đŚ˘victory kisses / after winning a quidditch match
tags: fluff, messy make-out/snogging, teen romance, post-match adrenaline, happy and excited george, pleased,?happy reader
featuring: George Fabian Weasley and ravenclaw!femreader (but I think it can be read as gender neutral as well)
summary: after George and the gryffindor team win against Slytherin, you wait for George to be alone in the changing rooms, only to be surprised with a George whose adrenaline is still rushing
notes: british english, not completely proofread, english as a second language. I donât write with Ai
Gryffindor won against Slytherin, much to the obvious misery of the green-and-silver lot. The final whistle was met with a roar from the Gryffindor stands, and the noise seemed to roll across the pitch in waves. Red and gold scarves were thrown into the air, students cheered from the stands, and a few particularly enthusiastic Gryffindors nearly climbed over the railings in their excitement. Not that you felt particularly sorry about it. Not when George came off the pitch looking like heâd personally caught the Snitch.
He looked unbearably pleased with himself.
You spotted him leaving the pitch almost immediately. It wasn't difficult. Even from a distance you could make out the familiar flash of red hair amongst the crowd of players and students. His Quidditch robes were slightly untidy from the match, and his hair stuck out in every direction, as though it had somehow become even more impossible during the game. He carried his broom loosely in one hand while he walked, completely at ease now that the match was over.
Fred was beside him, saying something that made George shove his shoulder, both of them laughing as they walked off the pitch. Their laughter carried faintly across the grass, almost lost beneath the noise of the celebrating crowd. George glanced back towards the stands for a moment, his eyes moving over the people gathered there.
You weren't entirely sure whether he saw you.
You smiled despite yourself. You'd been trying not to.
For the past several weeks, you had become remarkably good at pretending that George Weasley didn't affect you quite as much as he did. You looked away whenever he caught you staring. You acted completely unimpressed whenever he made one of his ridiculous comments in class. You even managed, on occasion, to convince yourself that the little flutter in your chest whenever he appeared beside you meant absolutely nothing.
It was a rather poor act.
You and George Weasley weren't together. At least, not on the paper. You'd never had the conversation. There had been no asking the other out, no declaration. There had simply been a series of shared moments that neither seemed able to name. Walking back from lessons together. Him appearing beside you in the library under the very questionable excuse of needing help with an essay. And last but not least? The occasional kisses when you were sure nobody was looking. More than occasional, lately. It was complicated.
There were no rules to whatever the two of you had become. No proper beginning, no clear expectations, and certainly no idea of where it was supposed to go. Somehow, though, George always found his way back to you. He sat beside you when there were plenty of other places available. He waited outside your classroom when he had no reason to be there. He stole things from your plate at dinner and acted offended when you complained. And whenever the corridors became too crowded, his hand somehow brushed yours.
Neither of you ever mentioned it afterwards.
You saw him and Fred disappear behind the entrance to the changing rooms and suddenly remembered the book sitting underneath your arm.
The weight of it seemed to become much more noticeable all at once.
You'd told George you'd bring it back to him. Tomorrow would have been perfectly normal. Tonight, however, seemed much more convenient. Obviously. So, whilst the rest of the Gryffindors made their way back towards the castle to celebrate, you turned towards the changing rooms instead.
The crowd gradually thinned as you moved away from the pitch. Behind you, the cheers continued, growing fainter with every step. The evening air felt cooler away from the warmth of the spectators, and the grass beneath your shoes was still damp from the afternoon. You adjusted your grip on the book and glanced back towards the castle.
You could still turn around.
There was absolutely no reason why you couldn't simply return the book tomorrow. In fact, that was probably the sensible thing to do.
The changing rooms were only a short walk from the pitch, and thankfully most of the team had already disappeared. A few abandoned pieces of equipment remained scattered near the entrance, and voices occasionally drifted from somewhere inside. You slowed as you approached, suddenly far more aware of where you were going than you had been a minute earlier.
You hovered outside for a moment, book tucked against your chest. The noise from the pitch had faded into the background now, replaced by the muffled sounds coming from inside the changing rooms. You could hear footsteps, distant laughter, and the occasional thud of something being dropped.
You stared at the door. It was only George. You had kissed him before. Several times, actually. There was no reason to be nervous about handing him a book.
You took a quiet breath and shifted your weight from one foot to the other, still making no move towards the door.
âThis is ridiculous. You're delivering a book. That's all.â You thought to yourself.
âThere you are!â George appears from around the corner, still in his Quidditch gear, hair completely ruined and face flushed from the match. You lift the book. âI brought yourââ He doesn't let you finish. His arms are already around you, pulling you into him with enough enthusiasm to make you laugh.
âDid you see that save?â You laugh into his shoulder. âYou mean the one you've been waiting to tell me about?â
âThen tell meâ He pulls back, still grinning âActually, I think I've got a better ideaâ
He leaned down a bit and latched his lips on yours, not gently like usual. This time it was different, bold. Must have been the adrenaline. Soon one kiss became two, two became three and three became an actual snogging session. It wasnât even mean to be lustful, it was pure fireworks, George smiling in-between kisses, still not shutting his mouth. âI swear you should have seen Malfoyâs face-â                     âI think I didâ âHe was literally fuming!â He laughed in your mouth, hands caressing your cheeks, trying to pull you even closer.
You were so busy you didnât even notice that someone had entered the room.
âYou know, George, if you're going to snog someone in the changing rooms, at least have the decency to check whether your brother's still insideâ that voice was way too familiar⌠he wasnât even shocked, he was just impressed. George immediately pulled away to look at his twin.
âHow long have you been standing there?â Still panting.Â
âLong enough to know that wasnât a first kiss. Was that 3? I think I lost countâ he was grinning like an idiot, knowing damn well what he could do with what he knew. George was horrified, cheeks tinted red. âYou were practically glued to herâ
âShut upâ âSomeoneâs mad? Werenât you smiling against her lips just a few seconda ago? Whatâs with the sudden scowl?â
âI wasnât smiling!â
âYou were. Right before kissing her for the- what- fourth time?â
âYeah, I know, I was there, Fredâ George glared at him, wishing he would just shut up, as if he was going to. And Fred? Oh he was delighted, because George Weasley, who normally had a comeback for everything, had suddenly lost the ability to form a coherent sentence.
âI've seen you talk your way out of detention. I've seen you prank McGonagall. I've seen you lie directly to Filch's faceâ Fred paused âBut apparently one pretty Ravenclaw has you forgetting how words workâ Then finally he turned to you, book still disregarded on the dirt.
âHe's been like this for months, by the way.â That hit, because George could handle his twin teasing him most of the time, but he was now bringing up something he didnât want to be brought up.
âI'm serious. Completely hopeless.â George looked like he was considering murder.
âYou should've seen him when you first started talking to him. He'd come back to the dormitory grinning like an idiot.âÂ
âFred, Iâm not kiddingâ but Fred smiled, because he already said what he had to say. He winked at you, sent a sort of coded message through a gesture to George and finally left. After what felt like hours of staying silence, you looked up at George, who was still too embarrassed to say something, and spoke up âYou've really been like this for months?â
âPlease don't listen to himâ Then he looked down at his own feet, and mumbled
â...Was I really smiling?â
2026 @polkadottedlace, do not plagiarise, translate, copy or adapt. Reblogs are appreciated.
