out of her classroom and says, “Mr. Weasley, please make your way in for your lesson. Now is not the time to flirt with pretty girls, I’m afraid—I’d rather you leave your teenage mischief for the common room.”

When McGonagall ducks back into the classroom, George peers back at you, his cheeks a bit rosy and his mind swirling with anxious thoughts.

“You should go,” you tell him sheepishly, nudging him gently toward the classroom, “wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of McGonagall’s outbursts.” You laugh a bit and turn to head toward the library.

“She’s right, you know,” George says, not ready to leave just yet.

“About what?”

“The flirting thing,” he tells you with a cheesy grin, “even if I am rubbish at it.”

Your face flushes red and you immediately peer down at your shoes, nervousness boiling up inside you. George laughs haughtily at your flustered state, throwing his head back before glancing at you once more. He watches as your face changes from anxiety-ridden to very, very cheeky.

“And the pretty?”

George swallows over the lump in his throat and sucks in a breath. He hadn’t expected you to say anything about this, but it takes every ounce of his being to not go off about your beauty. “Well of course she was right about that.”

Feeling quite pleased with himself, he winks, noticing the smile tugging at the edges of your lips before you both turn and head off in your respective directions.

It’s obvious, now, that Professor Snape is in a worse mood than he normally is. The Dungeons seem darker, colder, less appealing (as if that’s possible) and George is crossing his fingers that this class flies by—that is, until you walk in. It seems as though the room brightens up.

It’s the first assignment of the year that Snape breaks you apart into groups—by houses, of course. George’s heart begins hammering in his chest when you slide into the seat next to him and across from his twin, whose eyes are going back and forth between the two of you as you all take out your textbooks and place them on the table.

Fred notices the Quidditch pin on your bag, just as George had that time in Hogsmeade. “Think we can get you to switch over to the Cannons?”

“No such luck, sir,” you reply softly, laying out the ingredients for your potion neatly next to your cauldron, “I’m sort of exclusively dedicated to the Bats.”

Words are escaping George’s lips before he can even register what he’s saying. “Her family would have her head if she fancied any other team.”

The two of you peer at each other, exchanging soft smiles, while Fred just shakes his head, as if to imply he was feeling some type of secondhand embarrassment from the rubbish flirting going on between you and his brother. It is then revealed, Fred realizes, that George has absolutely no plan whatsoever on how to continue this conversation, as he finds himself tripping over his words—so unlike him. “So, er, we need—what do we need exactly?” George kicks his brother underneath the table after a mocking laugh, leaving a red faced Fred doubled over in pain.

Snape’s constant glances at your group seem to be making George more nervous than possible. Normally, he doesn’t worry this much when it comes to classes, but with you sitting next to him, he finds himself incredibly focused on his assignment in front of him.

“Okay,” he says eventually, his body language exuding nothing but confidence, “Reckon we can finish this rather quickly, now—just need two more bezoars?”

“No!” you nearly jump out of your seat, but you aren’t quick enough. “George, just one!”

The potion erupts in the cauldron and George is left with soot all over his face and in his hair. Fred bursts into raucous laughter next to him while you cup a hand over your mouth. From the table next to yours, a Slytherin asks jokingly, “Seamus Finnegan isn’t in our year, is he?”

You hurriedly head to the supply closet, pull out a clean rag and race back over to your table, nearly tripping over your robes. George is almost happy his face is covered—the black soot is hiding the very obvious tomato-red color of his face now. But still, he can’t help but laugh at himself.. just a little bit. “Don’t worry, I—I can fix it,” you tell him tentatively.

You sway your wand above the cauldron, bringing it back to it’s correct dark green colour, and gently dab his face and run a hand through his hair. You’re starting to see that bright red again. And then it’s as if everything around you stops, and the world goes still and silent. You’re still running a hand through his hair, and George is peering at you with solemn eyes, his breathing becoming heavier, when Snape very rudely interrupts you both, making you jump.

“Had it not been for Y/N L/N’s quick fix, it would’ve been easy to mark this abysmal,” Snape tells you all, looking disgusted when he glances inside your cauldron at the potion you’ve concocted. “Respectable, I suppose.”

When you both finally notice that everyone around you is watching you in surprise, you quickly rub some of the soot off of George’s robes and quickly swing your bag over your shoulder, eager to leave the dungeons and regroup. You bite your lip and offer a small grin, “Erm—see you later,”

As George trudges behind his twin up the stairs for the next class, still trying to wipe away the soot from his face, Fred tells him teasingly, “Well—that went well,”

George shoves him as they both continue to laugh. “She’s—just—things are fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You’ve just got to do it already, haven’t you?” comes the voice of Ron, who slips next to them as they wander through the corridors, Harry by his side. “Just kiss her already, mate.”

“C’mon, ‘m taking my time. I don’t want to.. scare her away.”

“Ah yes,” Fred begins sarcastically, bouncing down the hallways now, “don’t kiss her as soon as you possibly can—girls love that.”

It’s nearly eleven p.m. when the common room finally clears. You’re sitting near the fire, many pieces of parchment on the table in front of you, and you’ve got the back end of your quill in your mouth. George continues to steal glances at you whilst trying desperately to finish homework of his own.

“I can’t do this anymore, I’m heading to bed,” Fred announces, standing up and closing his spellbooks with a loud smack! “Coming, George?”

“Yeah—soon, mate,” he replies, not looking at his brother, but instead, keeping his eyes transfixed on you, as if he’s in some sort of a trance. He licks his lips impatiently, and then begins to bounce his feet up and down on the ground.

“So—she your girlfriend yet?”

George tosses a throw pillow from the couch in Fred’s direction. Through gritted teeth, he says, “Shut up, will you? She’ll hear you!”

Fred pauses for a moment and considers this.

“Maybe that’s what you both need.”

“What?”

“For her to hear it. If she’s not going to hear it from you how much you bloody want her—”

George sticks out his foot when Fred begins to cross to the other end of the common room, when he trips slightly, but catches himself before he faceplants, “Oi,” Fred says, rolling his eyes, and then lowers his voice, “would you just go for it already? So you can quit being all moon-eyed—”

George rolls his eyes at this. “I don’t want to rush things, Freddie. Don’t want to frighten her off. She’s not like us—she’s more subdued, quiet. I’ve got to take it slow, don’t I?”

“Merlin’s sake, Georgie,” Fred says, making him jump. “It’s so obvious she likes you back. Do something before she bloody finds someone else, would you?”

“Get out of here, you absolute git,” George playfully kicks his brother in the shin, who heads for the boys dormitory. He thinks on this for a moment, though. Was it too late? Nerves were once again bubbling up inside him, anxious thoughts eating him alive. George had always been patient—he wasn’t going to change his ways now, was he? But still, the talons of Fred’s words are entrenched in his mind. Had he already missed his chance with you?

Finally, the two of you are alone—completely on separate ends of the common room, immersed in your own work—but alone, nonetheless.

Of all the things George expected to happen late that evening, you suggesting heading town to the Quidditch pitch in the dead of night isn’t one of them. “Get your broom, then!” you tell him excitedly.

“Now?” he asks you, looking down at his watch. It’s nearing midnight. “You want to go down to the pitch now?”

“Oh,” you sputter, now feeling like an absolute idiot for suggesting something so sneaky. You shake your head at him. “I—I’m sorry—we don’t need to, really, it’s okay—I just thought, since you’re so used to sneaking out of the castle at night, it might be fun? I reckon we’d probably get quite a tongue lashing from McGonagall if we were caught, though—just forget I said anything, it’s fine, really, we can go another day—”

George can hardly hide his smile at your hysteria. He grabs you gently by the arm and turns you back toward him, your face rosy and eyes skittish. He places both of his hands on your shoulders and laughs. “I think it’s a really great idea.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he replies, lying completely through his teeth. “You’ve got to learn to play in all conditions, haven’t you? Nothing quite like a dark day on the pitch.”

“You don’t think I’m completely out of my mind?”

George tilts his head in thought. “Well—maybe a bit,” he lets a laugh escape his lips before heading to his four poster to grab his broom, “but it helps that you’re cute. You’re always going to surprise me, aren’t you?”

You beam at this. “Guess you’ll never know with me.”

Regrettably so, the two of you don’t even make it to the pitch. You were so very close to exiting the castle, when you heard footsteps rounding the bend. Quickly, George grabbed you and dragged you quickly to some secret passageway he and Fred had found many years before, stumbling very clumsily as you went, which is exactly how you both ended up in this particular situation.

You’re both extremely close to one another, out of breath and exhilarated, listening to the low mumbles of Severus Snape and Argus Filch coming from the corridor you had just left. George brings his fingers to his lips, as if to say, Stay as quiet as you can! Once their footsteps retreat into nothingness, you both let out sighs of relief, George’s body flooding with adrenaline of narrowly escaping the wrath of Filch—a feeling he knows quite well.

“I am so sorry—are you alright?”

“Yeah, yes,” you tell him breathlessly, bringing a hand to your chest and sucking in a quick breath. “Reckon that almost-disaster just took a few years off my life, though.”

“You get used to it after a while,” George tells you, tightening his shoelace, “if I had a sickle for the amount of times I’ve almost been caught, I’d be a very rich man.”

You giggle sweetly. “And how many times is that, exactly?”

“Oh, somewhere near two hundred and fifty,” he says. He sticks out his hand and pulls you to your feet and the two of you make your way to the entrance of the secret passageway, George keeping a strict eye out for any more professors or ghosts wandering the corridors.

And that’s when you trip over your own two feet, and a muffled thump! echoes through the passageway.

Your hand flies to your face, covering your mouth, as you erupt into a fit of laughter. George is pretty sure tears are escaping your eyes, but he can’t tell if it’s because you’re laughing so hysterically, or because you’re hurt in some way. He can’t read your expression, and it frustrates him to no end, as he frantically bends down toward you to see if you’re alright. “Are you okay?”

You nod quickly, still laughing.

He rests his hands gently on both of your knees and begins to laugh, too. “No more falling, yeah?”

And when you both regain your composure, you’re both looking at one another, that strange, still silence floating in the air as the tension rises between you both. And with a surge of confidence, you pull gently on George’s shirt and press your lips lightly to his.

You feel his shock against you, but it’s mere milliseconds before he’s melting into it, his lips molding perfectly against yours, his heartbeat increasing rapidly inside his chest. He’s sure you can hear it. He thinks he can hear yours, too.

And before he knows it, he’s the one who’s falling.

Falling, falling, deeper, faster.

The kind of falling you can’t help—it’s just overtaking, overwhelming. The kind you can’t stop, no matter how hard you try.

But George doesn’t seem to mind.. not even in the slightest.

He isn’t sure if you want to walk hand-in-hand back to the common room as you both stealthily make your way through the corridors. But he figures, since you’ve already kissed him, hand holding probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

So he intertwines his fingers in yours and feels relief flood through him when you bite back a large grin.

You both hop through the portrait hole after he says the password, “Lemon Drop”, ignoring the Fat Lady’s questions about what you two are doing out so late, and the entire room seems to ease up when you’re finally safe inside.

“I know we didn’t get to practice any Quidditch,” George begins, squeezing your hand a bit, “but I still hope you had fun tonight—besides the almost getting caught part.”

But little does he know, that was your favorite part of the entire evening. He notices that nervous smile again, something he’s found himself to be quite fond of.. it doesn’t help that you’re so bloody adorable. “I did,” you tell him straightforwardly, both of you thinking back to the kiss.

He swallows thickly, suppressing down any butterflies in his stomach. “Good—great—‘m glad you did.”

“And George?” you start, standing up on your tippy toes, getting as close as you can to him.

He can barely get the word out. His heart is going to explode out of his chest, he’s absolutely sure of it. Oh no. “Yes?” he gulps.

“I suppose you can tell Fred I’m your girlfriend now.”

He shakes his head in admiration, trying not to smile like a complete goof. He calls to you from the staircase opposite yours, “Reckon you’re always going to surprise me?”

You pull your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, cross your arms shyly and reply with a cheeky, albeit nervous, grin, “Guess you’ll never know with me.”