#a friendship that's become something more

[sparklingchim]

game on | jjk

pairing: jungkook x oc

word count: 2.7k

tropes: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warnings: jk is a huge flirt, mentions of jk's past fights in school, lots of hand holding, paparazzi!!!, mentions of jk's flings 🫢, they love to bicker <3

summary: your fake relationship goes public - cue the unexpected butterflies.

a/n: she's finally back !!!! n i rlly hope u like it 😋

masterlist

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

So many nights spent wondering about the future, but you never imagined yourself in this scenario.

“I can see someone across the street.”

“That’s good – that's perfect.” Jungkook doesn’t even look back to catch a glimpse of what’s happening outside when he says, “Let them get their little shots. We’ll pretend we don’t notice.” He leans closer, elbows on the table. A grin lights his eyes. “Maybe we can even start the show right here.”

Jungkook begins to play with your fingers, gently tracing his fingertips along yours. Slowly, he lifts your hand, your elbow grazing the edge of the table, and links your fingers with his in the air.

You hesitantly mimic his smile. “Sure you don’t wanna switch paths and become an actor?”

“Hmm, maybe in my next life,” he ponders. “But only if you’re the co-star.”

“Can’t even leave me alone in our next life? I’d categorise that as obsessive behaviour, Jungkook.”

Kind of like the way most people in this café are obsessively watching you two.

The plan is simple: sit in a café with Jungkook, pretend you’re lost in your own little world, play the part of a love-struck couple – and wait. Wait until people become suspicious that this isn’t just another casual lunch between childhood friends, but that maybe there’s something more. Wait until a few more onlookers gather outside, cameras ready, eager to capture the moment your friendship seems to blur into something else.

“That’s just how a boyfriend would act, no? Be obsessed with his girl.”

“I guess? No one’s ever been obsessed with me.”

“Wasn’t Junwoo?”

You sigh deeply at the mention of your high-school ex-boyfriend. “Yeah, after I broke up with him.” If a two-month thing even qualifies as a relationship.

“Should’ve let me punch that fucker for treating you that way, seriously.” He says it with such contempt dripping from his voice, you’d think this happened recently and not nearly three years ago.

When Junwoo and you got official and had your first time, suddenly that’s all he was interested in. No more fun dates or random calls just to talk. Just a guy who liked the idea of you more than actually spending time with you. And once you called him out on it, he pretended it wasn’t true at all and tried to win you back with cute letters, random gifts or cringey apologies over voice notes.

“You got into trouble for that way too many times,” you remind him pointedly.

Whether it was for the sake of protecting you or losing his temper on the field – Jungkook had squared up to other guys more times than you could count. And still continues to do so on the field. Boys.

Jungkook’s sweet, charming, total golden retriever, until you piss him off.

“Ah, I really miss it,” Jungkook mumbles, wistfully brushing his thumb over your skin.

“Fighting?”

“No, just school in general. It was a silly time back then.”

“Don’t remind me. Life was so carefree.”

“Was it really for you, though?” Jungkook asks, tilting his head like he already knows the answer. “You were, and still are, a study maniac. Dragged me to the library so many times.” Jungkook rolls his eyes at the memory of the times you’ve spent in the library to study for exams and you nearly swat his arm for that.

You were stressed out and trying to survive under all the pressure of acing your exams. He was there for the vibes. You hunched over textbooks with color-coded tabs, he sprawled across the seat next to you, nearly falling asleep from boredom. Jungkook used to doodle on your notes while you crammed for midterms. At the time, it drove you up the wall. You’d flick his pen away, scold him for distracting you, threaten to ban him from ever coming again.

He always came anyway. And you always let him.

Now, whenever you’re studying – whether alone or with a study group – you catch yourself having memories popping up in your mind of Jungkook sitting next to you, twirling a pen, asking dumb questions like do you think mitochondria ever get tired of being the powerhouse?

You don’t miss the stress of high school. God, no. But you do miss that. Him in those moments. The silly distractions. The way he annoyed you so much it looped around into comfort.

“And you got us kicked out so many times,” you argue. “I get your hatred for studying, but you were doing too much.”

Jungkook shrugs, unbothered. “I did the best I could, honestly.”

Right then, the waitress appears with your drinks. Two iced americanos, his with an extra shot, yours with oat milk. She places them on the table with a polite smile before vanishing again. Jungkook thanks her absently, stirring his coffee with the paper straw.

“Kinda wish we could go back for a day. Just one,” he says, eyes fixed on the swirling coffee. “Walk the halls, eat lunch together, annoy each other in class.”

“You just want to relive the time you sneaked off with Hyejin and made out behind the gym hall.” You sip on your drink, eyeing him.

Jungkook nearly chokes on his coffee. “You know what, I wouldn’t say no to that,” he replies, a sly smirk forming on his face. But then he recoils dramatically. “No, ___. How dare you say that when we’re on a date? I don’t wanna go back in time to kiss other girls.”

You quirk your eyebrow, but he doesn’t budge from that statement. "You just said you wouldn’t say no.”

“Slip of the tongue.” He waves it off. “I’m – we’re still new to this,” he adds, eyes wide with mock innocence. “But I’m fully reformed now. Monogamous. Loyal. Emotionally available.”

“Oh wow. All three?”

“All three.” He nods solemnly. “All for you.” Jungkook leans closer, conspiratorially. “Do you wanna sneak off and kiss behind the building?” he teases, voice dropping the tiniest bit. A soft, short chuckle escapes him like he’s proud of his flirty jab.

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You wish.”

He sips on his drink, sparkling eyes trained on you. “Should we really, though?” he asks more seriously. “Maybe not in the back of the café but my car or something?”

“I don’t know. Is hand holding enough? Did Taesung tell you something about a kiss?”

“Lemme just ask him.”

Jungkook lets go of your hand. He grabs his phone and types.

You squint suspiciously. “What did you text him?”

Without a hint of shame, he flips the screen around.

should we kiss?

You nearly laugh. What an unprofessional, unhinged text message to your manager. But then you catch sight of his grin behind his phone – that wide, dimpled, full-teeth kind of grin that makes him look way too pleased with himself – and annoyance melts away.

“You’re so lucky he puts up with your shit.”

“I just add a little fun to his job. He needs it.” His phone pings. He reads the message aloud. “He said it’s not necessary. Do what you’re comfortable with.”

Suddenly, worry tightens your chest. “Do you think they’ll follow us? To your car?” you ask, voice low as your eyes flick to the café window, though you force yourself not to actually look.

“They’ll keep their distance,” Jungkook says calmly.

Your worry turns out to be nothing more than a fleeting flicker. Here one second, gone the next. Especially when he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I told you not to stress over these things. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I can’t stop the worrying.” You tap a finger to your temple. “This thing won’t shut up.”

“It doesn’t have to work when I’m around.”

“I believe you when we survive the day.”

“Yah,” Jungkook breathes out affronted, his shoulders sagging dramatically like you just wounded him. “Do I not take care of you?” he pouts, the expression softening every line of his face.

“I’m just joking,” you giggle, nudging his foot under the table with yours. “Don’t be upset.”

Jungkook crosses his arms, lips still pursed in that exaggerated pout. “I’m not upset,” he says, clearly upset. Or pretending to be. His foot nudges yours back, a petty little kick that barely has any force behind it.

“Thank you for risking your life in public with me,” you try, waiting for his reaction.

“Risking my life is crazy, no?” he says, drinking his coffee. “We’re just having overpriced americanos.”

“So you do still know the value of money and have a concept of what���s normal. We haven’t completely lost you yet.”

“Yeah, what can I say. I’m still grounded.”

“You’re paying a monthly fee for a dog-walking app, and you don’t even have a dog. I don’t think that’s exactly grounded.”

“I just like to know what’s going on in the dog community. Sue me.”

“That’s called being rich,” you shoot back, lifting your drink. “Meanwhile, I was checking my bank app before I said yes to this fake date.”

“You wound me again.” A disappointed sigh slips past his mouth as he slouches back in his seat. “It’s those boys you hang out with at university, isn’t it?” he asks, shaking his head slowly, dramatically. “Feeding you cafeteria food and making you split Ubers.” He tuts, tongue clicking. “You’ve been through so much.”

Jungkook is ridiculous. But he also has a point.

“Maybe this fake dating situation won’t be only beneficial for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you how a man treats his girl properly.” He leans forward slightly.

“You don’t even date.” And yet, throughout your friendship, he still manages to do better than half the boys you’ve talked to.

“Exactly.” He shrugs like it proves something. “And I’m still ahead of the curve.” On a more serious note, he adds, “It’s not that hard to not be weird.”

“Low bar, huh.”

“Painfully low.” Jungkook winks at you. “But I’ll raise it for you. Temporarily.”

“Until you send me off to the college boys?”

“The finance bros you’ve been collecting?” At least Jungkook has the decency to try and hide the smile that threatens to break across his face, but it’s a miserable attempt.

“It was one date,” you groan, slumping back in your chair. “Will you ever stop annoying me about it?”

“I fear I can’t.” He reaches out, fingers brushing yours before he gently takes your hand. He gives a light tug, coaxing you to lean forward again, and you do. “How long did it take him to bring up crypto again?” Your fingers end up loosely threaded with his, resting on the table. The contact makes the teasing a little less annoying.

“I think he made it a whole five minutes before he went into a deep dive of explaining cryptocurrency to me.” You swirl your straw in slow, disappointed circles. Whoever started the myth of meeting the love of your life at university is a big, fat liar. Or maybe just works in admissions. And definitely deserves jail time.

“Wow.” Jungkook nods impressed. “Do you want a moment of silence for your brain cells?”

“I’m surrounded by idiots. I’m used to it.”

“You’re a med student. How does that work?”

“Men. Lots of emotionally unintelligent men.”

“But now you have me!” Jungkook exclaims, eyes big and sparkly. He squeezes your hand as he triumphantly holds them up a little. “Isn’t that fun?”

You laugh at his silly antics. “It’s an upgrade, for sure.”

Jungkook drinks up your words with a huge smile. “I’m so honoured. You’re, like, the smartest girl I’ve ever had.” he says. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Do you even know anything about the girls you’ve been with?”

“They’re pretty?” he answers hesitantly. “And they have amazing taste.”

“Finish your drink before I throw up, please.”

“Wanna end our date already?”

“Didn’t you want to head to the gym after this?” You take a final sip of your coffee, pushing the empty glass away from you.

“I can cancel.”

“For me?”

“For us.”

“All it took for you to spend more time with me is fake date you?”

“Says you,” he shoots back. “The one who always bails on me because she has to study.” He mimics your voice when he says it and does a terrible job at that. It’s awful, but he still manages to pull a little laugh from you.

“Speaking of,” you say, glancing at the time. “I actually have a study date in an hour. So I don’t have time to hang that long.”

“This relationship’s doomed to fail,” he says flatly.

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

“Fully admitting to going on another date during our first date?”

“A study date,” you clarify, rolling your eyes at his theatrics. “With my study buddy.”

“Side chick, you mean.”

“I should accuse you of that, not the other way around.”

“Doubting my loyalty already, I see.” Jungkook taps his fingers against his glass. “I told you, I’m a brand-new man. I’ve got the big three now.” He raises a finger for each one: “Loyal. Monogamous. Emotionally available.”

“I truly love that for you, Jungkook. Growth looks good on you. But I still need to study.”

Jungkook finishes his coffee, sighing when he places his glass on the table. “Lets go then.” But then suddenly he goes, “Hold on – what would you rate this date? One to ten.”

You ponder. “Like, maybe a seven?”

“Seven? Damn.” Jungkook exclaims. “What are you deducting three points for?” He tilts his head with a genuine confused pout.

“It was a cute date. Conversation was fun, good banter but...” You trail off, thinking. Jungkook raises his eyebrows expectantly. “The butterflies were missing.”

He scoffs. “I can give you lots of butterflies if you let me.”

“Don’t make me deduct more points,” you warn, unfazed.

“Ah, okay.” He bows his head in apology, muttering, “I’ll do better next time.”

You giggle, comforting him with small pats on his head. “Don’t feel too burdened. I really liked it.”

~

Leaving the cafe hand in hand, a shy smile playing on your lips, you walk beside Jungkook towards his car. Your shoulders are tense, awareness prickling at your skin as you feel the distant hums of cameras capturing every step.

You try to play it cool, telling yourself that this isn’t different from any other day, but the little waves of anxiety still roll through you.

Jungkook seems unfazed. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you, the edge of his mouth curved upward. He pulls you closer, his body shifting ever so slightly to shield you from curious eyes.

Once you reach his black Bugatti tucked away in a quiet street, he opens the door for you, his hand brushing lightly against your back as you slide in.

He rounds the car and settles in beside you.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Are you?”

Concern flickers over his face. “Yeah, as long as you are okay.”

“No, I am. Really. Just worried that they would be more annoying about following us, but it’s all good.”

“They know better.”

“Think we did good?” You turn your body a little towards him as he starts the car.

“Of course we did,” he replies. “You looked like you were seconds away from falling in love with me. Got excited for a sec.”

“Delusional and confident.”

Jungkook checks the rearview mirror, his gaze flickering over the street behind you. “They’re probably still around.”

“You think?”

“Probably. But let them look. We are kinda adorable.”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Jungkook’s fingers rest lazily on the steering wheel. He turns his head to you again, eyes twinkling like he’s had an idea.

“Maybe we could do a bit better?”

“Better how?”

He leans a little closer, his cologne wrapping around you. His voice drops slightly when he says, “Come here.”

Jungkook cups your cheek, gently guiding you towards him. You lean into it without a second thought. Your eyes fall close, and you wait, expecting him to kiss you just like you had practised it at your place, but you don’t feel the gentle touch of his lips against your mouth.

Instead, you feel him press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

Your chest stirs at his unexpected move.

There they are.

Butterflies.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

a little extra from me to u 😋:

[moonsharky]

idk man i just think it's interesting how in the same episode (817) we got two visuals of eddie and symbolic disruption.

by now i am sure we all know about how eddie grabs buck's right shoulder in their kitchen fight.

as opposed to when every single other shoulder grab was on the left.

across the first four shoulder grabs, eddies touch on buck's left shoulder becomes a quiet but consistent symbol—something ritualistic in its repetition. it's always the left, and it's always tied to connection, trust, and reassurance. it happens when:

eddie entrusts buck with chris after the tsunami—offering the deepest form of vulnerability.

buck returns to life after dying and then breaks up with his girlfriend who only ever wanted to talk about his death—eddie marks it not with grand gestures, but a grounding, physical welcome.

buck comes outs as bi—eddie affirms their bond with the same familiar touch.

they're drunk and ridiculous—chaos, but still safety, still them.

the left shoulder becomes more than anatomical. it's a symbolic place—the side of openness, the heart side, where eddie reaches when he's offering something: protection, belief, affection, belonging. his hand on buck's left shoulder says: i see you, i know you, i am still here with you.

the rest is under a cut because this got really long lmao

and then comes the fifth shoulder grab. they're grieving, they're angry, and they're not aligned. it's not a random change, it's a visual break in their emotional code.

spatially, it's off. it's the opposite side, the one that's never been used, a side that carries no memory between them.

emotionally, it signals distance. instead of grounding buck (or himself) or connecting with him, eddie's touch jars—like reaching for someone and missing.

narratively, it says: this is not comfort, this is not reassurance. this is a moment when their bond is under strain.

the right shoulder becomes the embodiment of their fractured state. it's still a touch—so the connection hasn't been severed entirely—but it's misaligned, like trying to play a familiar song in the wrong key. the gesture remains, but the meaning has shifted. it's a visual metaphor for grief disrupting even the deepest connections. for how pain can make us reach for someone the wrong way. and for how easy it is, even in love or friendship, to get turned around.

and then we have sleeping on the right side of the bed when he finds out what has happened to bobby.

this one isn't as black and white as the shoulder grabs, there is a bit of nuance.

throughout the series, eddie's position on the left side of the bed becomes an unspoken visual anchor—just like buck's left shoulder. it's not just a preference; it's a symbol. when eddie is on the left, he is grounded in his identity, even when alone, even when struggling. the left side becomes a quiet declaration: this is where i belong, even if it hurts.

first appearance: alone, on the left, near the edge. a man used to sleeping alone, leaving space—both physically and emotionally—for something he hasn't yet allowed himself to reach for. still, the left side is his side.

the three times in the montage building to his ptsd breakdown: again alone, again on the left. but now he's closer to the centre—edging inward, away from the edge of the bed, perhaps unconsciously craving connection. that space on the right side of the bed remains empty but present. these shots appear as he drifts deeper int a spiral—emotionally withdrawn, but still clinging to familiarity. the left side is his tether.

the left side holds continuity. whether in grief, repression, or monotony, it's where eddie returns. it's where he makes space—whether or not he knows for whom.

in scenes where he shares the bed—first with his ex-wife, later with his girlfriend— the staging becomes a little more complicated, reflecting the emotional confusion in those relationships

with shannon: they're upside down in the bed—eddie is technically on the right, but visually, with shannon beside him, it reads as the left. symbolically it reflects the chaos of their dynamic: a shared history that doesn't quite fit anymore. she's on the edge, physically and emotionally, and he's left in between—trying to hold onto a familiar position in an unfamiliar formation. she dies ten episodes later.

with marisol: another upside down shot, but this time they're physically closer to eddie's side. she's not on the edge like shannon—there's room behind her. but that visual closeness is deceptive: emotionally they're still mismatched. this is the scene we see her officially moved in, packing boxes around eddie's bedroom, but the symmetry is fragile. she moves out at the end of the episode.

in both cases eddie never fully gives up the visual space of the left, but the blocking suggests that when others share his bed, it doesn't feel like sharing—it feels like rearranging. he's physically there, but emotionally disoriented.

1. later flashback with shannon: they're not upside down this time. chronologically this would be after the first time we see them in bed together, and before the end of that episode where she shows up on christmas day. eddie is on the left, not at the edge, not at the centre—somewhere in between. its a quieter scene, more stable, and just before eddie decides to reopen emotional space between them—for her to see christopher again. there's a softness here, but the tragedy to come lingers just beyond the frame.

then there's the final scene of eddie in bed in the 817 flashback. texas. the middle of the night. the call comes. their captain has died. eddie wakes up on the right side of the bed.

this is not just a logistical change. its a rupture in the visual language. the right side, for eddie, is foreign. it doesn't hold history, safety, or selfhood.

he's not in la. he's not near buck. he's not near the life he built for himself.

he's in texas—the place of his past, but not his home

his parents and extended relatives may be in the same state, but his found family isn't

eddie being on the right side of the bed—alone, out of place, receiving devastating news—is symbolic dislocation. it says: this isn't where i'm meant to be. not in this house. not in this life. not even in this bed in this room.

where the left side is grounding, the right side is severance. eddie on the right side of the bed is eddie adrift. it's a quiet, visual confirmation that something isn't right, that he is far from home.

both symbolic disruptions—the right-side shoulder grab and the right-side bed placement—occur in the same episode where eddie returns to la, but the irony is that even here, in the city he calls home, he doesn't feel at home in himself. the bed in texas underscores his physical and emotional disturbance; it's a visual cue that he's been living a life out of alignment. but the shoulder grab happens in la—among his family, in the place where he should feel most like eddie. and yet, in that moment, his grief fractures the instinctual connection he shares with buck. by reaching for the right shoulder, he unconsciously echoes the misplacement we see in texas—showing that the dissonance isn't just about geography. it's inside him now. this convergence of visual breaks—sleeping on the wrong side of the bed and touching the wrong shoulder—signals eddie's internal compass is spinning. he's lost not just his captain, but his grounding, and the emotional fluency he once had with the people he loves. even in la, he's still off centre because he's hurting and his best friend won't talk about their shared grief.

[norristrii]

hellooooo, i fear we need some good angst with greenlight and lando 😔🫵🏻 like RIGHT NOW 😭 tyyy <3

GREENLIGHT.

“I’m still waiting at the greenlight, to tell you what I feel like, but I can’t go.” — You liked Lando, but never truly saw him as someone meant for you. Fear kept your feelings buried—until one night, everything came crashing down, forcing you to face what had always been there.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. misunderstanding, angst (happy ending), mention of partying. I haven’t wrote anything in a while, so sorry if this is shit.

babs’ notes. I’m back!! This is my first fic of the 800 event. I chose greenlight as the premiere bcs it’s my fav song, thank you for joining <3

music. Greenlight by Tate McRae.

800 event // event masterlist.

LANDO WAS STILL RELATIVELY A NEW PRESENCE IN YOUR LIFE. You’d met him at a club—where else? That chaotic blur of lights and music had somehow carved out a space for something that felt different. From the moment you saw him, you were drawn in. It was hard not to be. He was fit, young, effortlessly cool, and rich in that casual, enviable way that made heads turn. He was everything most young men wanted to become—and everything most young women wanted to be with.

You’d been talking for about two months now. Long nights filled with laughter, inside jokes, and the kind of comfort that crept up slowly and surprised you with its depth. You liked him—a lot. But somehow, despite all the time spent together and the closeness you’d grown into, it had never moved beyond friendship.

Best friends. That’s what you were.

At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside.

Because no matter how badly you wanted to tell him how you felt, something always held you back. Maybe it was the echo of past relationships that had started with hope and ended in silence. Maybe it was fear—fear that if you said the words out loud, it would all come crashing down. That you'd lose him, too. And this time, you weren't sure you'd recover.

“Oh my god, Y/n, why are you so jealous?!” Lando rolled his eyes, his voice laced with frustration.

You hadn’t meant for the night to end like this. It was supposed to be fun—just the two of you, dancing, drinking, laughing like always. But instead, here you were, caught in the middle of an argument with the one person you didn’t want to fight with. Your best friend. Your crush. Whatever he was to you tonight.

“I’m not jealous,” you snapped, cutting him off.

Of course, you were.

You could lie all you wanted, but the truth was written all over your face. It had started the moment you saw him tangled up with some random girl on the dance floor. Or maybe she was all over him. Did it really matter? Not when the jealousy burned this hot. Not when your chest felt like it might cave in with the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

This night was supposed to be yours. Just the two of you. But suddenly, you weren’t enough. Or maybe you never were.

“You are!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos around you. “Maybe if you weren’t so scared to tell me how you really feel, you wouldn’t even be jealous!”

You froze.

What did he mean? Did he know?

Your heart thudded in your chest, louder than the music, louder than the mess of thoughts unraveling in your head. Had he known all this time? The glances, the lingering touches, the nights you stayed up talking like it meant something more—had he seen through you?

And maybe… maybe you should have told him earlier. Maybe if you’d had the courage, he would’ve been yours by now. You would’ve been the one in his arms tonight, not some stranger in the crowd. Maybe this—this ache in your chest, this night gone wrong—would never have happened at all.

But you didn’t.

And now, it might be too late.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely rising above the music, thin and uncertain. The question hung there between you, raw and trembling. It was a stupid thing to say—you knew what he meant. You weren’t clueless. You’d felt the weight of your own emotions building for weeks, maybe months. You just never thought he saw it. Never thought he’d call you out like this. Not tonight. Not like this.

But still, part of you needed to hear it. Needed the words spelled out, because if you acknowledged it—if you admitted what was really going on—it might make it real. And real things came with risks.

Lando stared at you, and the frustration in his eyes shifted, softened. It was like he saw straight through you, through all the denial and fear and half-finished confessions. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but every word landed with force.

“I mean,” he said, slower, more careful, “it’s so obvious you like me. And… I like you too.”

The breath caught in your lungs. Your heart stuttered, like the whole world had just tilted off balance.

Had he really just said that?

Your mind scrambled to process his words, but they echoed over and over, drowning out everything else. He liked you. The one thing you had convinced yourself was impossible—the one scenario you hadn’t dared to hope for—was suddenly standing right in front of you, looking you in the eyes.

You stared at him, searching for a joke in his expression, some sign he was messing with you. But it wasn’t there. There was no smirk, no teasing glint. Just him. Honest, vulnerable. Waiting.

And all at once, the weight of everything you hadn’t said came crashing down. Maybe if you had told him earlier—if you’d pushed through the fear instead of hiding behind friendship—this moment would have come sooner. Maybe he would’ve been yours already.

“And why didn’t you say anything earlier?” you asked, your voice cracking under the pressure. It came out choked, nearly a whisper, and your throat burned with the weight of everything you'd been holding back. You could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, blurring your vision as you looked at him. It wasn’t anger in your voice—it was hurt. Disbelief. The quiet ache of wondering what could’ve been if only things had gone differently.

Lando’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback by the emotion in your voice. “I thought you knew,” he said, almost helplessly. His brows pulled together, frustration melting into something more vulnerable. “I thought it was obvious.”

You shook your head. “No… I didn’t,” you whispered, blinking rapidly as a single tear escaped down your cheek. “I didn’t see it. I saw everything but that.”

Because the truth was, you hadn’t let yourself see it. You didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, or the way his hand always lingered just a little too long when he touched you. You ignored the late-night texts, the protective glances, the way he always seemed to find his way to your side no matter where you were.

Instead, you saw every worst-case scenario. Every possible way it could all fall apart. You saw rejection, awkwardness, distance—another heartbreak added to the list of disappointments you carried like armor. You didn’t dare believe something so good could actually be real. Not for you.

He stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne through the haze of alcohol and sweat. “Y/n,” he said gently, his voice softer now, almost aching. “You could’ve just told me earlier.”

The words were simple, but they cut deep.

You looked up at him, blinking through the emotion welling in your eyes, and for a moment, all you could do was stand there, silent. Because how could you have told him?

You never healed right. Not from the things before him. The people who made promises they never kept. The late-night heartbreaks masked behind forced laughter. The relationships that made you feel small, unworthy, like love was always something just out of reach.

Every time you started to rebuild yourself, someone else came along and tore it all down. So you stopped trying. You learned how to smile through the ache. How to be the “best friend” instead of the person someone chose. You convinced yourself that loving him in silence was safer than losing him completely.

So no—telling him felt impossible.

You swallowed hard, looking down at the floor because meeting his eyes felt too raw, too vulnerable. “I wanted to,” you said quietly. “I really did.”

And then, barely louder than a breath, “I was just… scared.”

And for the first time, it felt okay to admit it.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest with a quiet urgency, like he’d been waiting to do it for far too long.

And you let him.

You melted into the warmth of him, the solid feel of his embrace, the way his hand slid gently up your back like he was trying to hold all the broken pieces of you together. It wasn’t just a hug—it was something more. It was safety. It was forgiveness. It was the answer to all the silent questions you’d been too afraid to ask.

And God, you needed it. You needed him—this steady presence, this boy who somehow saw through all your walls and didn’t run.

“I love you,” he whispered against your hair, voice low and steady. “I’m here to show you not every guy is an asshole.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Not because they were perfect, not even because they were exactly what you wanted to hear, but because they were real. Simple, true, unpolished—and everything you never let yourself believe someone would say to you.

You closed your eyes, burying your face into his shoulder as the tears finally came, quiet and full of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. The knot in your throat was too tight, the flood of emotion too overwhelming. But in that moment, words weren’t necessary. Not when he held you like that—not when his arms said everything you’d spent months trying to silence in yourself.

You clung to him, afraid that if you let go, this would all dissolve into the air, like a dream you’d wake up from too soon.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his chest, barely audible. “For not telling you. For pushing you away.”

Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your waist. His eyes found yours, softer than you’d ever seen them, full of something quiet and real.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You had your reasons. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he said it—so sure, so steady—broke something open inside you. Not in a painful way, but in the way that happens when something long frozen finally starts to thaw.

“I didn’t think someone like you would ever feel the same,” you admitted, your voice shaking with the weight of your own doubt. “You’re… you. And I’m just—”

“No,” he cut in, gently but firmly. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk about yourself like you’re less. You’re everything, Y/n. I’ve known it since the night I met you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, his words settling into the cracks you’d tried to hide for so long. You didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, or the day after that. But right now, here in this moment—held together by the arms of someone who chose you—it felt like something was finally beginning.

You leaned into him again, this time not because you needed comfort, but because you wanted him. Fully, openly, finally.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like falling.

It felt like flying.

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 6

Theme: homoerotic friendship messy core...

A/N: Oof, this was a challenge, but I felt obligated to get another chapter out quick with all ya'll being crashouts. You guys crack me up, but I secretly (not-so-secretly) love it. My mind is straight mush now, but it was a lot of fun writing this chapter, kind of dialogue heavy at parts, but I hope you enjoy.

WC: 5K

Warnings: angst, cussing (maybe)

**** Chapter 6 ****

It had been a couple weeks since the talk. Not a movie-scene blow-up or some epic “I choose you” moment—just a weirdly vulnerable heart-to-heart in the film room. Two people sitting in the blue glow of paused game tape, finally hitting play on everything else. No tears. No yelling. Just honesty.

And ever since, something had shifted.

They weren’t exactly glued at the hip again—more like orbiting the same planet without crashing into each other. Which, all things considered, was progress. A miracle, even.

They talked now. Real talk. Not just hey-good-drill or sarcastic comments about the weight room playlist. Full sentences. Actual conversations. Last week, Paige had even stayed behind after practice to argue about whether fruit snacks counted as a recovery food. Azzi said no. Paige called her a menace to sports science.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this until it was back—until she could breathe around Paige again.

And honestly? Azzi had been breathing easier in general lately.

Breaking up with Derrick fucking Jones had cracked something open in her—in a good way. Like stepping out into fresh air after holding your breath too long. She hadn’t even realized how much energy she’d spent pretending. Pretending to be fine, to be all in, to care more than she actually did. The relationship had felt like lukewarm soup—tolerable, sometimes comforting, but never enough.

The moment it ended, she didn’t feel guilt. She felt relief.

She went home, ate half a sleeve of Oreos, and slept for twelve straight hours. When she woke up, the weight was gone.

Aubrey had cheered. Caroline had shown up with a Costco-size tub of cookie dough and refused to leave until Azzi talked. Really talked. About everything—about Paige, about the exhausting math of liking someone you weren’t sure you were allowed to like, about being tired of playing small.

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Azzi’s room, spooning dough straight from the tub and watching a muted rerun of The Princess Diaries like they were thirteen again. Caroline wore one sock and a messy bun, and kept making off-handed comments like, “This entire situation has big Mia Thermopolis energy,” which didn’t make any sense, but somehow helped.

Somewhere between Azzi muttering, “I don’t even know if I’m gay or bi or just… late to the party,” and whispering, “I don’t know who I am without basketball,” Caroline had looked at her—really looked at her—and said:

“Even if it’s too late for you and Paige… it’s not too late for you.”

Then she added, more serious this time, “You don’t have to figure out your whole identity tonight. But you do have to stop acting like you don’t get to have one.”

And for the first time in a long time, Azzi felt like maybe she wasn’t broken. Just… becoming.

Azzi hadn’t cried. But she had believed her.

So she started paying more attention to her own feelings. Not Paige’s. Not anyone else’s. Just hers. She poured more into practice, into film, into the one thing that had always made sense—basketball. Her first love. The only thing that had never made her feel like too much or not enough. And in the quieter moments—walking to class, waiting in line for coffee, sharing a laugh with someone in the library—she let herself notice. The way a girl’s smile made her stomach flip. The way it felt nice, just looking. Just wondering. Not in a dramatic, world-tilting way, but in those small, flickering moments that felt like maybe, finally, a beginning.

And Paige? Paige seemed good. She was still sidelined, still rehabbing, but there was a steadiness to her. Kathryn made her laugh, even if her jokes weren’t that funny. And maybe that was enough.

Azzi had told herself she was happy for her. Said it out loud enough times that it almost felt true.

Season had officially started, and Azzi was already feeling it in her bones—in a good way. There was a calm she hadn’t known she needed. Less pressure. More focus. Her shot felt smooth. Her legs felt fresh. She was ready. 

And of course, Paige had gone full Coach P.

Not that Azzi minded—most of the time.

“Okay, defense shows high hedge, what’s the read?” Paige called across the court during transition reps.

Azzi didn’t even look up. “Corner skip or hit the cutter.”

“Uh-huh. And if Aaliyah actually remembers how to seal this year?”

Azzi grinned. “Drop pass. Easy bucket.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume Aaliyah’s gonna remember the playbook and not just bulldoze everyone like a human wrecking ball.”

Azzi laughed. “Hey, it’s a valid strategy. Chaos is still technically a tactic.”

“Tell that to the refs. She’s already averaging one offensive foul per scrimmage.”

“Justice for Aaliyah,” Azzi said solemnly. “She’s just out here catching strays and setting illegal screens.”

Paige smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile you’re out here running point like Sue Bird’s ghost is whispering in your ear.”

Azzi tossed the ball toward her. “You’re just mad I’m learning to do your job better than you.”

Paige caught it one-handed and shrugged. “Well, someone’s gotta keep the dynasty alive while I’m stuck pretending to enjoy hip mobility drills.”

It was… nice. Their rhythm.

Azzi had always admired the way Paige saw the floor—like she had cheat codes no one else had. Like the defense moved in slow motion just for her, every trap and rotation already decoded before it even happened. Paige didn’t just react—she anticipated. Manipulated. Threaded passes through windows that barely existed.

It was part art, part science, and Azzi had spent years trying to figure out how she did it.

So yeah, it meant something—having Paige in her ear now. Not just nitpicking her handles or telling her to keep her elbows in. But actually pushing her to see the game differently. To read spacing in real time. To feel the shift of a defense before it fully committed.

Though that didn’t stop Paige from offering shooting tips, which was ridiculous. And also entirely on brand.

“Wrist’s a little stiff today,” Paige said casually after Azzi drained six straight from the wing.

Azzi deadpanned, “Please enlighten me, Steph.”

“Just saying, maybe you’re due for a form check. Could be a thumb drift situation.”

Azzi blinked. “You really wanna die today?”

Paige smirked. “It’s giving 12% left-hand involvement.”

“I will end you.”

“You’d miss.”

Azzi couldn’t help it—she laughed.

They still had their bruises. Still had history—the kind that didn’t fade easily, no matter how much time passed. But this? This quiet, cautious rhythm they were building now? It felt like something new. Not perfect. Not certain. But real. Steady in a way that maybe didn’t need labels or guarantees.

Something worth holding onto, even if just with open hands.

Paige

Paige tried not to stare.

But it was hard not to when Azzi was running the floor like she owned it. Confident. Locked in. The kind of sharp that made her want to clap and curse at the same time.

She watched from the baseline, arms crossed over her hoodie, trying to act like she wasn’t tracking every move. Footwork. Tempo. Angles. The way Azzi looked off the defender before slipping a bounce pass through traffic that made two managers gasp out loud.

“Jesus,” Paige muttered under her breath, even though her heart was doing this dumb little fluttery thing she immediately ignored.

It was good. This was good. They were good.

Better, at least.

She hadn’t been sure how that film room conversation would go—if it would break them, fix them, or just confirm that some things weren’t meant to be salvaged. But somehow, it had done none of that and all of it at once. They weren’t glued to each other like they used to be, but there was something solid in the space between them now. Friendly. Safe.

Mostly.

Paige knew what Azzi thought—that she was fine, happy, moved on.

And in a lot of ways, she was.

Kathryn was great. Chill. Low drama. The kind of person who didn’t need a spotlight, didn’t flinch at silence. She sent memes at 2 a.m. and always asked how Paige’s knee was doing before anything else. She let Paige rant about PT without trying to fix it. She made things easy. Steady. Predictable in a way Paige hadn’t realized she craved.

She didn’t ask questions Paige didn’t want to answer.

Like how she was really feeling. Or whether she ever thought about last season. Or what it meant when Paige couldn’t meet Azzi’s eyes for a full thirty seconds after that assist drill last week.

Kathryn didn’t ask, so Paige didn’t have to say.

She didn’t have to explain the scar tissue in her body or the messier kind layered somewhere under her ribs. She didn’t have to name the ache she still felt sometimes—quiet but persistent, like a song she couldn’t quite skip.

With Kathryn, everything had its place. Everything made sense.

And still… sometimes it felt like wearing a jacket that almost fit. Like if she just didn’t breathe too deep or move too fast, no one would notice the way it tugged in the wrong places.

**** 

If this was what Azzi looked like at the start of the season… the rest of the NCAA should probably go ahead and panic.

Twenty-six points. Six steals. Two blocks. One no-look dime that had the entire bench on their feet. She was everywhere—disrupting passing lanes, beating defenders off the dribble, calling switches like she’d been running point her whole life. Calm. Dominant. Untouchable.

Paige was proud. Like… stupidly proud.

She stayed composed on the sideline, of course—clapping, high-fiving, doing her little “Coach P” head nod—but inside? She was doing cartwheels. Watching Azzi level up like this? It was everything she wanted and everything she wasn’t sure she could handle.

The win itself wasn’t a surprise—Northwestern wasn’t exactly a team anyone was watching. But a dominant win still mattered. Momentum mattered. And Azzi had set the tone for the entire season. Paige would’ve killed to be on the floor with her, just for one quarter. Just to feel the rhythm again. But instead, she cheered. Coached. Supported.

It was enough. Kind of.

No major celebrations after the game—just fist bumps and ice baths. Everyone had already circled the Texas matchup on the calendar. Bigger test. Bigger stakes.

Still, the team wasn’t going to let a W go unacknowledged.

Naturally, they ended up piled into Azzi, Aubrey, and Caroline’s dorm suite, half-eaten pizza boxes scattered across the counter and someone’s Bluetooth speaker cycling through a very questionable playlist. No one brought drinks—look at all of us being responsible, Paige had joked when they’d passed a gas station and kept driving. Instead, they loaded up on soda, gummy worms, and arguments about who would win the West this year.

The TV was tuned into the NBA game, but no one was really watching. Side conversations buzzed in every corner—Caroline arguing with Nika about Steph vs. Dame, Aubrey attempting to rank all the High School Musical soundtracks, and Paige just… floating. Listening. Letting herself feel like part of it all again.

Until she realized Azzi wasn’t there.

She looked around casually at first, scanning the room like she might’ve just missed her. But the couch was full. The kitchenette, too. And that familiar gravity Paige always felt around her? Gone.

She leaned toward Aubrey. “Hey, where’d Azzi go?”

Aubrey didn’t look up from her phone. “Something about homework, I think.”

Paige raised a brow. “What, her and Derrick off doing microeconomics by candlelight?”

Aubrey blinked at her. “What?”

Paige furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

Aubrey looked up fully now, brows furrowed just as tightly. “Paige… they broke up.”

Paige froze mid-sip of her Diet Coke. “What?”

Caroline, sitting on the floor with her head against the couch, chimed in like it was nothing. “Yeah. Like, a couple weeks ago.”

Paige’s heart didn’t exactly drop—but it did shift. Like the ground underneath her had tilted a little to the left. Just enough to feel it.

“Oh,” she said. And then, stupidly, “I thought they were good.”

Aubrey and Caroline exchanged a look. Quick. Subtle. Not subtle enough.

Something in Paige’s chest pulled tight. She opened her mouth to ask more—when a bedroom door opened.

And there she was.

Azzi stepped out into the living room, hoodie half-zipped, glasses on, hair pulled into a low puff like she hadn’t given it a second thought. She looked… casual. Comfortable. Way too unaffected for someone who had just set the court on fire two hours ago.

“Sorry,” she said, sliding back into the room like she hadn’t been missed. “Forgot about some discussion posts.”

“Nerd,” Caroline muttered under her breath.

Azzi flipped her off without looking.

Paige tried to play it cool, but her brain was already halfway down a rabbit hole. Because discussion posts didn’t explain the way Aubrey had looked at her. Or the way Caroline had said it like it was obvious.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Azzi dropped onto the couch across from her, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza and taking a bite like nothing had changed.

And maybe it hadn’t.

But for the first time in a long time, Paige wasn’t sure she understood the game she was watching.

Azzi

Azzi played out of her mind tonight.

Career high. Thirty-two points. Against the number three team in the nation. She couldn’t stop smiling—not in the postgame presser, not in the locker room, not even as she tried to act like she wasn’t replaying it all in her head every five seconds.

This was fun. Like, really fun.

The kind of game where the rim felt like a magnet and her body moved like it already knew what to do before her brain caught up. Where the defense couldn’t keep up and the crowd fed off every bucket. Where she could feel it—that shift. Like maybe this wasn’t just a good start to the season. Maybe this was her season.

And when Paige came up afterward, arm slung across her shoulders in that way that always made Azzi feel like she was still tethered to something solid, she said it so casually you’d think she hadn’t just handed her the highest compliment in the universe:

“National Player of the Year. I’m calling it now.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, tried to laugh it off—you’re so dramatic, P—but inside?

Her chest buzzed.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it. It was Paige.

Yeah, they were only a year apart. They’d come up in the same circuits, trained together, pushed each other. But still—there was something about Paige that always felt… next-level. The way she read the floor. The way she led. The way she carried herself like she already knew who she was.

Azzi had admired that. Still did. So hearing her say something like that, even half-jokingly?

It hit different.

While the Northwestern win hadn’t exactly earned a celebration, this one definitely did. This wasn’t just about rankings. It was about making a statement. UConn was still UConn. And Azzi? She was someone to watch this year. 

Naturally, the plan was Ted’s.

It was basically written into the culture of the program. Big win? You go to Ted’s. Birthday? Ted’s. Existential crisis before midterms? Ted’s with mozzarella sticks.

And with their next game not until Sunday, they had time. A whole six days of breathing room to celebrate, recover, and maybe watch the tape three times before Coach could even schedule film.

Azzi had already changed into jeans and a cropped tank top , still riding the high of the night. Hair damp, lip gloss swiped on at the last minute, hoop earrings in because Aubrey told her they were “absolutely essential for main character energy.” She didn’t argue.

Tonight, she felt like the main character.

****

The second she stepped into Ted’s, it was like the night tilted in her direction.

The music pulsed low and steady under her feet, the lights were dim enough to feel flattering, and every head seemed to turn when she walked through the door. Some double takes. Some straight-up stares. Caroline leaned in behind her and whispered, “Try not to trip over all the attention you’re getting, superstar.”

Azzi just grinned.

She earned this. She was the moment.

The drinks came quickly—someone handed her a hard cider, then a seltzer, then something pink and dangerous that Aubrey claimed was “hydration adjacent.” Her limbs loosened, the edges of her mind softened, and for the first time in… she didn’t even know how long, her brain wasn’t buzzing with plays or questions or complicated feelings she hadn’t made space to sort out.

Everything felt light.

Easy.

Even Derrick, camped out in the corner with his friends, scowling like someone had stolen his fantasy football password—he couldn’t touch her mood tonight. He didn’t even register. He was background noise.

And Paige?

Paige was across the room, curled into a corner booth with Kathryn, heads tucked close, laughing over something Paige was showing her on her phone.

It should’ve stung. A couple weeks ago, it might have.

But tonight? Azzi didn’t feel jealous. She felt done.

She was just about to rejoin the group when someone stepped into her path.

“Hey.”

Azzi turned—and paused.

Tall-ish. Blonde. Bright blue eyes and a confident smile that made her brain short-circuit for a half second. The girl looked familiar—maybe from class? Definitely someone athletic. Softball, maybe?

And okay—she was cute. Like, actually cute. The kind of cute that made Azzi stand a little straighter without meaning to.

Azzi blinked. Oh no.

She had a type. Apparently, it was tall, blonde, and alarmingly self-assured.

“Congrats on the win,” the girl said, voice low but certain. “And the thirty-two points. You kinda went off.”

Azzi blinked. “Thanks. I—sorry, I think we had a class together?”

“Yeah,” the girl smiled wider. “Sociology. You were always late.”

Azzi laughed. “Guilty. You sat near the back, right?”

��Middle-left,” she said. “But I’ll take back-row cool girl energy if that’s what you remember.”

Azzi tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, I’m not trying to be rude, but what’s your name again? I wanna say Lily… or maybe Laila?”

The girl laughed, clearly not offended. “Lexi. But I’m flattered you remembered the first letter.”

“Lexi,” Azzi repeated, like she was trying it on.

It fit.

Lexi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You looked like you were having a good time out there. On the court, I mean.”

Azzi smirked. “What, you watch women’s basketball?”

“I do now,” Lexi said, not missing a beat. “Especially when someone drops thirty-two with a side of four assists.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You memorizing my stats?”

Lexi shrugged. “I did my homework before walking over here. Can’t show up unprepared.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying not to smile too hard. “You walk over to girls a lot? Or just the ones who embarrass Texas on national television?”

“Just the hot ones,” Lexi said, like it was obvious.

Azzi choked on a laugh. “Okay, wow.”

“I mean,” Lexi added, leaning in slightly, “if you’re not into girls, feel free to let me down gently. But I figured it was worth a shot.”

Azzi tilted her head, heart thudding just a little too loud in her chest. “And if I am?”

Lexi smiled slow and easy. “Then I’d ask if I could buy you your next drink. Or at least distract you from your MVP fan club long enough to learn something that’s not in the box score.”

Azzi stared at her for a second, then tipped her head toward the bar, grinning. “Okay, Lexi-from-Soc. Impress me.”

****

Azzi hadn’t expected to have this much fun.

She and Lexi ended up at the bar, tucked between a group of baseball players and some overenthusiastic birthday girls singing along to early 2010s throwbacks. The noise blurred around them. None of it mattered. Not when Lexi leaned in to be heard, not when she made a face after trying Azzi’s drink, not when she laughed at something dumb Azzi said and bumped their shoulders together like they already had a rhythm.

It was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

Flirting with girls wasn’t something Azzi had done before—at least not consciously. But now, in the middle of it, she realized how different it felt. Not necessarily better. Just… different.

Guys always came in a little loud. Like they had something to prove. There was a performance to it—like they were trying to win a prize, and she was the prize, and everyone was aware of the transaction.

This?

Lexi asked questions and actually listened. She made eye contact in a way that felt open, not invasive. She wasn’t trying to take up space—just offering to share it.

Azzi didn’t feel like she had to act a certain way or say the perfect thing or pretend like she didn’t care. She could just… be.

And okay, yeah, she still got a little flustered when Lexi tucked her hair behind her ear or touched her forearm when she laughed—but she didn’t feel like she had to hide that either. It didn’t feel like a game she didn’t know the rules to.

It just felt right.

Not in some overwhelming, life-altering way. But in a quiet, steady way that made something inside her settle.

Maybe she really was into girls. Maybe she was into both.

She wasn’t sure she had the exact words for it yet, but for the first time, that thought didn’t send her into a spiral.

It made her smile.

Because here she was—talking to a girl. Flirting. Laughing. Feeling something. And it wasn’t scary.

It was good.

Paige 

At first, Paige didn’t notice.

Or at least, she told herself she didn’t.

She was mid-laugh, curled into the corner booth with Kathryn, legs tangled comfortably beneath the table, trading stories about their worst high school team bus rides—when the vibe shifted. Just a blip. The kind of thing most people would miss.

But Paige noticed. She always noticed.

She caught the change in body language out of the corner of her eye. Azzi at the bar. Some girl leaning in close, touching her arm like they were already three drinks and a secret in. Paige had seen Azzi lean in like that before. Only it used to be toward her—in the dark, in private, in all the ways they never talked about out loud. 

Azzi smiling like she meant it. Tilting her head like she was genuinely interested in whatever that girl was saying. Like she was… into it.

And then that girl—whatever her name is—laughed too hard and said something that made Azzi look down, all flustered and cute and—

Paige’s stomach dropped.

Just straight up collapsed.

She looked away immediately, like that would help. Like not seeing it meant it wasn’t happening.

Kathryn said something about the birthday girls near the bar and laughed again, but Paige didn’t catch it.

“Paige?”

Kathryn’s voice was soft, but her hand was firmer now—on Paige’s wrist. “You good?”

Paige blinked. Nodded too quickly. “Yeah. No. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Kathryn searched her face for a second. Long enough to feel it—something off between them. The first crack.

Paige tried to fix it with a smile. The wrong kind. Too sharp around the edges.

Kathryn gave her a look like she didn’t believe her, but didn’t press. She leaned back, giving Paige a little space, which only made the knot in her chest tighten.

Across the bar, Azzi laughed at something the other girl said, head thrown back, face flushed. She looked good. Like really good. And Paige felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Pissed off.

Like, irrationally. Deeply. Offensively. Pissed.

Because what the hell?

Since when did Azzi flirt with girls? Since when did she flirt with girls in public? Since when did she laugh like that with someone new—someone who wasn’t trying to pretend the past never happened?

Paige could feel it building in her chest, hot and loud and impossible to silence.

“Bro. What is happening on your face right now?”

Paige looked up to see Nika sliding into the booth beside her, eyebrows raised in that twin telepathy kind of way.

“Nothing,” Paige said automatically.

Nika narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lying with your whole body right now.”

Kathryn, sweetly oblivious or maybe just choosing not to get involved, stood up and said she was going to grab another drink. Paige nodded, eyes locked on the table.

Nika waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned in. “Get up.”

“What?”

“Bathroom. Now.”

Paige opened her mouth to protest, but Nika was already yanking her by the arm.

She barely had time to register the sticky tile floor before Nika locked the door behind them and folded her arms. “Spill.”

“There’s nothing to—”

“Paige.”

She said it like a warning. Like a truth Paige wasn’t allowed to outrun anymore.

Paige crossed her arms too, mostly to keep her hands from shaking. “I’m fine. I just… noticed Azzi talking to someone.”

Nika blinked. “Lexi. Yeah. They’ve been talking all night.”

“And?” Paige said, too fast. “It’s weird, okay?”

“What’s weird?”

Paige threw her hands up. “I don’t know! That she’s out here flirting after just breaking up with her boyfriend? That she’s flirting with a g—what is that, even?”

Nika’s mouth pulled into a slow, knowing smile. “Caroline said she had an epiphany. That she might like girls.”

Paige blinked. “She what?”

“Yeah. Like two weeks ago. Aubrey said it was a whole thing. Apparently Caroline brought cookie dough and everything.”

Paige stared at her. “Why does everyone know this but me?”

Nika shrugged. “Maybe because you're too busy pretending you don’t care.”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it again. Because what was she supposed to say to that?

Nika softened, but only a little. “I know it hurts. But she’s not doing anything you didn’t already do. You're with Kathryn?”

That one landed. Deep.

Paige didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at the sink, jaw tight, heart thudding in a way she couldn’t steady.

Because Nika was right. She had moved on—or at least, tried to.

She had Kathryn.

Kathryn, who brought her coffee before rehab. Kathryn, who asked how her knee felt before asking how she felt. Kathryn, who laughed at her dumb jokes and always knew when to give her space without making her ask for it.

She was sweet. Thoughtful. Cute in a soft, almost-too-good-to-be-true kind of way. Honestly? Kathryn was perfect on paper.

And Paige was happy with her. She was.

So why did she feel like she’d just been sucker-punched by something she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore?

Why did it still matter what Azzi did with someone else?

The guilt pressed in, low and sharp.

She didn’t know what any of this meant. But suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she liked where it was going.

Because this wasn’t just about Lexi and her overly confident smile. It wasn’t even about the flirting, not really. It was about Azzi. Azzi, who used to look at Paige like she was the only one in the room. Azzi, who used to climb into her bed after road games and steal the covers and kiss her like she was afraid to stop. Azzi, who—when it came down to it—couldn’t choose her out loud.

Not when it mattered. Not when Paige had finally been ready to be chosen.

And now? Now she was suddenly out here figuring things out—out loud—with someone else? With some girl named Lexi who didn’t know any of the messy, bruised history they shared?

What made her easier to choose?

Paige’s jaw clenched.

Because if Azzi had been scared then, if she hadn’t been ready—fine. Paige had told herself she understood.

She gave her space. Gave her grace.

But this—Azzi laughing, wanting, letting someone else see it—

That was what Paige had begged for.

And now Azzi was finally doing it.

Just not with her.

When Paige stepped back into the bar, everything looked the same.

The music thumped low under the buzz of conversation, lights dim and familiar. Someone was shouting near the dartboard. Caroline was holding court in the corner with half the team. The floor still stuck a little with every step.

But something had shifted.

Or maybe it was just her.

She walked back to the booth like she was sleepwalking. Like her body knew the motions even if her brain hadn’t caught up.

Nika’s words still echoed somewhere in her chest, too loud to ignore.

Across the room, Azzi was still at the bar. Still smiling. Still talking to Lexi, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them leaned in to say something. Paige tried not to look. Tried not to notice—but it was impossible not to.

She slipped back into her seat beside Kathryn. Kathryn, who looked up and smiled, that warm, gentle kind of smile that always made Paige feel like she was being chosen.

Paige smiled back. Or at least, she tried.

She told herself to be present. To focus. To let it go.

But her mind kept drifting. To Azzi. To the way she lit up tonight. To the way she never once looked over.

The tension settled somewhere beneath her ribs—dull, steady. Not loud enough to break her, just loud enough to make everything else feel a little quieter. A little less real.

Kathryn reached for her hand under the table, and Paige let her. She even laced their fingers together, like she meant it.

But in her chest, something felt… off.

Like she was still chasing a version of herself that had already moved on. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything else, and Azzi’s laugh was still the only thing she could hear.

[girllblogging777]

LET IT HAPPEN 𝜗𝜚

spencer reid x bau!worker reader (angst, comfort)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 2.3k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : spencer was always in control, until you. but when you walk away, he realises it might be too late to learn how to love you right.

spencer reid has a history of being in control.

of himself. of his emotions. of the way he exists in the world : quiet, precise, never asking for too much.

love, real love, has always been a theory to him. a concept. a case study. something he observes in others, like an astronomer watching stars he’d never reach.

and then there was you.

he didn’t know when it started. maybe the first time you called him spence like it was second nature, or when you leaned into his shoulder on the plane, barely awake. maybe when you took a bullet for a civilian without flinching, or when you cried in the elevator after losing a victim, and reached for his hand without thinking to find comfort.

all he knew was that one day, you’d become part of his routine and turned it all upside down. his rhythm. his sense of self.

and that scared the hell out of him.

so, he did what he always did. he kept it safe. kept you close, but not close enough. he memorized everything about you from a distance : favorite books, late-night snack choices, the exact cadence of your laugh, while never saying a word about the way his chest ached when you touched his arm.

until you walked away.

and now you weren’t beside him. and it was too quiet.

spencer sat alone in the BAU bullpen at 11:47 p.m., his tie loose around his neck and hair messy from running his hands through it too many times today. he felt numb, staring at the text you’d sent him four hours ago.

“i can’t do this anymore. not like this.”

“if you ever decide to let me in—“

“you know where to find me.”

he’d read it twenty two times, precisely. he couldn’t delete it. he couldn’t answer it either.

because the truth was that you were right. you’d waited long enough, more than anyone ever had for him.

spencer had spent so long pretending he didn’t feel what he felt. trying to fit your friendship into neat, manageable boxes. something he could file away like a solved case.

but love doesn’t work like that. you’d told him that once.

and now you were gone.

the elevator dinged behind him. he didn’t turn around. he didn’t have to.

because he knew it was you.

he knew it the way he knew the laws of physics. undeniable. inarguable. your presence had always rearranged the air around you.

“you didn’t answer,” you said quietly, observing him like you’d done too many times before.

your voice cracked something open in him. his hands clenched around his coffee cup. it had gone cold hours ago.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

you gave a small, sad laugh. “that’s the thing, spence. you know everything, but that you never do.”

he finally looked up at you.

you looked tired. beautiful. guarded.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “but you did.”

he nodded once. swallowed hard. “I’m not good at this.”

spencer stood slowly, like his body was remembering how to do it. his chair scraped back.

and then, finally “you know what hurts the most?”

he shook his head.

“that I’m not asking you to be perfect. I never want you to be anything other than exactly who you are. but you won’t even let me see you.”

he flinched.

“you let me get so close,” you said, softer now, like it hurt you to say it. “close enough to feel everything… and then you shut the door. like I’m something dangerous.”

“you’re not dangerous,” he whispered.

“then what am I?” your mouth was set, but your eyes… your eyes looked so goddamn sad. your arms folded across her chest. a defense mechanism. not angry. just tired. like you were bracing for more disappointment.

“real.”

you froze, spencer stepped around the desk slowly, like if he moved too fast, you’d vanish.

“you’re real,” he repeated carefully. “and that terrifies me.”

he didn’t even know how to stand. his arms hung awkwardly by his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you and couldn’t figure out how.

“all my life, I’ve been able to explain things,” he says. “I can tell you the chemical composition of love. I can list every poem ever written about heartbreak. I can quote studies on attachment and trauma and how people leave.”

there’s a beat, before he continues “I thought if I understood it, I wouldn’t feel it.”

you couldn’t do anything but blink, eyes stinging.

“but then I met you,” he said. “and you’re soft, and stubborn, and brilliant, and so alive. you walked right past every defense I had like they weren’t even there.”

his voice cracks then. he presses a fist to his mouth, trying to ground himself. you just watch him, still frozen. breathing shallow.

“I thought I could keep it under control,” he admits, each word making him feel more stupid. “this… whatever this is. I thought if I could just… hold it in, keep it neat, I wouldn’t lose you. but all I did was push you away.”

silence. he forces himself to meet your eyes, something that usually pains him to do.

“I miss you. all the time. even when you’re right in front of me.”

and you don’t know what to say. so he keeps going like he always does, because if he stops now, he’d never say any of it again.

“I couldn’t tell you how I felt because I didn’t know what it was, it didn’t feel safe. and if it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t real. that’s what I told myself. that’s what I had to believe. because… everyone I’ve ever loved has either died or left me.”

your mouth opened, but he held up a hand, begging. please let me finish.

“but you didn’t leave,” he said, “not until you absolutely had to. you gave me every chance. I wasted them. because I didn’t know how to be vulnerable and still survive.”

and the tears came before he could stop them. silent, stunned things sliding down his cheeks.

you stare at him like you don’t know whether to cry or reach for him or both. he looks so beautiful, so vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to keep hurting you just because I never learned how to let myself be loved.”

that breaks something in you. you take a step forward. and another. he stands before you, arms loose at his sides, face wet, chest heaving… looking every bit the baby deer in headlights you always say he is.

“I’m not asking you not to be afraid, spence…” you finally admit. “I’m asking you to let me be scared with you. that’s all I ever wanted.”

his lips tremble. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“then let’s figure it out.”

you reach up slowly, wiping a stray tear gently with your thumb. he simply leans into your touch like it’s the first time anyone has ever touched him softly and meant it.

“don’t go,” he whispers.

“I’m not trying to leave,” you whisper back. “I’m asking if you’d fight for me.”

he closes his eyes. “I let it happen,” he said. “I let myself fall in love with you. and I’m not going to pretend anymore.”

you step into him fully then, arms sliding around his neck, and Spencer folds like paper, wrapping himself around you like he’d been holding his breath for a year and just now remembered how to exhale.

and in the quiet of that almost-empty room, with his forehead pressed to yours and your hands in his hair, Spencer Reid finally gives up control.

and lets it happen.

a/n : inspired by the gracie abrams song !!first time writing something about my baby, i kinda hate this but a girl has got to start somewhere. give me requests if you’d like, and reblogs/comments are always appreciated <3

@xbluereid @gf2bellamy @iamgonnagetyouback

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter nine

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: fully recovered from your injury, you and joel go on a typical routine patrol that takes a sharp turn wc: 11.5k. buckle up rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, angst, graphic violence, gore, blood, TW: topics surrounding SA (nothing happens, it’s mainly just alluded to the subject but please be careful while reading and feel free to message me beforehand for specific details), hurt/comfort, trauma, small bits of fluff, reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn a/n: double update this weekend because i will be gone next weekend and won't be able to post until the last week of may. enjoy this long one (also as an apology for the last chapter being so short). be kind to yourselves. ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon)

IX. X&Y

I dive in at the deep end You become my best friend I want to love you but I don't know if I can I know something is broken And I'm trying to fix it Trying to repair it Any way I can

As you had assumed, your shoulder had healed well, courtesy of Joel’s fine stitching, and you soon were more than capable of returning to your usual routine. With the weeks that had gone by, the spring steadily unfolding into the welcoming heat of summer allowed you to become more appreciative of this season, considering the colder temperatures this city was capable of having. 

Your continuing friendship and abundant amount of time spent with Joel had settled any previous anxieties you had—the two of you falling into a pattern of familiarity that made his presence comforting and one that you purposefully sought out.

One thing that had changed was Ellie, specifically in regards to Joel. 

You hadn’t pushed, or even asked about it in the first place, but all you know is that things had been more… tense between them. A part of you chalked it up to her being so close to becoming an adult, and wanting more freedom. She was beginning patrol training soon, and the idea made Joel nervous with her being out there outside of his watch. Joel had asked Tommy to get her supervised shifts set up with the two brothers, you, or Jesse—the young man you had gone on patrol with the day your shoulder was injured, who had proven himself to be a good fit as an up-and-coming leader in Jackson.

The extent of what you had learned was that a certain patrol shift ended up with Joel and Ellie fighting off a decent sized group of infected when checking out a music store. Since that day, Ellie had been standoffish to Joel, and you could see the impact it left on him. He seemed more on edge and uncertain around her—a stark contrast to the easy understanding that usually flows between the two of them. It was a simmering tension that didn’t raise an eyebrow to all of Jackson, but you saw it.

The advice you had tried to give him was that she was a teenager who was growing and wanting her independence, but his reactions always gave off the impression something else had been going on—subconscious nods that told you your perspective on it wasn’t the full story. You had never, and would never, push the topic though. The most you’d been doing was hoping that Joel knew he could confide in you if needed. 

To you, Ellie was changing—not just physically, but also with the people she surrounded herself with. You stopped hearing much about Cat, her close friend you have briefly spoken to occasionally, and seen Ellie around a newer friend of hers that she has been spending an increasing amount of time with. Dina. She was a sweet girl. Very vivacious and teasing—her energy making it difficult for her to not capture everyone’s heart. You understood why Ellie had gotten close to her, and the idea warmed your heart. Ellie seemed more comfortable around Dina—the girl bringing Ellie out of her shell just a bit. It was a reassuring feeling to know that, whatever was going on in Ellie’s life, she seemed to have others she was close to that she could rely on.

“You all set?”

You’re brought out of your thoughts when hearing a voice as you were locking your front door behind you, turning to see Joel standing at the end of your walkway as you lock your front door—the warm air hitting your skin telling you that patrol would be good today.

“Yup. All good,” you respond with a smile.

Joel gives you a warm look in response as you make your way over to him, the two of you falling into pace with each other seamlessly as you make your way through town and over to the stables. Reaching the area, you find that Jesse is posted out front, and feel pleased as he greets you with a kind smile the moment he sees you.

“Hey Jesse, how’s your mom been?” You ask. 

You hadn’t spent so much time with the man at first, but ever since your injury, you had spent enough moments with him after that that you felt comfortable being friendly with him. He was polite enough to check on you after that day—occasionally stopping when he saw you around town to catch up and see how things were. Being one of the newer recruits, he was younger, probably early to mid twenties, but just as prepared as any of the others who went past the gates for patrol.

“She’s been alright. She told me Dina brought over some lemon cakes that were a recipe of yours she and Ellie made—it was amazing. Think she’d smack me if I didn’t pass along the compliment to you.”

A laugh bubbles out of your chest at his words, but your attention is cut off when you hear someone clear your throat behind you. 

You look back to see Joel standing closer over your shoulder, glaring down at Jesse. You didn’t notice how, or when Joel had gotten so close to you, but his frame hovers over you and nearly engulfs you in his presence. 

“Think we should head out now,” Joel says, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Turning back to say goodbye to Jesse before heading out, you feel bad when you see the young man look down to the ground sheepishly. You assume that Jesse being with you when you were shot had made Joel act odd around him, at least when the topic revolved you. Joel was always fine with Jesse being around Ellie, even agreeing that Jesse has proved himself of his capabilities, but perhaps Joel didn’t like him when it came to your own safety.

Watching Jesse walk away, you and Joel mount your horses—a playful comment leaves your lips as you turn to him, prepared to make your way over to the gates. “Ready, partner?” 

Your words seem to make Joel’s body relax from his previous tense state around Jesse, a half-smirk gracing his lips before shaking his head lightheartedly—his chest moving a bit as you see him try to suppress a laugh. “Sure am, darlin’,” he says, before tugging the reins of Callus to alert him to begin moving with you following them close behind.

The trek to your destination went quick and without any difficulty. Finished checking your designated area, Joel suggested the two of you venture a bit further into a neighboring city. 

“Tommy told me ‘bout it. He said we could find some extra supplies in the area. Apparently he and Eugene had found it and said the area seemed mostly clear of infected. It’s a bit of a trip, but, I have the time if you feel up for it?”

You nod in agreement as the two of you ride your horses over to the city. As he said, it did take some time, but the two of you dismounted and tied up your horses before walking through the city, checking in and out of different stores for some items.

One store that you pass happens to be a coffee shop. The moment he notices the sign in the shop window with a faded coffee cup design, Joel lets out a half-sigh, half-groan—a vocal cue of nostalgia that makes you smirk.

“You know, you do have coffee at home. Like, so much.”

Joel makes a soft tsk sound. “Not the same, darlin’. S’good enough to make me pretend like it’s the real thing, but not the same.”

His words that end in a sigh have you breaking into a small laugh. “Ah, yes. Possibly the only thing worse than living with infected is not having Starbucks, huh?”

Joel catches the sarcasm in your town, side-eyeing you as you two continue to make your way in and out of the various shops along the street. 

“Okay, little miss trouble, you tellin’ me you ain’t got nothin’ you’d kill to have again?”

The nickname he’s used for you more often causes your face to flush, making you look down at your feet to try and shove the feeling away as you think about his answer. You let out an exaggerated hum, tilting your head to the sky and squinting as you try to figure out your answer. 

“Something for pleasure? Chocolate covered strawberries. Something practical? A silk pillowcase.

You turn to face Joel and see him give you an amused look. “Chocolate covered strawberries, huh?”

“Mhm. Chocolate covered strawberries were my favorite dessert.”

“Think you could make it?” Joel asks.

You ponder on the idea. “I think chocolate would be technically possible. Probably just wouldn’t taste as sweet as all those artificial things they threw in food. I know I seem to make good carrot cake and lemon cakes, but I’m not sure I even know what I would need to make chocolate.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel open his mouth to speak before he seems to quickly shake away the thought. Instead, he twists his face in confusion. “And a pillowcase? You have those?”

His tone makes you slightly laugh. “A silk one, Joel.” Your clarification only makes him roll his eyes playfully, none the wiser of the difference. “It’s gentler on your hair. Guess I just miss tiny things for self-care. I always slept with a silk pillowcase before. Made my hair softer or whatever.”

For some reason, the memory stings more than you had thought as you miss the simple luxuries of the world before. You swallow down the thought and sigh. “Now… that is something I have no idea how to get.” With a teasing, yet wishful sigh, you say, “I’ll live, though.”

Joel breathes out what sounds like a laugh. “Still, I’m sure it’d be nice to have.”

You look over at him to see him giving you a thoughtful look, the intensity of his gaze causing you to break eye contact and look forward. 

The two of you continue roaming through the stores, only finding a few bits of supplies that could be taken back to Jackson.

“So,” Joel says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Jesse’s cute.”

You look over to him, a surprised look on your face at the sudden topic, when you see him with a firm look on his face.

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Miller.”

He laughs loudly, not expecting your response before clarifying. “I meant, like, for you or… somethin’.”

You scrunch up your face at that. “He’s kinda young isn’t he?”

“He’s around 23, I think… Not that far off from you.”

“I’m in my early thirties Joel,” you say while laughing awkwardly. “Not exactly the age range I’m looking for.”

“Closer to his age than mine. ‘Bout ten years is not much of a difference compared to the twenty-somethin’ year difference to mine.”

His persistence on the topic has you looking at him quizzically, only to find him looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with you as you see a muscle tick in his jaw. 

Trying to ease the odd tension that’s built, you laugh and ask, “You implying my only options are between Jesse and you?”

Joel tenses up at the question briefly, a sight that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. The rigidness goes away as quickly as it came as he shrugs with no other response, his lips settling into a tight line and a frown appearing on his face.

The awkwardness that’s been created from your words has you biting the inside of your cheek while trying to come up with a response to redirect the topic. “I mean, I guess? He’s cute and all but… no. He’s not someone I see like that.”

Joel gives a thoughtful nod as you two cross onto the other side of the street. “Thought it might be an option for you, is all. Assuming you aren’t with anyone–”

You give him a deadpan look at the suggestion before he can finish. “Trust me, you’d be the first to know if that was the case. Plus, I don’t know… I’ve had people ‘flirt’ with me without knowing because I just didn’t even think to see them that way. Maria and Ellie always have to call it out when it happens because I’m apparently ‘too blind’.”

The memory makes you laugh before another thought comes to your mind. “How about you? Anyone around?”

The mere thought has Joel scoffing as he shakes his head. “Think I’ve solidified myself as someone who is unapproachable.”

You laugh at that. “Hey, you didn’t scare me off that easily,” you say pointedly. The two of you continue walking side by side as you push a bit further. “What about Esther?”

Joel suddenly whips his head to look at you as if you spoke another language. “Esther? What about her?”

“Oh come on Joel,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes. “She’s always staring at you, trying so desperately to get you to talk to her. She seems cute—nice enough.” 

You’ve seen her around before and spoken to her. She was… fine. Pretty, though. An older woman, closer to Joel’s age, whose voice was a bit too high-pitched with a smile that was a bit too fake. You first picked up on her advances to Joel at the bars when she’d come sit beside him at the counter, leaning her body a bit too close to his to get him to look at her. He never did.

Your mention of Esther comes with a tinge of distaste in your tone, one that Joel doesn’t seem to miss as one corner of his lips quirk up just a bit before he shakes his head. “No chance in hell darlin’. She reminds me too much of the PTA moms I’d have to deal with at Sarah’s schools. Gonna be a big pass from me on that front.”

As you take in the information while nodding, an odd sense of relief falls off your shoulders. Something in you has you not wanting to drop the topic just yet. “So… there’s no one you got your eye on?”

You ask the question while looking at him, still walking side by side down the sidewalk, and see him turn his head to meet your gaze. His mouth parts open slightly as he looks down at your lips, his expression indicating he has a response.

“Hey there!”

At the sound, a chill runs down your spine as the two of you quickly spin your bodies around to see six men across the street a couple stores down, slowly walking closer to you. The one in the front and center appears to be older, with a handgun stationed at his hip, and a wide smile spread on his face. Two of the men stand on one side of him while the other three stay on his other side. Some are younger than the others, but each is seen holding shotguns and assault rifles in their hands positioned in front of them. 

Joel angles his body slightly in front of you, shielding their view of you as much as possible as he hisses, “Stay behind me.”

Complying, your hand slowly goes to rest on your own gun stationed at your hip as you take one step back to stand half-behind Joel.  You watch him as he grips his assault rifle slung around his neck a bit tighter.

The group settles about twenty feet away from you before the man in the middle speaks up with the same disturbing smile, making you realize it was him who spoke up in the first place. 

“You guys from around here?”

Resting your left hand on Joel’s back for comfort, you feel his body tense up further and see a slight tick in his jaw as he clenches it repeatedly, gritting out in a monotone voice, “Just passin’ through.”

The man waits for a few seconds to see if Joel will continue speaking before saying, “We don’t usually get many people come by here, so… it’s nice to see some friendly faces after looking at so many dead ones.” The words slip past his lips in an unsettling saccharine tone. “You two have a community of your own?”

Joel doesn’t respond verbally, and instead gives a single shake of his head, lying to the group so as to not let them know anything about Jackson. 

His smile falters for a moment before widening again. “You know, we got a settlement about a couple hours to the west… you two are more than welcome to come with!” His eyes trail away from Joel to settle on you before he adds, “We got plenty of women so your missus won’t feel too scared.”

The moment he looks at you to speak to you directly, you feel Joel shift in his feet for a moment before a low growl leaves his throat that’s only loud enough for you to hear. Voice thick and gruff, he responds, “We’re alright. Again, just makin’ our way through.” It’s clean. Final. Leaving no room for argument, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy them.

A younger one from the group speaks up, eyes on you over Joel’s shoulder. “Now, my mama raised me right, so I can’t in good conscience let a beautiful young lady go on her own when I could help her.” His eyes trail over Joel’s form before smirking. “Can’t imagine an old man like you is able to take… proper care of a woman like that in a world like this.”

The words insinuate something darker that has bile rising in your throat. Your palm on Joel’s back has you able to feel his reaction—his body tensing before practically vibrating in anger. Looking up to eye his profile, you see his jaw clenching and moving as he grinds his teeth together. From your view, Joel’s eyes can be seen shifting between the group frantically as his mind races with what the best move is.

Somehow, the group seems to realize his intentions before you do as you see them all grip their weapons tighter. At the same moment, Joel quietly spits out a sharp go to you. You waste no time at all as you immediately move to duck behind the abandoned car for cover that is parked to your right while you hear shouting before the men begin to shoot in your direction. You feel Joel’s hand on your back as he throws you both to the ground—the two of you pressing yourselves low against the side of the car.

The sounds of gunshots stop for a moment as you hear them walking closer to your position. You look at Joel with a panicked expression to see a focused look on him, but not before you see a flash of fear in his eyes when he looks at you.

Frantically, he looks around before he settles on one of the stores a few feet to the right of the car. You follow his gaze to notice that, in their attempt to shoot you two, the men had shot up the coffee shop you had gone into earlier—the glass windows shattered as shards of glass line the sidewalk below. Joel looks back at you for confirmation and you give him a single nod, knowing his plan without any words spoken between the two of you. He jerks his head in the direction of the café, instructing you to make a run for the shop as he peeks over to the car to cover you from the men. 

The place was further down from where the men were approaching from, allowing more distance to be created between them. Joel and you use the mailboxes and old bus stop benches for cover as you each take turns shooting at the men as you move. Making your way into the opening created from the broken windows, Joel makes sure to stay close behind you as you run in, the protection allowing you to duck behind the counter and bakery case before he jumps over to sit behind as well.

The continuous shooting as you two ran now stops. A voice you recognize as the first man who had spoken, the one who you assume is their leader, calls out to you both. “Oh come on, now. We don’t want to hurt you guys! Just want to make sure you both find your way out safely.” His voice drips with malice at the end, causing another bone chilling fear to course through you. 

Fear begins to wrap a hand around your throat and causes you to lose focus. You look at the wall in front of you while breathing erratically, trying to swallow down the panic and think of something. Joel nudges your shoulder to grab your attention, the contact briefly snapping you out of your thoughts. He gestures to your weapons that you both hold and nods in the direction to the group outside. You give your own nod of understanding, and he takes a deep breath while looking at you before you both take turns to poke your bodies out and shoot off a few shots to the group.

In the time you spend out of cover, you notice they are spread out around the front of the shop, surrounding you while using their own forms of cover.

The ordeal goes on for what feels like an eternity–the two of you only getting one man down in the process. Joel drops down next to you for cover again before cursing quietly. He looks around the shop and leans his body to look past you. Getting your attention, Joel leans in close to you to quietly rush out a command. “M’gonna go sneak around the side to try and catch ‘em off guard. You keep shootin’ them from the front to distract ‘em, alright?”

No time to debate, you simply nod in agreement and Joel wastes no time to crouch down and crawl his way behind the counter and back his way around. You lift your body to peek over the tops of the counter and fire off a few more shots at them before dropping back down. In that time, Joel’s plan succeeds by surprising them with the angle and getting down one of them in the process. More shouting is heard from the men, alerting you that Joel killed the one he snuck up on.

Two down, you tell yourself. You can do this.

The back-and-forth continues. You fire off a couple shots at them, take cover when they shoot at you. Inevitably, you knew someone would have to make a move that caught more off guard.

Thankfully, you’re able to take one more down and soon after, Joel takes his own down from behind one of the cars. You do a mental scan of the group, remembering who was a part of it and which ones would be left. Thinking over it, you realize that only two would remain—the younger one who couldn’t have been much older than a teenager, and the leader of the group who you haven’t heard from or seen him show himself as much as the others.

Angling your head a bit, you look to find Joel coming up on the younger one. The one who had made a comment about you.

Joel shoots him in the kneecap before swiftly kicking the gun out of the kid’s hand. A sharp cry of pain is heard from the boy as he begs for mercy. Looking through the foggy bakery case, you try to squint to see a better view of what was happening. What you find is the sight of Joel kicking the boy’s head back with the butt of his gun, repeatedly smashing it into his skull. The twisted sounds of bones breaking fill your senses, mixed in with garbled cries of pain and pleading words spoken from the boy.

You peek over the counter once again to fire out a shot in hopes that the sound makes the leader’s presence known, but you’re met with the soft click of the gun signaling you are out of bullets.

Dropping back down, you curse and force yourself to not panic but fail as you reach into your jacket pocket with shaky hands trying to find your spare ammo. In the process, you don’t hear the crunching sound of glass close to you until you feel a tight grip on your arm as you’re forced to a standing position. A sharp yelp leaves you from the movement and your eyes widen when they settle on the figure that grabbed you.

“Looks like you’re caught now, princess,” he sneers.

The leader of the group gives you a sick smirk and snarls as he yanks you out from behind the counter after taking your gun and throwing it off to the side. You desperately try to fight against him, wriggling your body to free yourself from his grasp and run away, but he just presses your back deeper into the front of his body. Locking his left arm in front of your chest with a bone-breaking grip, he drags you out onto the street a few feet away from Joel.

He’s still straddling the boy as he beats him far past death, seemingly distracted as he gives no indication he heard or noticed what happened. The realization that his right ear had been facing the coffee shop hits you, understanding why he wouldn’t hear above the sounds of his fist driving into the boy’s face.

The leader calls out to Joel with a wave of his knife before pressing it against your throat and applying enough pressure for you to feel the sharp edge dig into your skin, alerting you if you move too suddenly, it would slice you. In a desperate attempt to keep the knife away from you, you keep your left hand gripped on his arm across your chest and your right hand holding his wrist that holds the knife to your throat—hoping you could use the force to escape if his grip loosened in the slightest.

At the call, you see Joel straighten up. His head whips around as he looks wild and confused, before his eyes settle on yours and you watch his entire body freeze in an instant.

You don’t take your eyes off him as you try not to let panic consume you, trying to use Joel’s presence as a source of comfort, but you aren’t stupid. You are aware that there is little that can be done from Joel right now without triggering this man to hurt you in some way. What causes your composure to falter, is you can tell that Joel realizes it too.

Joel raises his hands slowly in front of him, his rifle still slung around his neck but the handle of it loosely held in his hand as he holds it out and away from his body.

“Let her go.”

The tone in Joel’s voice is one you haven’t heard before, one that makes you shudder. It’s a mix of pure blind rage, combined with complete fear, all while his eyes never stray from yours. Not once.

The man laughs disturbingly. “You think this is a fucking discussion? We just wanted to talk, and you killed my fucking men.”

You feel the grip from his arm wrapped around your chest tighten, simultaneously applying more pressure with the knife held in his other hand. You feel nauseous—bile rising in your throat for what seemed like the hundredth time today as you feel his body behind you press further into yours. 

Joel seems to notice the action as he looks down quickly to the lower half of your body before flicking his eyes up to the man, a sickening snarl on his face. You see his body twitching from anger despite the distance between the two of you, noticing the way his hand’s grip on his gun tightens.

The man brings his face against the side of yours, his nose pressed against your temple as you feel his breath fanning your neck. Side-eyeing Joel, he says, “Can’t say I blame you, though. I mean if I found something this pretty in a world so ugly, well… I wouldn’t want to let it go either.”

He looks between you and Joel, a smirk in his voice as he snickers. “It’s a good thing I’m willing to share.”

You try to slow your breathing back to a steady pace, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this situation. You know that it would be hard for Joel to make a sudden move without something happening to you in the process, and you can tell from his body language and from how well you know him that he realizes it too. But you can also see, feel, the anger in him and his growing impatience. 

Your eyes flick around the scene before you to figure something out. Out of the corner of your eye, you focus on the way the man holds the knife to your throat. His right arm is held up and out, and the knife is long enough to cover your whole throat. His grip on the handle makes it so his hand is not parallel to your body, but rather it is held just above your shoulder. Noticing the detail, you think of a plan.

God, you hope this will work.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Joel breaks eye contact with the man and settles his gaze back onto yours, his eyes softening in the slightest when they meet your own. You flick your eyes down to your grip on the man before very slowly taking your index finger you have on the man’s right wrist, and make two light taps on the back of his hand—the action so delicate that the man doesn’t notice. But Joel does.

The movement catches Joel’s eye instantly as he’s hyper aware of every single part of your body at the moment, making him look at the hand holding the knife. The furrow between his brows twitches in understanding, a movement only you would catch, before he locks eyes with you again. 

Silent words pass between you in mere seconds, and you know Joel understands what you need him to do. His jaw clenches briefly, a sign that tells you he isn’t happy with the plan, and he quickly looks back to the man’s hand before his eyes flick between both of yours, a sudden nervous look in them. 

The two of you understand the risk, but both know there isn’t another option.

Gritting his teeth, Joel moves with a swiftness as he tightens his grip on his rifle and positions the weapon to aim. The movement is so sudden that the man has no chance to process what is happening before Joel shoots once at the back of the man’s hand that holds the knife. 

You only feel a small sharp sting followed by relief as the bullet grazes the top of your shoulder instead of completely penetrating your skin as it goes through the man’s hand.

He yells in distress as he pulls his right hand off your throat and drops the knife in shock. The moment makes his grip on your chest loosen, allowing you to rip his left arm off you and elbow him in the stomach before throwing yourself forward. In the same moment, Joel reaches for you and catches you by your forearms to try and break your fall as you land on the ground from exhaustion.

Seemingly satisfied with your immediate safety, Joel begins walking over to the man that sits on the ground screaming in pain and repeatedly cursing, “You fucking bitch!”

His face shifts into one of fear when his eyes lift up to the sight of Joel marching towards him, whatever expression on Joel’s face makes him scramble to try and get up to run. Before he gets the chance, Joel reaches his cowering body and uses the toe of his boot to kick the man in the chin, sending him laying back down on the ground with another curse and blood rushing from his nose and mouth.

You stay on the ground, hands digging into the pavement behind you as you watch Joel tower over the man before climbing on top of him. Joel reaches forward to wrap his left hand around the collar of the man’s shirt and raises his right hand, balled into a fist, and brings it down onto the side of his face repeatedly.

Your senses are consumed by the violence before you. All you can focus your eyes on is the violence before you. All you hear is the disturbings sounds of the man wailing in pain, bones crunching, and Joel. His snarls and grunts fill your ears as he proceeds to slam his fist into the man’s face for what feels like forever.

Eventually, you stop hearing the sounds of pain coming from the man who had almost killed you. You realize he’s dead, but Joel doesn’t stop. 

Eyes unable to be taken off the right side of Joel’s body over his body, you watch as Joel begins to alternate between fists as he continues beating him—only using his dead body as a vessel to let out pure anger and adrenaline at this point. The sounds of impact become more wet as blood completely covers the dead man’s face, Joel pounding into him relentlessly with the occasional sounds of bones crunching still occurring. You didn’t even know there were so many bones in the face to break.

Time passes, you aren’t sure how long, before Joel’s movements slow down to a stop. You think he only stops because his body is exhausted as you hear his harsh breathing and watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His fists twitch as if holding himself back from continuing, and you look to see the knuckles on both of his hands are covered in deep bruises along with blood. So much blood, covering his hands, arms, and splatters of it on his face.

This is what Maria had meant that first day you were here. What Joel was capable of.

As if he entered his body again, Joel seems to freeze. Perhaps he was lost in the violence and forgot you were there. Maybe, with the right side of his body facing you, he didn’t hear your labored breathing. You watch him slowly stand up off the now dead body, hovering over it as he looks down with disinterest. He turns and begins to walk over to you silently, his head angled downwards as he extends a bloody hand to help you up. 

You take it, your fingers wrapping around his usually warm and calloused palm that now is wet and sticky with blood. Allowing him to pull you up, you try to duck your head to look at him, but he has his eyes trained on the ground since he stopped punching.

“Are you okay?”

The words come out broken through his hoarse voice, the question being the first thing he’s said in however long he was killing that man. His eyes don’t raise past your waist, still not making eye contact with you directly as his face is etched in a deep frown.

You just want him to look at you.

You nod your head for a second before speaking up, your own voice sounding so small—the effort of speaking being almost painful. “Yes.”

Joel doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer as he opens and closes his mouth for a second, his frown deepening even more before he harshly shuts his eyes for a moment.

“Did they–” The words sound as if they are being forced out of his throat, his voice catching and a choked sound coming out as he spoke. “Did he… did he touch you?”

“No,” you respond softly.

Joel nods slowly before looking around at the aftermath of the fight.

Why won’t he look at you?

After a few moments, Joel clears his throat and his voice breaks slightly as he says, “Sound could’ve attracted clickers. We better head back to Jackson. S’gonna get dark soon.” The words are factual, said with no real rush in them, as if he’s forcing himself to move on. He gestures towards the horses down the road behind you, walking past you for a few steps. You stand there, staring at the barely recognizable dead body ahead of you before you turn around and call out.

“Joel?”

Your voice cracks at the name and you watch as his movements halt, turning his body half towards you with his eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. All he gives you is a hum of acknowledgement before you take one hesitant step towards him, seeing him tense up and take an unconscious step back. The action makes a crack split in your chest.

“Joel,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper. “Can you please look at me?”

Hearing the tremble in your voice, Joel slowly, yet carefully, lifts his eyes to yours. Seeing his brown eyes finally making contact with yours makes you take a shaky breath in. The same eyes that always look at you with so much warmth in them that it envelopes you in him. You feel so small at the moment, not knowing how to tell him what you want.

He studies you for a moment, his own breathing stuttering when he makes eye contact with you. His frown deepens at first until he sees something in your eyes that makes his hardened face soften into relief, as if he read your mind and could hear the thoughts you desperately wanted to convey.

You aren’t scared of him, as he feared. As he has feared, for almost two years. Fear that if you saw every side of him, you would recoil with disgust. Completely pulling yourself away from him and looking at him like a monster.

In that moment, he realizes you don’t fear him. You need him.

He lets out what must have been a breath he was holding in since the two of you heard the stranger’s voice for the first time, his entire body sagging before launching himself forward in your direction. The moment Joel moves toward you, you impatiently step forward too and throw yourself into his arms.

You wrap both of your arms as tight as possible around his waist, eyes screwed shut and burrowing your face into his chest. Smelling sweat, and blood, and him. His own arms wrap around your back, somehow holding you tighter than you were holding him, as if he wanted to feel every inch of your skin against his own. He brings his right hand to hold the back of your head, pushing you even further into him before resting his face against the top of your head and letting his eyes fall closed at the feeling of you safe in his arms.

The comfort somehow makes you want to crumble further, the freedom to be more vulnerable causing a sob to escape your throat. You try to stifle the sound but Joel already heard it, rubbing the back of your head with his thumb as he moves to dip his head into the crook of your neck and breathes you in deeply.

“I got you, darlin’. Always,” he whispers against your neck.

With those words, you let everything out.

The name he’s called you for months now somehow hits you harder than it ever has, making your knees buckle as the exhaustion and loss of adrenaline seems to catch up to you. You feel Joel adjust his grip to hold you tighter and keep you up, mumbling against your skin, “M’not gonna let you fall.”

His touch and his words provide you more sturdiness and protection than you have ever felt—more than you thought was humanly possible.

Your sobs and panicked breathing eventually even out into sniffles as you focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat that you faintly hear with your ears pressed against his chest. You stand there holding each other for what feels like too long, yet also not long enough. When you feel more calm, you begin to loosen your hold and pull away, but not before Joel’s grip on you tightens just a bit more before letting you pull yourself away first.

You lean only inches back from him, eyes trained on the base of his neck as you feel his breath on your mouth. He brings the hand that was on the back of your head over to gently cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb underneath your eye to wipe away tears and the tenderness of his touch has your eyes falling shut. You feel him lean his forehead against yours for a few seconds before he pulls back enough to place a gentle and lingering kiss to your forehead.

Taking a step back from you, he moves his grip to place one on your waist and another on your upper arm. His eyes move across your face, taking in every detail before he breathes out to say, “We gotta go home, darlin’.”

His words cause you to snap back into reality as he was right. The sun had begun setting and it would be a long trip back to Jackson—you two had to leave now. It didn’t stop the small part of you that wished you could stay in his arms for the rest of your life.

You turn your body to head down the street when you feel him slip his hand into yours, squeezing tightly, before leading you over to your horses.

Déjà vu is a funny feeling. It’s something that people tend to forget just how odd of a sensation it is.

The blinding white lights that make your head pound intensely. The sterile smell of the hospital room. The hushed voices between the medical staff as they poke and prod you. Your own dissociative state as you sit silently, eyes unfocused on the wall in front of you. It’s all eerily similar to what you remember as your first day in Jackson.

All you want to do is go home and go to sleep for as long as humanly possible.

Joel and you had made your way back to Jackson, arriving close to midnight, you think. Due to how far you two had gone, it got dark fast. You had spent the ride back feeling Joel’s eyes on you at any chance he could get, but you had just stared straight ahead, too exhausted from the events that just occurred. About an hour in you remember Joel had called out to you, offering for you to ride on his horse sitting behind him so you could rest and use his back as support. His offer was due to his notice that your eyes had started fluttering shut more and more often, worrying him further on your current state. You declined, knowing that him having to steer his own horse while holding onto the reins of yours as she rode beside would only make the journey go slower.

You just wanted to be home as fast as you could.

Once arriving back to town, you found Maria, Tommy, and a few other leaders in the town waiting at the gates restlessly. Your absences had made the others worry something was wrong, and they seemed prepared to head out in search of you two.

You vaguely remember shouting. Tommy’s face growing alarmingly concerned at the sight of the state you two were in. Maria’s own body sagging with relief at the fact you two were alive before matching her husband in his concern once her eyes scanned over your form. You had felt hands grabbing you, bringing Joel and you to the doctor quickly to get you both checked for injuries. 

Since riding into Jackson, Joel hadn’t seemed to have taken his eyes off you now that he didn’t have to focus on the road ahead. You faintly recall his sounds of protest when the doctor had separated you two into your own rooms—Joel only succumbing to their efforts when Maria laid a firm hand on his chest to hold them back. “We’re giving her a female doctor to check her over, and I’ll sit with her the whole time. I promise.” Her words brought Joel a tiny bit of peace before becoming nauseous at the need for their decisions regarding you.

A hand touching your shoulder brings you back to reality for a moment, causing you to flinch at the sudden touch. Looking up, you realize the doctor was speaking to you with Maria behind her and looking over her shoulder to watch your reactions.

“What?”

The memory of your first day arriving here comes back to you once again when you speak, remembering the overwhelming feeling you had so long ago. The feeling of being underwater while drowned-out voices echo around you and try to grab your attention.

The doctor sighs before looking at Maria, not impatiently, but knowingly. “I’ve checked her thoroughly. Besides the small wound on the top of her shoulder from the bullet, she doesn’t seem to have any other injuries. Some bruising, sure, but I mainly think she’s just overwhelmed.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she leans closer to Maria, intending for you to not hear what she says. But you do. “The mental signs of infection are most likely due to the trauma.”

She talks about you like you aren’t there. Like you aren’t human. 

The question that races through your mind, the only question you care for the answer to, comes out of you. “Where’s Joel?”

Maria turns her attention to you when she hears your voice croak out the words. She gives a sad smile before replying, “Don’t worry honey, he’s just outside talking with Tommy right now. He’s alright, too…we figured you’d want your space–”

“I want Joel,” you say, leaving no room for argument in your tone.

Her eyes soften in understanding and she gives a small nod before the doctor opens the room to head out, Maria following her out. She leaves the door open a bit, allowing you to hear the hushed, broken sentences from Tommy and Joel—the door angled so you could see Joel leaning close to Tommy to whisper, their words fading in and out.

“...Where do you think they…”, you hear from Tommy first.

“Don’t know. Can't be too close. We were so far out and…”

“... Could be on their way if they see… Just like David was…”

David? Who was David?

“No, no… made sure they couldn’t follow…”

You wish they would speak up louder so you could hear more of what they were saying.

Then, in a weaker voice, you hear Joel say, “It happened again, Tommy… I couldn’t protect her, I couldn’t–”

Their conversation is interrupted as Maria walks up. You see Joel’s body language straighten out and tense up as he looks to her with stoicism. It isn’t until you hear your name being said in the mix of words that you see Joel’s head snap in your direction before he takes quick strides to get to your door.

The moment it opens, his eyes are alert—worried. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, just… wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay too.”

His features soften, his round eyes so heartbreakingly beautiful that you forget about what happened for a single moment and only focus on him.

“Yeah, I’m alright, darlin’. Doc said you’re cleared. They patched up your shoulder and everythin’.”

You nod, not caring much for the state of your injuries as you can only focus on one goal. “Can we go home now?”

Joel nods without hesitation. “‘Course we can,” he says, walking towards your chair. His hand seems to hover over your back, wanting to guide you but knowing you had been jumpy to anyone touching you the whole time you were here. You take the initiative to lean your body into his when you stand up, giving him a silent cue that his touch was welcome—craved, even. You hear a small sigh of relief leave his mouth as he wraps his arm around your back, holding you close to him as he guides you both outside the building. 

You catch Tommy and Maria speaking in hushed tones outside the front door of the hospital before stopping when they see you two. They both look down to Joel’s arm around you—Maria with a firm look on her face, lips tight and brows twitching together, while Tommy offers a more softer and sympathetic look. “You guys let me know if you need anythin’, alright?”

Joel gives a nod of acknowledgement to his brother before Tommy comes over to pat his shoulder, leaning in as you hear Tommy whisper to him. “Take care of your girl, alright, big brother?”

The words don’t impact you as much as they might have before today, letting you know that you aren’t completely there, but they seem to affect Joel as you hear him take a sharp inhale of breath before giving a single nod in response.

It’s a short and silent walk to your house until you turn onto your walkway. Joel leads you over to your door as you reach into the inside of your jacket to take out your house key in the pocket there. Your hands uncontrollably shake as you try to get them, but your struggle is stopped not long after by the feeling of Joel’s hand gently laying on top of yours.

You look up to meet his eyes, seeing his eyebrows pushed together and up a bit as he gives you the same tender look he’s given you, and only you, all night whenever he looks at you. “Let me,” he softly commands, taking over to reach into your pocket. As he grabs the key and opens your front door, he still supports your body with his other arm as you lean into his side.

He gently helps you into your home before closing and locking the door behind him while you just stand there, numb, and looking around the entryway. When he finally turns around to look at you, he’s met with the sight of your back, unmoving, and his worry only grows. 

Slowly walking around to stand in front of you, he lifts his hand to carefully brush away stray pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face, as if he’s done the action a million times. You look at his chest, yet stare at nothing in front of you as your eyes continue to stay unfocused. Noticing this, Joel begins to frown as he feels a lump in his throat—a pain stabbing him in his chest.

He brings his hand that brushes your hair away to cup your chin, delicately guiding your head upwards to try and get you to focus on him. It seems to do the trick as your eyes meet his, blinking repeatedly to adjust your eyes to your surroundings.

The sight of you more focused eases Joel’s worry a bit. You lift your eyes to his and watch as he smiles sadly. “There she is. Missed ya.”

You become aware of how you’ve been acting. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

Joel cuts you off with a shake of his head before speaking to you with sincerity in his voice. “Absolutely nothin’ you need to apologize for, darlin’. Just want you alright is all.”

You numbly nod your head, watching as Joel straightens up to look over to your staircase leading upstairs. “How about you go up there, take a shower, and get ready for bed. I’ll give you some space if you want and head home to do the same before I–”

The thought of being alone makes you frantically shake your head, eyes wide as you begin rambling. “No, please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone, please just–”

Surprised worry appears on Joel’s face as he places his hands on your arms to steady you and bring your attention back on to him, ducking his head down to level his eyes with yours once again. “Hey, hey,” he hushes soothingly. “I’m gonna come right back, make you some food to eat ‘til you fall asleep, okay?”

It’s not enough. You shake your head again. “Please don’t go yet… you can use my shower before I do and then we can eat. I have plenty of spare towels if you’re okay with that?”

Joel pauses for half a second before giving you a smile in response. “‘Course I can, darlin’. Let me go home to grab some clothes, then I can get washed up here and we can eat before you sleep. That sound alright with you?”

His suggestion is the most logical, so you nod in agreement. It doesn’t stop you from standing at your window and watching him as he walks across the street to his house, only to stare at his door waiting until he comes back out. The lights go on and off as he seems to move about the house before he comes back out shortly. Seeing him again has you letting out a breath of relief, taking no hesitation to swing open your door before he is even fully on your side of the street. 

The sound of you opening the door has his steps faltering for a brief moment, his movements pause until continuing to make his way inside—a small bag over his shoulder that you assume is filled with a change of clothes.

You hover close to him as you watch him cross the threshold and remove his shoes at the front of your door. He gestures upstairs with a nod of his head. “You take the first shower, okay?”

You try and argue, suddenly feeling bad about making him stay here with you, but he just shakes his head at you. “Nope, I’ll be alright ‘til you’re ready. I can start preparin’ some hot food for you so it’s nice and fresh for when you’re done. Take your time, okay?”

Nodding to him, you slowly make your way upstairs, turning at the top to see him watching you until you reach your bedroom. You then hear the sounds of him walking into your kitchen—the clanging sounds of pots assuring you he was still here.

Your body moves like a zombie. Your motions are on autopilot as you walk into your bathroom, turning on the shower to let it warm up before beginning to undress. Once completely stripped, you look at the pile of clothes that now lays on the bathroom tile—what looks like every inch of it covered in blood and fully ruined. You stand there for a few seconds too long, simply looking down and glaring at it as if its presence disgusts you, before deciding you would throw it out in the morning. Or maybe even burn it.

As you turn to step into the shower, you make an effort to avoid your mirror at any cost, forcing your legs to lift and settle into your position under the stream. The hot water burns your skin, a feeling you relish in that moment as you wish it would rip your skin off and allow your body to start over. You grab your various soaps and begin washing your hair, your body, your face—ending up scrubbing relentlessly in every spot you can possibly think of until the skin burns raw, the dried blood that was left on you far gone.

You aren’t sure how long passes after you finish removing the filth of the day from your body, but you stay standing under the water and let it cascade over your body—your arms folded across your midsection as you tilt your head down to stare at the drain as it turns from red to clear.

A knock on your bathroom door pulls your attention, followed by a call of your name. “You okay in there?”

It takes you a second to find the strength to speak before you’re able to call out a response. “Yes,” you reply, the broken sound of your own voice shocking you.

There’s a short pause before you hear Joel respond. “Alright… just wanted to let you know that the food’s ready, so you can come down whenever you’re done.”

Surprise hits you for a moment. “How long have I been in here?”

With a layer of worry in his tone, Joel calls out, “Uh, just lil’ over an hour… Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

You shake your head before you realize that he can’t see you. “No… I’ll be out in a moment.”

You hear him say to take your time, but you already turned off the water and step out, beginning to dry off and put your pajamas on.

Once finished, you open your bathroom door expecting to see Joel standing in your bedroom. In his absence, panic begins to build inside you and has you calling out his name hurriedly before you see him poke his head into your bedroom door out of the corner of your eye. You turn to face him fully and sigh with relief, realizing that he was just standing outside in your hallway. 

“Sorry,” he sheepishly responds. “Just wanted to give you some privacy.”

You shake away his apology, feeling ridiculous for your reaction in the first place, and move to grab the clean spare towels you have in your cupboard and hand them to him. “Here.”

He gives you a polite smile before taking the pile of folded cloth into his hands, adjusting his grip to pick up the bag he brought here that was leaning against the wall outside your room.

“You go head downstairs and start eatin’. I’ll join you when I’m done. Should be only ten minutes, I promise.”

You nod and let him walk past you into your bathroom, closing that door behind him. 

For a moment, you stand in your bedroom doorway and look in the direction of your staircase. Hovering for a moment while fidgeting, you feel unsure of what to do with yourself until you decide to sit on your bed and wait there for him. The sounds of him turning the water on and moving around brought you a bit of peace, and you end up staring at the clock to watch the hands tick by while you wait for him.

He was right about the time as you hear the water turn off only twelve minutes… and thirty-seven seconds later—your eyes never straying from the moving lines on your clock until you hear shuffling, assuming he’s getting dressed before the bathroom door opens. 

Joel comes out with his head bowed down as he runs a towel quickly through his hair, wearing black sweatpants and a soft looking navy blue T-shirt. He takes two steps out of the bathroom before his head raises back up to see you sitting on the bed waiting for him with your legs folded beneath you.

He jumps slightly, not expecting you to be there, and looks out your bedroom before turning back to you with a confused expression. “Thought I told you dinner was ready?” He calmly says, no judgment or accusation in his tone.

You look down at your hands you’d been fidgeting with in your lap, picking at your fingernails. “I… I wanted to wait up here for you.”

He blinks once. The confusion stays with him for a second as he processes your response,  until his face shifts into warm understanding. “Okay. Let’s go down to eat.”

The moment he steps away from the bathroom door, the bright bathroom light he had shielded you from with his body no longer lays on you. When you stand, Joel takes a step towards you to help you up but freezes once he sees you under the light, his face hardening.

Confusion and worry consume you for a moment, but clarity strikes you when you see his gaze trained below your face. Due to the dim lighting of your house, and the fact your clothing up until now was covering most of your body, Joel had not yet seen the extent of your injuries that you avoided staring at in the bathroom.

His eyes stay glued to the brushing on your arms for a few seconds before they lift up to the bandage on your shoulder. His focus travels to your throat where you assume a long thing cut laid there from the knife that was pressed against you.

Still looking at your throat, you watch Joel’s top lip twitch before he swallows his emotions harshly. “C’mon,” he mutters softly, placing his hand on your shoulder and guiding you gently downstairs.

Reaching the kitchen, you see a pot of stew sitting on the now-off stove with two bowls next to the stovetop and a large ladle placed against the side of the pot. Joel pulls out a chair for you at your kitchen table, letting you sit before he goes over to fill up the two bowls with the food, coming back over to place them down in front of your respective spots before going to grab some water from the fridge.

You both settle into your seats and begin to eat silently, the only words spoken being a quiet thank you from you for him making you something to eat. He brushes off your appreciation lightheartedly, as if his sentiment was as natural as breathing and nothing worth being thanked for. The sounds of silverware clanking against the ceramic bowls mixed with the domestic nature of the two of you eating together in silence is enough for you a sense of safety and comfortability to wash over you, no words needing to be shared to fill the quiet.

When you finish your bowl, Joel moves to take it to the sink as he was done with his own a few minutes before, and starts to wash and put away everything. You watch his back silently as he moves, thinking you hear a very faint sound of humming coming from him, but it’s too quiet for you to be sure.

As he dries the last bowl left, you quickly rush out a question you've had on your mind since coming home.

Joel turns to face you, looking confused and making you realize you had spoken too quietly. You wait a few moments as he turns the water over, drying his hands on your dish towel and turning his body to face you directly as he leans back against the sink counter.

You clear your throat and look at the ground as you repeat your question. “Can you sleep here tonight?”

His lack of response for a few seconds fills you with shame, feeling stupid for even asking. Trying to rectify the embarrassment, you begin to ramble out more words with your head angled towards the floor. “I just… I don’t really want to be alone tonight. I know the couch is not the most comfortable thing to sleep on, so if you don’t want to I completely understand, I just–”

“Yes.”

The sound of his voice responding to you makes you shoot your head up to look at him, eyes wide as you hadn’t expected him to agree. Making eye contact with you, you see a sure look in his eyes mixed with… relief?

Did he want to sleep here tonight, too?

Mouth parted in a small “o” shape, you slowly nod. “Okay… um, I have some spare pillows and blankets in my bedroom closet. Let me go get them for you and I’ll set you up on the couch.”

Joel wordlessly nods, walking into the living room as you quickly make your eyes upstairs to grab the items. In your room, your eyes glance at the clock hung on your wall to see it was 2 am. Your body seems to snap back into its previously exhausted state as you realize how long the day has been—Joel’s presence since you arrived home seems to have distracted you from the reality of the toll your mind and body took on today.

You make your way downstairs to find Joel watching you carefully as you walk up to him and hand him the pillows and blankets. He takes them with a hum of appreciation before he begins to set up his space for the night.

The sight of him fluffing the pillow onto one end of the couch and stretching the fabric of your quilt across the narrow cushions has you wince. The guilt of making him, as big and broad as he is, spend the night on your cramped couch grows in you.

As he finishes his movements with a final flick of his wrist to throw one end of the quilt at the end of the couch, you open your mouth to tell him he can go home. Somehow, despite his back being towards yours, he turns to look at you before you can even speak, only to immediately say, “I want to be here.”

Your mouth flutters open and closed after he speaks with such confidence, momentarily stunned at the timing of your thoughts. Or perhaps he knew what you were going to say without even seeing that you had wanted to speak. 

You give him an attempt at a smile, your lips barely curling up in one corner, something that takes a bit of effort as you think you haven’t done it since before your run in earlier. You seem to be proven right when you see Joel’s shoulders sag with relief at the sight, grateful to have some emotion be shown out of you.

You look around the room, unsure how to say goodnight, while also not wanting to be away from him. He seems to notice your hesitancy, because he nods his head in the direction of your staircase. “Let me get you to bed, darlin’.”

Assuring him you can do so on your own, you shake your head and begin to protest. He carefully reaches his hand out to hold one of your hands as his eyes focus on you and speaks with the same confidence from before. “I want to.”

With that, you allow him to walk up with you to your bedroom—Joel opening the door for you and guiding you inside. You make your way over to your bed and watch with slight awe as Joel reaches over to pull the covers back, allowing you to slip in. The action makes your cheeks flush, and you become grateful for the darkness in the room as you crawl into bed and settle beneath the covers. You look at the lamp that sits on your dresser in the corner of the room before eyeing Joel nervously. His gaze follows yours to look at the lack of light with furrowed brows. 

“Could you… um…” you trail off, gesturing towards the lamp with your chin. He understands your request and walks over to turn it on so that a dim warm light fills your room. 

Embarrassment fills you for a moment, feeling like a fucking child who just woke up from a nightmare and needs their light on to sleep through the night. Maybe that’s what today was, you think. One big nightmare, and you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling normal again.

Logically, you knew you would recover. Having had these encounters in the past before, you always compartmentalized the experiences and moved on—forcing yourself to bury the complexities of your emotions in order for you to be able to keep going both physically and mentally. Today, though, you found yourself feeling safe in terms of your reactions. Joel’s patient and gentle nature with you makes you feel free enough to not need to keep it all in. For once, you could let yourself rely on someone else to be there for you.

As Joel makes his way back around to you, he sits on the edge of your bed beside you to begin adjusting the blankets until they cover you more properly. Satisfied with his effort, he rests one of his hands on top of yours that lay on your stomach overlapping each other. His eyes lift to yours with such warm intensity that it makes your heart skip a beat. You can’t recall a moment where anyone has ever looked at you with so much emotion and care in their eyes.

The two of you simply gaze into each other’s eyes for a minute before Joel breaks the contact by leaning forward slowly, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted, but you don’t want to. His lips press a lingering kiss to your forehead, a deep inhale leaves his nose before he pulls back.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he says as he stands and begins to walk backwards out of your room, eyes never leaving your face. 

“Goodnight, Joel.”

You watch him leave your room and notice how he keeps your door partly open so that you can see him walk down the staircase, deliberately leaving your dim staircase light on to give you more comfort.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! i hope you all enjoy <3 follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for updates!

a/n: sorry for the emotional rollercoaster, and posting it after episode 6. feeling masochistic. 🏷️: @dendulinka6 @suzysface @koshkaj-blog @orcasoul @emmasveinyahhdih @thatoneperson38747 @silksepia @orodaeh @ithinkimokeei @emnull0 @warriorkarol @luvwanda @pascal-mynightlyobsession @grayandthyme @crlsummer @ashleyfilm @darling-imobsessed @tjohn63

[sundrop-writes]

omg, thank you so much for reading and commenting, I am so glad that the concept interested you enough to give the fic a try!

as for the reader's family - if I write other fics with this pairing, I will go more in depth with the explanation. but I had it in mind that she has other relatives who are also Death Eaters, and even if not all of them were arrested and prosecuted for being directly connected to Voldemort, pretty much everyone in her family carries the pureblood values - so among cousins, aunts, uncles, etc. even if she wasn't rejected by them for not joining Voldemort, then she would be rejected by them for getting together with and dating George, because he doesn't have pureblood values and the Weasleys are 'blood traitors'. (I would definitely want to touch on this more if I write a fic about George and Slytherin reader getting married - I would want to talk about the fact that she doesn't have any relatives that she wants to invite to the wedding, and if she does, they reject her invitation due to the fact that is marrying George.)

because it's not just about Death Eaters vs not Death Eaters, it's about the fact that Pureblood values come in different levels of prejudice - some of them aren't willing to become Death Eaters because they aren't willing to kill for Voldemort, but they still hold the values close, and either way, they will exile her from the family because she doesn't hold those values anymore. so because she didn't agree to go into a marriage contract and carry on the Pureblood line by marrying someone from a 'noble' Pureblood family to have babies with them, she is rejected from the family solely because of that

I am so glad that the themes come across!! I really wanted to drive home that she was a prop in her father's life and once she started to feel genuine affection and friendship from George, she realized that her father never loved her, and George's intentions for her vs her father's intentions for her were so different, and she knew that she didn't want to live the life that her father wanted her to live

and it is incredibly sad that she was so intelligent in school and all of it went to waste - not just because of her father, but because The War completely derailed her career, and then the emotional scars that her father left her with left her too tired and weak to pursue a worthy career for herself. but maybe she can use her skills now to help invent WWW products. that would actually be insanely fun and adorable

also if you're curious about how George's crush began - there is a bit of an explanation toward that in the second chapter, but mostly, it's the fact that he loves a contrarian. he loves the fact that every single time he said something, she said the opposite, she had to have the last word - it's the classic case of someone being intensely annoying and getting under your skin and then you can't stop thinking about them, and you realize that it's attraction. and she felt the same way, but she was too busy with her father's drama and trying not to become a Death Eater to truly realize how much she was attracted to George until they were in their 20s, where he realized his attraction to her when they were teenagers.

also, fyi, I just posted the second part last night, so if you want to find out more about these characters and wanna find out how the story ends, you should go and check that out <3

I'm Not Angry (Anymore)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

I’m not angry… anymore. (Well, sometimes I am.)

I don’t think badly of you. Well - sometimes I do.

It depends on the day, the extent of all my worthless rage… 

I'm Not Angry (Anymore).

Part One: The Lion and The Serpent

Summary:

You and George have never been friends.

You have known him for a long time, and even if your schoolyard hatred toward him turned into hesitant co-operation during the War (still paired with mild annoyance), the two of you never became friends.

You working at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is simply out of convenience for the both of you. And even if you can't bring yourself to leave the awful job, it's certainly not because of the weird attachment you have formed with one of your bosses.

You and George Weasley are definitely not friends.

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader. Enemies to Lovers. Pre-Smut, Heavy Plot Build-Up, Romance. Set Post War.

Word Count: 29,900

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Full warnings list and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina (though as with most of my fics, most of the pronouns used throughout are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); there are no descriptions of the reader’s race, weight, hair colour, eye colour, or general looks other than a few statements about George being taller than the reader (and even then, it does not say how much taller he is than her and it does not state that she is ‘tiny’ or petite) - this is based off the idea that Oliver Phelps is 6 foot 2 and most people would be shorter than that by comparison; there is descriptions of the reader wearing very hyper feminine clothing, including skirts, dresses, and high heels (and it is stated that she wears high heels on a regular basis), and it's stated that she regularly wears makeup (I had a very specific clothing aesthetic in mind for this character, I couldn't help it); the reader is a Slytherin, and this fic explores the ‘evil Slytherin’ trope because the reader used to be somewhat of a bully but she joined Dumbledore’s Army during her time at Hogwarts and joined the Order of the Phoenix when she turned 17; the reader is the same age as Fred and George and was in their year (so DA took place during her seventh year and the Battle of Hogwarts took place when she was 19 or 20); the reader is a Pureblood and comes from a family that upholds typical Pureblood values - while she used to believe in those things (or was taught to) she broke away from her family and is not a Pureblood supremacist; the reader has a father and other unnamed family members who are Death Eaters, and clearly expected her to follow in their steps; this takes place three years after the Battle of Hogwarts (so the reader character is 23 or 24 in this fic, but you can imagine her to be whatever age you want her to be) - there is some discussion/explanation of the fallout from the War; even though Fred is not the love interest character, this is a ‘Fred Lives AU’ (I can’t put George through all that); this might be slightly OOC Fred - but I do think this is genuinely how Fred would react if one of his siblings had a crush on a Slytherin (the Weasleys can be petty); mentions of canon deaths (Cedric Diggory); there is some ACAB themes - the reader is wrongfully arrested (but George helps to keep her out of prison); George has some trauma over Fred almost being killed; general themes of trauma and PTSD (because both the reader and George fought in and experienced a war); the reader has trauma because she comes from an emotionally abusive and neglectful household (though there are no mentions of her ever being physically abused at home); alcohol and drinking - in this part, only the reader character gets drunk (in a flashback), and she gets drunk with the purpose of drowning out emotional pain, but this is only a one-time thing and she does not have a drinking problem; mentions of vomiting due to drunkenness (does not happen during the fic) (also general mentions of vomit because they sell Puking Pastilles at the shop - but it doesn’t happen during the fic and there’s no detailed descriptions of it); mentions of the reader being raised with House Elves and having a specific beloved House Elf; mentions of a snake being used to scare the reader (if you have a fear of snakes, this might trigger you, but it does turn out to be a rubber toy snake and not a real one); mention of the reader having to experience Umbridge’s canon torture (writing with the blood quill to the point where it slices her hand badly); there is mentions of the reader being right handed (her right hand is her wand hand and the hand she uses to write), so if you’re left-handed, sorry; something that could be considered forcible confinement - George handcuffs himself to the reader as a joke and loses the key, leaving them stuck together; I believe that is all for this section. The next part will have smut (a lot of it) - so don’t get attached to reading this story if you don’t like smut.

A/N: I know that I said this was going to be late, and I genuinely thought it was. But I was feeling a bit better today (even though I am still mostly feeling crappy) and I wanted to get it done so that I can take a break to rest before I start work on editing the next part. And I am really excited to see what people think of this so far, so please enjoy. I am obsessed with their dynamic, and I hope you love it just as much as I do!!!

...

“Um, excuse me, Miss?” 

You were distracted away from your work when someone called for your attention - you had been opening and unpacking a new box of Screaming Yo-Yos, but you put that aside for now. You looked up and put on your best (rather fake) customer service smile, the shelf in front of you still half empty, only halfway done as you abandoned it to help the customer. 

You rose up from your back-aching kneeling position on the floor and wiped your hands on your apron - an ugly, obnoxiously bright orange one with the Weasley W on the chest, your uniform. You were allowed to wear whatever clothes you wanted with it, but the colour easily ruined whatever outfit you tried to put together. A bit of public embarrassment to go along with the forced nicety that you had to participate in while doing the job. You straightened yourself to better speak to the person - a woman in her forties who most definitely wasn’t the regular clientele for the shop. 

“Yes?” You said, your voice bright in a very forced way, your fake smile continuing to beam toward her as she responded with a grin. 

“My son absolutely loves this kind of stuff, and I was wondering if this would be a good gift for his birthday?” She asked, gesturing toward a large fireworks display behind her. 

Your eyes wandered toward the obligatory ‘must be at least sixteen years old to purchase’ sign that the twins had put on the fireworks display. One that Professor Hermione Granger had been down their throats about adding (‘in a large, legible font’ she had specified). She had been very adamant about it after multiple of her First and Second Year students had nearly taken fingers off from lighting the fireworks and then holding onto them as they exploded, despite the clear instructions on the packaging. 

“How old is your son?” You asked, trying to sound politely curious rather than cautious. 

You knew better than to scare away a potential customer. You didn’t need Fred down your throat again about how your ‘sour attitude’ was driving away business. 

“He’s ten. About to turn eleven. I wanted to get him something for his big day.” She said, clearly beaming with pride. 

“Those are a bit, uh… advanced.” You said, choosing your words very carefully. “I think I know something much better for someone his age.” 

You put a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her over to a section of products that the twins had recently come out with - animal themed masks with animated, moving features that made genuine, loud animal sounds when the wearer put them on. The eyes also blinked in time with your own eyes, and the mouth moved in time with your own speech behind the mask. 

They were a big hit with younger kids, especially for sneaking up behind people and scaring them with a loud sound. Even if you found the display to be loud and annoying, you did have to admit that it was adorable to see smaller kids put the masks on and get so excited to become their favourite animal. 

“Morph-O-Masks.” You said, motioning toward the display with an outstretched, showy arm that felt far too familiar of your red-haired bosses. They were rubbing off on you in a painfully obvious way. “They make genuine animal sounds, have moving tongues, eyes, and ears, and we just released a Hungarian Horntail-” 

“Oh my little Gareth would love this one,” 

The woman said, clearly excited, as she picked up the classic lion mask. It had a large, furry mane and the toothy mouth that opened wide to let out a loud, realistic roar. 

“He’s been hoping to get into Gryffindor, just like his father. I didn’t go to Hogwarts myself. I’m American, you see, so I went to Salem. But I moved here when my Walter proposed. And we had sweet little Gareth a few months later. Fat little baby, he was-” 

“That is our best seller,” You commented with a nod, trying to gently cut off the woman’s irrelevant rambling. 

“Thank you so much, dear.” The woman thanked you, and much to your internal annoyance - she then pulled you in for a tight hug. 

You rolled your eyes sharply over her shoulder, your fake smile dropping into a harsh scowl where she couldn’t see. As your annoyance toiled on, you were simply thankful when the hug lasted no more than a three count (because you were most definitely counting in your head). When she pulled away, you directed her to the cash register where Fred was waiting to check out the purchase and then you got back to stocking the yo-yos. 

Your thankfulness ended the moment you turned around and found the other twin waiting for you. George was lingering behind you, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. 

“‘That’s our best seller’,” He repeated your words, mocking you in a girlish tone that did not at all sound like you. 

“Shut up,” You griped, rolling your eyes again, shoving your hands sharply into the pockets of your apron in order to resist the urge to hit him. 

You had to force yourself to remember that it wasn’t your school days anymore, and you couldn’t afford to lose your job as much as you could afford to lose a few house points back in the day. You had to control the petty nature of your temper much more now. 

“No, really, that was great.” He continued on, still grinning with an intense aura of satisfaction. 

It made you want to slap him. Not because you didn’t like to see him smiling, but because it felt like he was mocking you. You hated the way his smile curled humiliation into your gut, and you wanted that feeling gone. 

“You’re finally settling into the job now, eh?” He added on gleefully. 

“It’s work,” You shrugged, eager to end the conversation. 

You attempted to move around him to get back to unpacking the yo-yos - but with the isles cramped so tightly together and with his body so stupidly broad, he easily blocked your way, giving you a very punchable smirk as he purposefully stood in your way. Before you could squeeze around the other way, he leaned in closer, forcing you to take a step back as he moved to grab something off the Morph-O-Mask display. 

You hated that you caught a whiff of his cologne along the way, during the moment that you were a bit too close to him as he moved toward the display and you couldn’t move away fast enough. The scent was far too strong - a cedarwood and lavender combination that you hated, and even so, his hard day’s work was causing the slightest bit of sweat to seep through. It was truly awful.

(That’s what you told yourself, anyway.) 

“I see you still haven’t sold any of the serpents yet.” He chimed, holding up a scaly bright green serpent mask from the display. “If this was a house tournament, I would say that Gryffindor is winning,” 

You knew that it was no coincidence that the original line of masks had consisted of a golden yellow lion, a green serpent, a bronze eagle, and a black and white badger. The badger let out a very terrifying snarl and had rather creepy beady red eyes - which had to be the reason you hadn’t sold many of those, not due to any lack of loyalty from Hufflepuffs. 

It wasn’t your fault that kids were more attracted to the ones that came in the secondary release than they were to a simple round-headed serpent with a flicking tongue and a very dull hissing sound. They loved the different types of dragons, a spider with snapping fangs and dozens of eyes, even the black cat that purred and flicked its ears sold out more often than the serpent. 

Typically, you wouldn’t engage in such a stupid, childish conversation with George, but something had been on your mind considering the original four for a while. Especially when you thought about how many times you had to restock the lion mask in the few short weeks that the Morph-O-Mask line had been out. 

“Did you consider the inherent bias?” You posed, tilting your head at him. “This is a shop owned by two Gryffindors, therefore you are bound to have more Gryffindor customers - especially due to the time you two spent performing grassroots marketing back at Hogwarts, which primarily took place within Gryffindor Tower,” 

George’s face knit with intense thought as you explained this, and you were glad that for once, he was pensive and actually taking in your words, rather than cutting you off with some kind of joke. 

“And even if done unconsciously, you put more care and thought into the design of the lion mask, so it did turn out to be the best one.” You hated to admit it, but it was true. 

Between the quality of the fur and the intense daring beauty of the eyes - the way it raised its mouth and let out the deep intimidating roar - it was beautiful. The serpent - which was supposed to be a fellow predator - looked dull in comparison. 

“And it’s the one you’ve used primarily for marketing,” 

You pointed to the front window, where the lion mask was on a stand advertising the new product. The one in the window was charmed to open its mouth and roar every minute or so, putting on a show to bring people in and check it out. 

“It’s like you set up the serpent to fail.” You spoke with finality. “And then you blame it on a poor stock girl for not shilling it hard enough,” 

You ground intense sarcasm into your final words, taking the green mask from his hands and tossing it back onto the shelf with the large pile of its unsold brothers, finally skirting around him as he stood there shocked into silence. He was genuinely impressed by the amount of thought you had put into it. He finally snapped out of his shock by the time you had knelt back down beside the box of yo-yos, continuing to neatly stock the shelf with them. 

Of course, George wouldn’t leave the topic well enough alone. He turned around to bother you once again, coming to hover over you like a shadow while you worked. 

“Well, perhaps next time we should consult a Slytherin for further research and development,” He said, giving you a grin. “Especially one as thoughtful and intelligent as you.” 

“Let me know when you find one who’s willing to donate her time.” You replied, brisk and cool and entirely dismissive, grabbing the finally empty cardboard box from the yo-yos and shuffling back to the storage room. You were thankful to have an excuse to finally flee away from George, escaping the conversation. 

You were behind the thick wood of the storage room door by the time that George wandered over to the front counter, visibly sulking in front of Fred. 

“That was smooth.” Fred told him, entirely sarcastic. 

“Oi, that was the longest we’ve ever gone without her insulting me. I am making progress.” George replied, determination ultimately distinct in his voice. 

“Yeah, at this point, you’ll be going on your first date in your fifties and be married by the time I have grandchildren,” Fred joked, sounding proud of himself, even standing a bit taller to compliment his words. 

“You don’t even know if Angelina wants kids,” George argued easily, eager to navigate around the subject of his pathetic crush. 

“Yeah, but at least I know she wants me.” Fred nagged, putting emphasis on the word in a way that made George roll his eyes. “At least I’m not hung up on some stone cold Slytherin bit-” 

“Hey!” 

George chastised, knowing that he was somewhat hypocritical now because he would have easily hurled that kind of language at you during your school days. He was understanding when Fred heaved a sigh and shook his head in return. 

“Maybe I like cold.” George added on dully, still trying to justify himself to his brother. 

“Then go stick your cock in the freezer.” Fred sighed. “Maybe it’ll help you get over this nonsense so you can start seeing someone who’s actually good for you.” 

George didn’t say anything further, not wanting to waste his energy and words on trying to explain it to a brother who just couldn’t understand. There was no one else for him, no one else who lived in his heart - no one else but you. 

Even if you refused to look his way - he couldn’t look at anybody else but you. 

… 

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

Part of you - well, most of you - had to wonder how the hell you ended up here. 

It had been three years since The Battle of Hogwarts. Three seemingly winding and endless but so very short years since the great Harry Potter had delivered the final blow to the dark side, killing Voldemort and for the most part, killing all the festering ideas that he represented. 

And not surprisingly, the entire Wizarding World was still very much in the process of healing, even years later. 

Many of Voldemort’s followers had fled Hogwarts in the wake of his defeat, and they had quickly gone into hiding or fled the country altogether, fleeing like cockroaches from the light rather than taking a stand without him there to lead them. Some of them were still being hunted down and persecuted for their crimes; internal investigations were still ongoing at the Ministry, looking into who was responsible for such a dark wizard even having a foothold to so easily take control of the government and even Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts had been reconstructed and normal classes had resumed, but it was clear that the effects of the War were still lingering on the place that had once been a battleground. Many veteran professors had retired in the wake of what had happened, leaving positions vacant and desperate to be filled. This caused a strange kind of immaturity as freshly graduated wizards and witches stumbled along, teaching new students in subjects that they had barely mastered for themselves. 

And you - your life had turned into one big joke. Literally. You were working at a fucking joke shop, when just a few short years ago, you would have absolutely scoffed at the idea and completely dismissed it as impossible. A past version of yourself would have endlessly mocked the version of your future self who wore that embarrassing orange apron, publicly branded as a slave to two annoying pranksters that you absolutely detested during your school days. 

And one of the worst parts? 

You couldn’t even truthfully say, not even in the private of your own mind, that you hated those two annoying redheads now as much as you had in the past. Because you truly didn’t hate them as much. You weren’t even sure if you did hate them now. 

The War had softened you. You still weren’t sure if it was for the better or if it had weakened you greatly - if it had made you tired and complacent. But the whole experience had definitely softened your opinion of the Weasleys and how much you paid attention to things as petty as house rivalries. 

Yes, you were a Slytherin. Yes, you were a Pureblood. 

Yes, you had been raised in a world much different than the one you currently lived in. But it was the changes along the way that had made you the person you truly were. 

You had been raised in rich nobility, constantly catered to by House Elves, never knowing love or affection from a constantly cold father who only showed you disappointment and disdain. You had been raised to believe that you were inherently better than others because of your surname, because of your blood status, because of your family’s generations old wealth and magic. You had been trained from a very young age to think that nothing was more important than upholding the reputation of that name because of all the wealth and generational magic behind it. 

Your mother had been married to your father via a marriage contract - something not uncommon in Pureblood society, something you believed would be your fate. Though your mother had died when you were young and you had very few memories of her - one of those memories being her telling you that you shouldn’t marry young, you should go out and explore the world and ‘find your own path’, you still had been raised to believe that the ways of your family were the right ones. 

You had been raised to believe that your father’s word was as good as Merlin’s Law. For a long time, you believed that you would go to Hogwarts - not to get an education, but to carry on the tradition of Slytherin nobility, getting good grades to show off your magical prowess, and make others aware of your family’s ongoing perfect Pureblood reputation. And then, when you turned seventeen, you would be sold off in a marriage contract similar to the one that had bonded your mother to your father. And it didn’t matter if you were happy or not. That part never mattered. 

Your life never revolved around something as frivolous as joy, laughter, and pranks. 

Perhaps that was why you developed a natural contention for the Weasleys - particularly Fred and George. Because they spent so much of their lives smiling. They were always so happy, seemingly for no reason. They came from a magical family, they had Pureblood lineage, but their family didn’t represent or value the same things that yours did. They didn’t care about reputation or blood purity or upholding traditional values. They cared about happiness and love and friendship. 

You spent a lot of your days trying to believe that they were stupid and you were truly better off than they were. You spent a lot of time telling yourself that you would be better off in the long run because you studied more than they did, and you had a parent who cared about your future - someone who was setting you up for a good life. You spent a lot of your time pushing down feelings of loneliness - or telling yourself that those truly superior to their peers always end up lonely. 

While the twins spent their days surrounded by friends, smiling and joyful, you spent your days walking the halls of Hogwarts alone, swept up in your own thoughts, constantly worried about your future. To you, it seemed like they didn’t think farther than a few days ahead with the way they acted. And it bothered you. They bothered you. They were a nuisance. 

The twins spent so much time laughing - boisterously, loudly, uncaring of who heard them or who they annoyed in the process. Even when they spoke of paranoia for authority figures, even when they voiced a passing worry about their mother’s iron fist - truly, you knew that they didn’t worry about getting in trouble. Because if they did, they wouldn’t actually carry out half the things that they ended up doing. 

Meanwhile, your days were riddled with worry - cautious of everything from your posture to your hairstyle to the length of your skirt, knowing that if you made even the slightest poor impression, it would become a rumor that got back to your father. And it made you stressed - and that stress made you sour. And it was something that you easily took out on the Weasleys, especially the loud, annoying Fred and George. 

…

Any time you so much as crossed paths with Fred and George while at Hogwarts, your day was instantly ruined. All it took was a simple sighting of the two heads of bright red hair for any calm to immediately leave you. As soon as they were near, your blood pressure skyrocketed and bitter words came flying out of your mouth. 

You hated the fact that the castle was so sprawling and large and yet somehow, you kept seeing them so damn often. Part of you couldn’t think that it was simply a coincidence when you saw them. When they kept appearing in the corridors that they knew you took to class, lingering in the dungeons even when they didn’t belong there, lurking near the Slytherin table at meal times. Part of you had to believe that they kept doing these kinds of things on purpose simply to annoy the hell out of you. 

“Ugh, you two haven’t been expelled yet?” You sneered the words in their direction as you walked by, your shiny black heels clacking on the stone floor as you made your way towards Potions class. “I would say that this place has gone to the dogs, but I’ve actually had pitbulls more well behaved and more easily trained than you two idiots.” 

They were huddling close to each other, standing off to the side of the large corridor, and you were instantly suspicious of them and slightly upset that there was nothing you could immediately accuse them of. You could sense that they were up to no good, as always, and you knew that the evidence of that fact wouldn’t come to you cleanly. 

“Oh, Y/N, it’s you.” Fred gave you a feigned, sarcastic smile, and the part of you that thrived off conflict paused your stride and allowed him to keep speaking rather than passing on by. “I thought I heard all the innocent wildlife fleeing in terror.” He put a dramatic hand up to his ear, as though actually listening for this. “Careful, brother, you’ll want to avoid the large cracks when the ground opens up to swallow her back into the dark pit from which she came.” 

It was the typical kind of words he hurled at you. He believed that you were ‘pure evil’ in human form, and he prided himself on coming up with increasingly creative ways of stating that fact. 

“I’m surprised that you can hear anything with all the gunpowder and confetti in your ears.” You jested back. “How many IQ points did you lose after that last explosion? Do they have to let the two of you tag-team your exams now? I mean, if you think about it, the both of your brains added up might make it to Troll level.” 

“We do just fine. Better than most, actually. Especially if the scores were adjusted for academic favouritism from a certain greasy-haired creep.” Fred sighed harshly in return, crossing his arms firmly. 

It was something he had talked about for years, both to your face and behind your back - the idea that you were only considered to be academically gifted because teachers favoured you, especially Snape. And when asked how you achieved such good grades with professors who weren’t your Head of House, he posed another, even more ridiculous sounding theory. He genuinely believed that your father paid them off - that because you were so ‘stinking rich’, you could afford to buy your good grades. 

Notwithstanding that his older brothers certainly didn’t have the coin to buy their grades and two of them had made Head Boy in their time. And when you pointed that out to him, he only stopped off steaming mad without admitting that this fact blew huge holes in his theory. No - he would much rather go around spewing massive lies about you (that many of the other Gryffindors believed simply due to Fred’s charisma and popularity) rather than accepting the truth that you truly worked hard and studied. Rather than accepting the fact that you were genuinely smart, while he on the other hand was a lazy, dumb oaf. 

You were about to open your mouth to argue passionately against the point when George jumped into the conversation. 

“Is that a new perfume?” He added on, dramatically sniffing the air to further punctuate his point. “Or just the scent of ravaged innocent souls coming off you? It is rather lovely, I must admit.” 

Your stomach twisted in an odd way as you weren’t sure whether to interpret this as a compliment or a joking insult. He was clearly playing off his brother’s words, dancing around with the implication that you were evil - but he said that you smelled nice when Fred often said that you ‘stank of the burnt cinders off hell from miles away’. The odd feeling became even more jarring when Fred let out a bright, jeering laugh at the words and high fived his brother in response. 

As terrible confusion rusted through you, you couldn’t conjure a clever response. Your next instinct was to flee. But of course, you couldn’t let them know that you were running away - you couldn’t show anything resembling panic or fear. You couldn’t bare your neck to a pack of hungry lions. 

“Well, as delightfully immature as this is, I am afraid I don’t have the time to stand around here and compete in this stunning battle of wits,” You announced, truly grinding sarcasm into your words to drive home your point as you began to walk away. “Perhaps next time you can come a bit more prepared and actually challenge me. I have to get to Potions.” 

“Aww, how disappointing for us.” George replied, faking a whine in his voice that made you clench your jaw with annoyance. “Another time, then?” He tacked on, waving at you and giving you an oddly sincere smile as his eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t perceive as hope. 

“Say hello to Snape’s back mole for us!” Fred added on, shouting at your back. 

Even as you walked away, you knew that the twins were lingering in the corridor for a reason. Some terrible reason. They stayed in that same spot for far too long, paying far too much attention to you, their eyes glued to your every move as you crossed over the courtyard. 

By now, you knew them well enough to know that something was up, and it made you highly suspicious of everything around you - so that when something snagged your toes, you instantly paused, rather than continuing on with your usual steps. When you looked down, you let out a small huff. Of course. Your eyes followed a very thin, near-invisible tripwire to a bucket that was strung up in a tree above your head. 

You could only imagine what kind of sickening mixture was in the bucket. So you made a point of dramatically stepping over the tripwire, and you smiled to yourself when you heard the twins swearing and sighing with disappointment from their spot far off behind you. And before you finally left for class, you turned around, spotting them in a poorly concealed hiding place in one of the window-like openings around the edge of the courtyard. 

And then, just to prove a point, you blew them a kiss off the tip of your extended middle finger, wanting to show them that they truly hadn’t bested you. Your stomach made that strange twist again when George made a distinct motion of catching the kiss before he winked at you while Fred chose to flip you off in return, clearly mouthing the words ‘horrid bitch’ at you. 

You couldn’t linger too much on it, though. You had to get to class. 

… 

Back then, you thought of the Weasleys as nothing more than daily annoyances. You certainly didn’t think that they would be your future employers. You didn’t think that they would be people that you would be fighting a war alongside. 

You thought your life was perfectly planned out ahead of you. You thought that treating others poorly and being generally mean was just a reputation that naturally preceded you - something that you lived up to very well. Everything in your life was finite and decided, and you were just playing the role that had already been drawn out for you. 

Until Voldemort made his return. 

For you, it was a clear line in the sand. 

After years of walking around blind, sleeping through life - all it took was seeing Cedric Diggory’s limp, dead body in the grass to awaken you. 

You had lived your life talking about your perceived superiority over others, listening to your father talk about it near constantly. But the longer your life went on, the less you actually believed it to be true. The longer you spent away from home while at Hogwarts, the more it all felt like an act to you; one as fake as the smile you put on at the shop for the customers. 

So when it came time to take the next step - when your father urged you to scorch your arm with a Mark in loyalty to a man risen up from the dead and start killing others who were supposedly ‘lesser’ than you, and therefore undeserving of life - you just couldn’t do it. You didn’t have the true pride to back up beliefs that were never your own. 

So you turned away from your father, and you did the one thing that you could remember your mother telling you to do. You found your own path. 

You had been the only Slytherin to join Dumbledore’s Army, to much hatred and suspicion from the others at first. And even though they had attempted to exile you, it felt like the correct, obvious choice. You knew that you weren’t accustomed to such things, but it felt like the right thing to do. 

While it was the first (quiet) rebellion you made against your father’s choices for your life, it was also the most time you had spent around the twins outside of the classes that you had with them. They kept making jokes about you secretly being Umbridge’s mole within the group - which Hermione had assured them and everyone else couldn’t possibly be true, only for you to find out in the most spectacular and horrific way exactly how she had been so assured. And eventually, the twins soon became more adjusted to the idea that you truly didn’t have any ulterior motives. 

But that didn’t mean you were opposed to kicking their asses in dueling practice. 

(Or any other time.) 

… 

You had grown used to the stares and ugly looks that you received whenever you walked into a DA meeting. As much as Hermione vouched for you and assured everyone that you were not intent on betraying them to Umbridge, people had a very difficult time getting used to your presence there. They simply couldn’t adjust to the idea that a Slytherin, especially one who had a Death Eater for a father, genuinely wanted to oppose Voldemort, and was actively training to do so. 

But you weren’t going to spend your time making noble rallying speeches in order to justify yourself to them. You had your own personal reasons, and that was more than enough for you. You were sick of your father’s ways. You knew that you weren’t any better than someone like Hermione Granger simply because of the name you had been born with. And you wouldn’t stand by and watch people like her be murdered or be forced into performing the killing yourself because your father thought you didn’t have a backbone. 

You were sick of a world where you were nothing more than an ornament to him - something quiet and beautiful to help maintain his reputation until you would be married off to someone else to continue doing the same for them. Being sold into a future where you would be forced to produce babies who would be fated to carry on the terrible cycle. 

Even if you would be killed for it, you needed to stand up and fight back. 

You knew that you were likely the only one in the room, other than Harry Potter himself, who was actively thinking about the worldly consequences of these meetings. You were likely the only other person thinking about the possibility of your own untimely death. Everyone else was just showing up for their own personal satisfaction, and the fact of not falling behind in their DADA efforts while Umbridge was actively restricting their education. 

On this day when you walked into the Room of Requirement as the other DA members trickled in, you attracted only enough attention to receive a few solitary sour looks. You had to guess that people were getting a bit more accustomed to you attending the meetings by now. But you picked up on a particularly harsh conversation from a group of huddled boys. You easily recognized the twins, and you thought you knew the others as Dean and Seamus… something. You didn’t know their last names. 

“And have you seen who’s in The Inquisitorial Squad? It’s all Slytherins, it’s just a matter of time until-” Seamus whined. 

“Until that stuck up bitch, L/N, rats on us. Yeah. It was a complete mistake letting her join.” Fred easily cut him off, entirely unafraid to call you harsh names, whether you were listening or not. 

“When have you ever met a Slytherin with good intentions?” Dean posed to the small group. 

“Guys, listen, I think you might be overreacting-” Surprisingly, George tried to oppose them, but his words were swiftly cut off. 

“Seriously, who’s ever heard of a good Slytherin?” Seamus sneered. 

“Well just because I joined this group doesn’t mean I’m ‘good’.” You said, stepping between the twins and forcing yourself into the conversation. 

This caused the boys to either shamefully stare at the ground or divert their eyes off to the side as they clearly weren’t expecting to be overheard by you. George was the only one who dared to look at you, his expression clearly confused at your choice of words. 

You decided to explain yourself. 

“Just because I oppose my father’s traditional hatred of Muggleborns and I don’t believe in mass murder doesn’t mean I’m not still a heinous bitch. It doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped - what was it that you said, Fred? That I strike fear into the hearts of children and rot plantlife with my every breath?” 

“Yeah.” Fred grumbled quietly. “I may have said that.” 

“My point still stands.” Seamus griped bitterly. “There is no such thing as a good Slytherin.” 

“Then it’s irritably clear that you’ve never picked up a book in your short, useless life.” You spat back at him. 

As more confused looks were thrown your way, you dove into a stash of mental research that you had reserved for exactly this occasion, and began spouting off facts. 

“Kory Anderson, during The Great Fire of 1916 that nearly wiped out the entirety of Hogsmeade, she rescued six children from homes within the village and then cast barrier charms to contain the fire until it naturally blazed out. She was a Slytherin.” You announced confidently. 

“Yeah, but-” Dean began to speak up, and you drove right over whatever he had to say. 

“Isaac Lahesen - he invented the first wide use Pain Relief Tonic in 1756. The original recipe is still widely followed and commonly used today. He was a Slytherin. Gally Poulter - died from Ancromantula venom poisoning due to his experiments with the venom that later lead to the invention of the common Anti-Bruise Tonic. His efforts also helped to conserve the Ancromantula as a species and brought them back from the brink of extinction-” 

“Alright, jeez, we get it.” Fred sighed, finally cutting you off.

“I could go on.” You replied plainly, trying not to sound too smug. “It pays to take your head out of your arse every now and then and insert it into a library book.” 

You turned to stomp away then, and you were entirely surprised when you felt someone catch your elbow. You whipped back around to glare at the person automatically, and had to forcibly crane your neck upward to meet George’s surprisingly soft gaze. You knew it was him in an instant. 

Mostly because Fred always looked at you like you carried hellfire in your shoes wherever you went, and George most definitely did not. 

But you could also easily spot the difference between the twins because George had broken his nose during a Quidditch game against Slytherin during your third year. A game that you had been sitting in the stands for - forever banned from participating in ‘something so brutish’ by your father. It had been a nasty move from one of the Slytherin players who had swung their Bludger’s bat at his face in a fit of anger when they realized that Harry had caught the snitch and they had lost. 

The bone growth around the break gave his nose bridge a distinct bump near the top that Fred did not have. It was something you found quietly endearing, along with his soft eyes. Something you had only recently admitted to yourself in the quietest, darkest recesses of your mind. 

“What?” You snapped at him, wondering why he had stopped you and why he was touching you. 

He recoiled from the touch quickly, as if only then realizing just how long he had been holding onto your arm. 

“Sorry.” He muttered quietly. “And I’m sorry about them, too.” 

He added on, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to point toward the spot where Fred, Dean, and Seamus were still standing - where Fred was now showing the two boys something inside a large box. Likely some of their disgusting, horrible ‘products’ - but it made the boys laugh and smile. You almost envied their care-free nature. But you definitely didn’t envy their ignorance. 

“They’re being knobheads.” George declared confidently. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I never thought that you were here to spy on us. You’re actually really good. With the spells, and whatnot, I mean. You’re really talented.” 

You felt a sickly fullness - almost like an ache in your chest coming from deep within your stomach - as you looked over his expression and knew for certain that he was being sincere. As it truly hit you that this wasn’t some dumb prank where he would laugh in your face after you accepted the compliment. Still, nonetheless, as your insides squirmed, your outer shell became prickly once again in a well practiced defense mechanism. 

“Why would I care what you think?” You spat back harshly. “You can barely cast a protection charm and you waste most of your talents coming up with stupid, useless joke products anyway. I don’t need you to tell me that I’m talented in order to know my worth, Weasley.” 

It was only a moment later when the words had already left your mouth that you realized you had inadvertently complimented him in return. You became overwhelmed with a desire to smack him when he began smirking at you. That desire became almost crippling when he leaned into you, crowding tightly into your personal space before he whispered something in a low baritone that stuck to your ear terribly well as he reached into his pocket. 

“Perhaps sometime I could get you alone and show you how well I waste my other talents,” He said, forcing his hand into yours and giving you something. 

Between the strange psychological mind game of his words and the way he quickly retreated, you thought for sure whatever he had given you would be a trick - that it would blow up or poison you or something. Your eyes flickered, panicked, from the back of his head as he resumed his spot beside Fred to what he had placed in your hand, and you were eerily surprised to find a seemingly perfectly normal sweet. 

One of your favourite sweets, actually. 

It was something you would have purchased from Honeydukes for yourself - a kind of hard candy that came in many different flavours, wrapped individually in plastic. They turned your hair and eventually your skin the same colour as the candy the longer that you sucked on them - but for you, that was never the appeal. You simply enjoyed the taste. Your personal favourite was the sour green apple ones, and you almost always left Hogsmeade with a large bag of them in hand and ended up with green streaks in your hair from sucking on them throughout the days. 

It was almost as if George had known that your personal stash had just run out. 

You stashed it in your pocket, still suspicious of it, wondering if he had tampered with it somehow. He was likely waiting to laugh as your skin broke out in boils or you vomited viciously and had to beg him for the cure. And it was only when you were back in the security of your dorm that night when you found it in your pocket once again that you decided it would be safe to open it. If he had tampered with it, he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching you suffer from the results of his prank. 

But there wasn’t one. It had simply been a random thoughtful gift. 

When George saw you the next day with a small lingering streak of green in your hair, he smiled to himself. 

… 

The practice that you got from DA was invaluable when you fought during the Battle of Hogwarts - much to your father’s undisguised hatred, on the side of The Order of the Phoenix, as an official member. As much as he absolutely hated your new affiliations, he definitely found a way to get back at you for ‘dessamating years of carefully crafted heritage’ - as he had put it when he confronted you on that day. 

When the battle ended and everyone on the losing side began to flee, you weren’t at all surprised to find out that your father had escaped, rather than being among the dead or the few who the Order managed to capture on site. You couldn’t have been so lucky. 

Perhaps it was the karma of your younger years coming back on you - the fact that you had so harshly, thoughtlessly bullied others, tossed words around so carelessly, at one time truly believing that you were better than others simply because of the family that you came from. Now it was all coming back to you, life turning around to spit in your face, showing you what a truly rotten person you were. 

Your father went to Gringotts and cleaned out your personal vault (as well as his own), taking every single bit of gold that your mother had left you when she had died. And it soon became obvious to you that he used the money to flee the country - not because he needed it. A small sack’s worth of the gold would have supplied him on his fugitive’s journey. But he took all of it simply because he thought that you were no longer worthy of it. 

You were denying your ancestral ways, and now, you were no longer worthy of your ancestral riches. 

It was a cruel slap in the face, and it left you abandoning any plans you had to apprentice as a future Potioneer in Ireland - or even the plans you had to take a break and vacation in the Maldives for a while and recover from The War. 

Instead, fate had you dawning that stupid orange apron in London to earn a living for once in your life - taking up the first paying job that you were offered, especially after you heard what the hourly wage was. Perhaps the Weasleys were a bit stupid with money after not having much of it for most of their lives, but they were paying far above the average rate that most other jobs in the Alley did, so you had to jump at the opportunity. 

All of it was so damn ironic. 

The products that you had degraded and openly hated since the moment you had heard about them were now something that you had to proudly promote to customers. The pranksters you had called annoying with every opportune breath were now your bosses, and dictated your life every single day. Even if it felt backwards, you started to establish a new, quiet life. The twins let you live in the flat above the shop, and while you hated being constantly surrounded by everything Weasley - eventually, you got used to it. 

But even that gentle peace was disrupted. 

Only a few short months after The War, you were blindsided. Members of the newly formed Department For Internal Investigation for The Ministry of Magic, along with pre-existing Aurors, showed up at the shop with a warrant for your arrest. The grounds of said warrant? Your blood relation to a known Death Eater. You were being accused of helping your father and others flee the country, along with conspiracy against The Ministry. You were being accused of feeding them information from the inside to aid in their evasion of current law enforcement. 

It was DA all over again. Only this time, it was on a scale that could end up with you in prison for the rest of your life. 

… 

George found himself thankful for finally having a slow day at the shop. 

Now that school age kids were returning to Hogwarts, the summer rush was finally over and the hectic chaos of those three months was finally behind them. It did only leave a small breath of relaxation before the turbulence of Halloween and then eventually Christmas, very busy gift buying seasons for the Wizarding community, but at least they had the quiet of September to hold onto while they still could. 

George could have never pictured him and his brother being this successful when they were just tossing around ideas, writing things down and drawing crude diagrams on scraps of parchment while huddled together on their bedroom floor back at the Burrow. And he knew that he should never be rueful of having ‘too many customers’ - but it was nice to have a breather every once and a while, especially when the shop got as intensely busy as it did sometimes. 

Perhaps he was just getting too old, but he found himself getting sick of the chaos every now and then. His sixteen year old self likely would have beat him over the head to know that even so much as thought those words, but it was true. 

They were taking this as an opportunity to rearrange the shop, shifting around some product displays to make things look nicer and flow easier, as well as refilling inventory that had gotten wiped out during the height of busy season in Diagon Alley - those last few days that people had been scrambling to get school supplies before September First. Inevitably, hordes of young people had ended up inside the shop, getting things to bring to Hogwarts that definitely were not on their list. 

George actually felt a swell of pride to know that there had been an official amendment to the Hogwarts Code of Conduct, one that specifically banned the possession and use of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products by any student (or professor, for that matter). It was something that had stuck around a lot longer than the ‘educational decree’ that Umbridge had made back in the day concerning the twins’ earlier products. 

McGonagall had even sent the twins a letter about it personally, kindly asking them not to sell products to any students. They had sent her back a personalized Jack-In-The-Box that featured a tattered Umbridge as the ‘Jack’, jumping out and screaming once it reached the end of its song, running away from a terrible beast that chased her from within the box, along with a note that bluntly said ‘not a chance, Professor’. And though the amendment stayed written in the Code of Conduct, it was silently agreed that they would disagree on the matter. 

It had practically tripled their sales since then, because students followed in their mischievous footsteps and loved to do something simply on the basis of being told not to do it. Banned items are the most sought after, of course. 

(Fred and George had even started putting together something that they called ‘The Hogwarts Special’ - a box full of their most popular items bundled together at a discount price, all in disguised brown paper packaging rather than the bright colorful packages that they had become known for, better to sneak into a school trunk without being caught.) 

As George heaved another large package of Skiving Snack Boxes into the middle of the floor, his eyes landed on you. 

You were working on a display for the center of the store - a combination of new products and their most popular classics, your face knit in concentration as you arranged the products in a way that you thought was most appealing on the display stand. Somehow, even wearing your slightly stained work apron with your hair in a messy but practical style and your makeup mostly smudged off from the hard day’s work, you were a truly gorgeous vision. You would always be gorgeous in his eyes. But there was something truly goddess-like about you as the midday sun poured in through the front window to brush across your skin. 

George’s eyes lingered on you for a few moments longer, trying to work up the nerve to say something. He always struggled with what to say to you. And the longer he stood there behind his large stack of boxes, the more the voice in his head screamed: she hates you. 

Well he knew that hate was a strong word. As much as he knew that’s how you might have described it, he knew that it was likely not the right word for how you truly felt. If you had been crassly annoyed with him when the two of you first met due to his pranks and the stupid house rivalry, those feelings had never developed into hate. Especially not after your time in DA together - not after fighting on the same side of a war. 

Some foolish part of him liked to think that after working side by side for so long, the two of you could actually be considered friends. But he wasn’t sure that’s how you saw it. 

When your fingers fumbled and you dropped a Screaming Yo-Yo, causing it to fall to the floor and roll away (the charmed mechanism inside of it letting out little yelps as it rolled across the floor), George bent forward and caught it as you rushed to chase it before it rolled underneath one of the shelves. His breath caught in his chest when the two of you brushed hands around the small object. 

“Oh, here.” 

“Thanks.” 

Both of your quiet voices merged in the air as he handed you the toy and you rushed back to a standing position, holding the object awkwardly and staring at it as you fiddled with the string, avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Stupid little-” You muttered out angrily, and then sighed. “I would say that it jumped out of my hands, but it’s not nearly as bad as those display fireworks,” 

You said, pointing toward a display model of one of the fireworks tubes, which was designed to constantly burn and sputter on the back end, causing it to flip around and fly on a string without ever burning out. Wrangling it onto that string in order to tie it to the display - that had been a particularly challenging time. 

“Sorry about that,” George said quietly, giving a nervous chuckle. “The magic behind it was actually quite tricky, you see-” 

His train of thought was cut off by the sound of the bell ringing above the door - he was surprised that they had customers at this time when this early in September was usually such a dry time for them. When he looked up to greet whoever it was, a frown cut into his face when he instantly realized that these weren’t clients. 

There were about five people, all dressed in formal black robes, topped off with varying kinds of very businessy headwear and stiff expressions, instantly recognizable as Ministry officials. It was quite clear that they weren’t coming into the shop looking for Puking Pastilles or fireworks - they were here for something else. 

Whatever that something was instantly worried him - George’s stomach jolted with anxiety as he wondered if all their business permits were in order (that was Fred’s job, and ordering stock was his). But surely, if it was a simple matter of paperwork, they wouldn’t send this many officials out to take care of it. 

No - this had to be something much worse. This was something big and terrible and that worried him much more. 

“Good afternoon.” George greeted them with a smile (hopefully not looking too nervous) as he forced his spine tall and proud, feigning confidence in front of people who would judge him for his appearance and his mannerisms. “How can I help you fine people today?” 

Fred craned his head up over the shelves to get a look at who it was, instantly picking up on the nervous tone in his brother’s voice where few others would. He had been deeper inside the store at the counter near the cash register, going over the inventory numbers that the three of you had counted up the night before, looking to confirm them with his superior math skills. (Of course, now he was very much distracted from that task.) 

The one leading the pack of stiff looking officials - a particularly stiff man with many wrinkles, who was wearing a black bowler hat to cover a seemingly bald head, someone that George had never seen before and did not recognize - answered George by reaching into the pocket of his robes and pulling something out, extending a piece of parchment out to show him. 

“I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Ms. Y/N L/N.” He said plainly, his tone entirely dull and official. “I was informed that she is employed here.” 

“Warrant?!” You cried out, having been staring at the parade of strangeness from beside George - in a moment your face and body went from the dull tired that came with a long day to stiff with anxiety, clearly shocked. “That can’t be right, that’s bullshit-!” 

You moved to charge toward the man, and George put a protective arm in front of you. He wasn’t quite sure if his instinct was to protect you from the group with their eyes now locked on you, hands moving to their wands, or if he was intent on protecting them from a wrath that he knew you could easily rain down upon them. (Either way, he was protecting you from your own temper, protecting you from flipping out mindlessly on law enforcement and racking up additional very real charges to add to the ones that they had on your warrant now that were - like you said - bullshit.) 

You did fall silent and hovered behind George, letting out a grunt of frustration - but still, he didn’t move his arm, clinging onto your hip beside your apron and causing you to grip his wrist in return while you scowled at the officials past him. 

“Look, we don’t know anything about this.” Fred told them - by now, he had woven his way through the shelves to stand at George’s shoulder. “She’s worked for us for a while but we don’t know anything about-” 

It appeared that he was about to claim your innocence - or at the very least, claim that he and George never knew of any criminal activities that you had partaken in. 

“What are the charges?” George gaped. “Obviously you’ve gotten this all wrong.” 

“Yes, obviously.” You added on with a hiss, tense behind George, clearly eager to fight them once again. 

“You may take a look.” The man said, prodding the paper toward George once again. “But I can assure you that I am not wrong.” 

George let out a grunt of dissatisfaction and snatched the warrant from the man, and his eyes began flickering over the words at lightning speed. You crouched in closer as you read along with him - he saw something about ‘conspiracy to commit heinous acts’ and ‘conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic’, but none of it was blatantly clear to him - nothing read as a clear, specific crime. And he knew that you hadn’t done anything wrong. 

“This is bullshit!” You cried out again. “Conspiracy? I’ve been here playing with fireworks and stupid puke sweets for the past few months and you think I’ve had time to commit conspiracy?!” 

“Can you please confirm your identity, Miss?” The man asked, his voice still deadpan and lacking any emotion. “Are you in fact Miss Y/N-?” 

“I don’t have to tell you shit.” You said, slowly backing up. 

George’s stomach sank when two of the Ministry lackeys rushed to you, more of them taking different routes to get to you as your hand went to your apron for your wand. He ached to fight them off for you, but he knew it wouldn’t end well. 

“Look, Y/N, just go with them!” Fred shouted, his tone deeply frustrated. 

You refused to listen. 

Instead, you ran toward the door, clearly looking to get to the Apparition point outside before they could catch you. 

But they were well-trained Aurors, and they were faster. One of them struck you down with a wordless curse, making you limply fall into one of the fresh displays, knocking down a spray of colourful boxes along the way. Fred heaved out a groan and smacked a hand across his face, clearly upset about the mess. George instinctively ran to your aid, only to be yanked back by Fred, a harsh grip digging into his arm that barely held him back, every single cell in his body screaming at him to help you. But he was forced to watch on in horror while they put some kind of binding curse on your wrists and took your wand out of your apron pocket, confiscating it. 

“On what grounds?!” George shouted - his body coursing with intense rage, on the verge of tears. 

He finally shook himself out of Fred’s grip, but only because his brother knew him too well, and knew that he was still in shock now and would do nothing more than witness the horrible things unfolding in front of him. He could do nothing more than watch as they lifted your limp, barely conscious body from the floor, holding you up by your shoulders. 

“What grounds do you have for this arrest?!” He screamed, clutching the warrant so hard that he began to tear holes in it with his fingernails. 

The leader nodded toward the two people who were holding you, and George couldn’t race across the shop quickly enough to catch them as they stepped out into the street and then Disapparated with you in a blur. His feet felt numb on the floor as he practically tripped over the mess, and he was left with a shaking hand on the doorknob and tears swelling in his eyes, left staring out the glass panes at the empty spot that you had left. 

Now he had nothing more than a harsh pain in his chest that made him want to scream. 

They were taking you away. They were stealing you from him. After all the work he had done to make sure that you would stay with him, that you would be safe. They were taking you away. 

“Sir, I am sorry that you hired someone of such credence without knowing it. Typically their forms of deception are-” The bowler hat man began to speak again, and George flared with anger. 

“What are the charges?” George asked again, whipping around to face the man.

George eyed Fred, who was strangely quiet, staring him down for once in all their years, with what was an unreadable look. He had to wonder why Fred wasn’t as upset about this demonstration of injustice as he was, even if he didn’t like you that much. 

“I have already given you the warrant, Sir, which is my only necessary duty under Rule 36, Section B-” 

“This is a piece of rubbish!” George yelled, cutting off the man’s rambling. “It’s so unreadable - it - it doesn’t mean anything,” He added harshly, throwing the now crumpled warrant at the man’s feet. 

The man sighed and kicked it aside. 

“I have copies.” He said under his breath, seemingly more so to himself. “The charges are Conspiracy to Commit Fraud, Conspiracy Against the Ministry of Magic, Aiding and-” 

“What does that even mean? What evidence do you have?” George pressed. “I’ve known Y/N for years, she hasn’t done anything wrong. You’ve got this all wrong, you’re mistaken.” 

The man paused, hanging a deadly silence over their heads as George stared him down and Fred stared George down, all very tense. George was seemingly the only person in the room who had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was the only one who thought it was entirely shocking that you had been arrested. 

“Is Miss L/N not related to a known Death Eater? Several, actually, if I’m not mistaken?” The man posed. 

George’s throat tightened harshly. 

They were arresting you because of what your father had done? 

That was so unfair. So grossly unfair. That was plainly unjust. It was horrible and unethical and - just stupid. It was bullshit. 

“Yes, but-” 

“Well I’m terribly sorry to break the news to you, Mr. Weasley, but typically those regrettable values are passed on in families. Nobody has seen or heard from Mr. L/N since The Battle of Hogwarts, and we have a feeling that his daughter will know exactly where to find him.” 

“She won’t.” George spat back. “She hasn’t spoken to her father in years, I know that for a fact.” 

George hated to lie, but he knew that if he did tell the truth, they wouldn’t believe him. They would never believe the fact that the last time you had seen your father, it had almost ended with you dead for your ‘betrayal’ of the Pureblood line. 

“Well Mr. Weasley, I’m afraid that the Ministry can’t simply take your word for it. We must use our own tactics and gather the information for ourselves.” 

His stomach grew sickly at the implication of what ‘tactics’ they would use, thinking that you would come back to him as a hollow shell of your former self after being tortured by Dementors for hours, destined to never give them the answers they wanted to hear. And that was only what he knew about the things they did. Merlin knows what other things he couldn’t even imagine that they might do to you. 

Before George could further argue - before he could defend you and explain that you hadn’t spoken to your father, that you hated him, that you had no idea where he was - the man left the shop and Disapparated himself as well, leaving George hurt and speechless. 

But only for a moment.  

Then, everything within George was telling him to spring into action. You hadn’t done anything wrong, and there was nothing they could truly charge you with. If they were extorting you for information about your father, they weren’t going to get it. So they needed to leave you the hell alone. 

George was going to free you. 

He stormed past Fred to the store room, grabbing his coat off the hook he had hung it on in order to lug around the boxes, and he put it on and started straightening up his appearance a bit. If he was going to the Ministry (or to Hogwarts to seek back-up first, he wasn’t quite sure yet) then he would need to look nice to ensure that he would be taken seriously. 

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, slowly trailing behind him into the storage room, entirely curious about his shift from shock and anger to determined urgency. 

“Going to get help.” George announced, as it was the only thing he was sure about. 

Help from where or who, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps he should go to Hogwarts and find Hermione - he could grab the crumbled warrant off the floor along the way and have her read it. She would know how to decipher the bullshit wording and find some kind of loophole within it. 

“Are you going to close up and come along or are you staying back to watch the shop?” George asked, his mind still busy with planning his next move. 

Fred gaped at George, his expression somewhere between disgust and shock. Again, George felt a strange uneasiness in the fact that he genuinely didn’t know what his brother was thinking. Perhaps he was intimidated by the idea of taking on the Ministry, or perhaps he was just hesitant to leave the shop when they had so much work to do. But George knew what had to be done when such harsh injustice had just been done right in front of his eyes. 

“You can’t be serious.” Fred breathed out quietly, almost timidly, the words leaving him like air seeping out of a balloon. 

“I am.” George easily confirmed, firm and confident now. “Maybe we can go to Dad, or-” 

“Dad’s department would have absolutely nothing to do with this.” Fred fired back, edging on rude. 

“Then I’ll go to Hermione. She’s read books about this sort of stuff - hell, she’s probably read through the laws that they are currently breaking by holding Y/N without cause, and-” 

George moved to walk around Fred, going to get the warrant so that Hermione could look it over. Much to his shock, Fred stopped him by raising a hand to the middle of his chest. 

“Georgie, slow down.” He said, using the nickname in an attempt to ground his brother from what he believed to be a small fit of insanity. “Look, I know you had a very strange, misguided, schoolboy crush on this girl once, but-” 

“That’s not what this is about.” George ground out through his teeth. 

Yes, George had confided in Fred that he fancied you - only to have Fred mock him relentlessly for it. But even if he had absolutely no romantic inclination toward you, seeing someone be arrested without cause would still truly bother him. It just wasn’t right. If it had happened to you or anyone, it wasn’t right. 

“Then what is it?” Fred pressed. George chose not to dignify this with an answer, hoping that his brother was having a momentary brain aneurysm that would soon end and that they would be back on the same page again. “As far as I’m concerned, dear brother, they just took care of our problem for us. We should be thanking them.” 

George clenched his jaw angrily. This was the first time in nearly ten years that he had genuinely wanted to hit his brother. 

“You can’t be serious.” George hurled Fred’s words back at him, harsher than Fred had originally said them, causing him to roll his eyes. 

George stepped around him and walked back out into the shop to find the crumpled up paper that he needed. 

“Come on, what’s so great about Y/N anyway?” Fred whined. “Any sense of good looks she has is easily wiped out by her horrible personality-” 

“She’s not nearly as horrible as she was.” 

George argued gently, reaching down to pluck the paper off the floor. 

“Besides, this isn’t about great or not great - this isn’t about stupid personality conflicts. This is about right and wrong. And you know it.” George told his brother firmly. “She shouldn’t go to Azkaban simply on the basis of being related to a Death Eater when she hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s shown that she’s nothing like her father, so she doesn’t deserve to be arrested for his crimes just because they’re too bloody stupid to find him.” 

George stared Fred down, and Fred looked swollen with thought for a moment, taking a heavy breath and clenching his jaw as he clearly hesitated to speak. Obviously, he wanted to argue - but he knew that George was right. 

“And might I remind you that she saved your life. And you would not even be standing here with breath in your lungs to whine and complain without that ‘horrible’ witch that you claim to hate so much.” George added on smugly, unable to resist. 

Naturally, this caused both of them to think back to The Battle of Hogwarts, when you had indeed saved Fred’s life. A Death Eater had fired off a curse that caused a ceiling to collapse above Fred’s head, and if not for your quick thinking to hurl a non-lethal stunning curse at Fred that threw his body out of the way of the debris, he would have been crushed under hundreds of pounds of falling stone and killed. 

Of course, he whined at you for days after he woke up from the minor head injury that you caused by knocking him into one of the few still-standing walls. And to this day, he had never once thanked you for saving his life. And you never brought it up, because whenever you did, all he did was whine about the scar he now had - one that was well disguised in his hairline and barely noticeable. He always said that you had ‘deliberately maimed’ him to get back at him for the years of name calling. 

The two of you couldn’t get along over anything. 

“You’re gonna keep lording that over my head, aren’t you?” Fred mumbled quietly, rolling his eyes. 

After a few moments of Fred’s mind churning hard, the thoughts clearly simmering behind his eyes, he took his wand out of his pocket and flicked it toward the front of the shop. In a few smooth movements, he closed the blinds, locked the door, and switched the sign from ‘Welcome’ to ‘Closed - Please Come Again Later’. 

“Fine.” He huffed out, clearly defeated. “I guess you’re right. But I don’t have to like it.” 

George beamed a smile at this brother. 

“We’ll go and find Hermione, then?” 

“Strangely, I think we’ll have better luck calling in a favour from our big brother.” Fred noted. “The stick up Percy’s arse might actually be useful for once.” 

George hadn’t even thought of that. But that was why he and Fred made a very great team. 

“And for the record, I still don’t like Y/N.” Fred hastily added on as they walked upstairs to leave via The Floo Network. “But I do hope that this finally gets you laid.” 

George sharply rolled his eyes at this, and chose not to reply - mostly because he knew that coming from Fred, it wasn’t entirely intended as a joke. 

… 

You were surprised by how passionately the twins defended you. They stood up as character witnesses for you in court - and had even called upon others to do the same. 

Perhaps that was why you were still ‘settling into’ a job that you continuously claimed to yourself was only temporary. 

As much as you were annoyed by the constant sounds and bright colours and the steady stream of customers, you found a certain sense of comfort in the shop. You were annoyed by the twins, but when it mattered most, they had backed you up. They had saved you. And you knew that people needed laughter now more than ever, even if you weren’t in on the joke. 

… 

You were pleased that even if your life didn’t necessarily make you happy, you had established a sense of routine that made your life relatively stress-free. 

You would wake up, make yourself a cup of tea, get dressed and put on some make-up (even though the obnoxious orange apron ruined whatever ‘look’ you typically tried to go for, you still did pride yourself in your appearance). And after eating something easy for breakfast, you would make your way downstairs to help George open the shop. 

Sometimes he would bring you a pastry as a thanks for being awake so early, which you found strange because it was quite literally part of your job. But you still found yourself accepting whatever danish or croissant he brought you - and taking his copy of the Prophet to read on your lunch time break when Fred finally stumbled out of bed to come into work. 

George was much more of a morning person, so he and Fred had an agreement that if George opened, Fred would be the one to stay later to close up when needed. 

They balanced each other out in a lot of ways. 

Fred was better with numbers, so he attended to the books. George was better with the artistic aspects, so he designed the packaging for new products. Fred was much more outgoing and easily charmed new people - so he spoke to people about getting WWW products into shops in other places around the world. And he even made business deals to get them rare and new ingredients for products that they wanted to make. And George was a better Potioneer, so he often made test batches of those new products with the new ingredients that Fred acquired. 

During your time at school, you had been one of the people who had made the mistake of believing that the twins were simply two halves of the same person. You had thought that they were truly identical, inside and out. You lumped them together in your mind so often, thinking that there weren’t any differences between them. 

But the more time you spent around them, especially while working at the shop, the more you realized that they were truly, utterly different. They worked together not because they couldn’t be separated or because they naturally came as a pair - but because they had established a friendship and a working relationship that genuinely worked well for them. They balanced each other out with their unique talents, they didn’t just have the same skill set twice over. 

In a lot of ways, you admired it. 

Even if that strong partnership had caused you to be covered in slime or paint or to be tripped and trapped in a broom closet during your days at Hogwarts far too many times. You admired them much more now that you worked with them, and not against them. 

It was seemingly just another random Monday when George took a break from whatever he had been doing and came to find you in the upstairs store room. You were going through a new batch of products and taking inventory of everything before you stocked them out on the floor. 

“How’s it going?” George asked, using his height to his advantage to peek over the pile of boxes at you. You were sitting on the floor with one of them open in front of you, counting and sorting a batch of products for their newly improved Skiving Snack Boxes. 

“Fine, I guess.” You answered dully, using your quill to jot down a number on your parchment before you forgot it. “Wasn’t Fred supposed to do this last night? Where is he, anyway?” 

“Oh, he’s gone on a trip.” George told you, leaning his folded arms on the box in front of him. “He’s visiting Angelina during her week off from Harpies’ training.” 

Angelina Johnson, Fred’s girlfriend of a few months, had been recruited for the professional Quidditch team The Holyhead Harpies. A few weeks prior, she had left to go to Berlin, where the team’s prestigious coach resided and they had a training camp set up for the team. Since then, you had overheard Fred complaining to George near constantly about how she wasn’t allowed to leave training to come and visit him and how he almost never got letters from her because she was too busy and too tired to write to him. 

You hoped that him getting laid for a week straight would mean that he came back in a better mood. Even if it meant a whole week of you having to pick up the slack and do more work while he was gone. 

“And he’s meeting with some potential investors while he’s there.” George added on, casual and conversational. “Apparently he was in communication with someone who has a line of Prank Quills that we might want to buy off them for the shop,” 

“I thought you two always made your own products?” You questioned, raising a brow at him. 

“So far that has been the case, yes.” George confirmed, obviously proud. “But it never hurts to expand our horizons and see what other mischievous minds have come up with,” 

You shrugged. It wasn’t your business to worry about. 

“I just wish that I would have been warned that I would be stuck in this dusty, spider-invested hole doing inventory.” You lamented, staring down at yourself in disgust. 

You had worn a dress that day, and a pair of rather nice black lace tights along with your usual heels. And now you were sitting on the dusty floor, with your shoes and tights getting disgustingly filthy. 

“I would have worn crappier clothes…” You mumbled the last part to yourself, heaving a small sigh as you lightly kicked one of the boxes, needing to get out some of the frustration. 

“I thought Fred mentioned this to you?” George posed, confused. “He should have warned you that you might have to pick up a few extra shifts-” 

You let out a harsh scoff, cutting off George’s words. 

“This might have escaped your attention, George, but Fred doesn’t talk to me unless it’s absolutely necessary.” You pointed out. “Beyond talking about the products, he doesn’t even say ‘hello’ to me when he comes in. I think if the building was on fire, he would ask you to tell me to evacuate.” 

George sighed, mentally conceding to your point. 

“Yeah, I think Mum got on him about that whole… ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say’, bit.” 

You rolled your eyes at this. 

You thought back to a time when Mrs. Weasley had come into the shop to bring the twins some food she had made for them, complaining about how they likely weren’t eating properly. 

But she had accidentally stumbled upon Fred calling you stupid and useless, accusing you of losing some of his inventory sheets, though the conflict was far from one-sided. You had called him blind and dumb and said that he would never be able to find a hole in his own arse even with a mirror, arguing that he had obviously lost them himself. 

But naturally, Molly had only heard the incriminating words coming from him, which quickly put a fury in her. She had put her casserole dishes on the front counter, marched around it, grabbed him by the ear, yanking him harshly toward her - she berated him for calling you such names without shame and threatened to yank his ear right off so that he and George would match. 

(She had put on a sweet voice and apologized profusely to you on his behalf before making him grunt apologies through the pain, and then she had invited you to a nice helping of cottage pie - so the day turned out wonderful for you.) 

Obviously, since then, he had been terrified to say a cross word to you, lest it somehow get back to his mother. 

“Well I understand.” You replied. “He’s never had anything nice to say to me, so he’s just stopped talking to me completely. It makes sense now.” 

“Yeah, Fred is…” George trailed off, trying to find words for it. 

To this day, George didn’t entirely understand why Fred was so petty and aggravated with you. Sure, the two of you had exchanged plenty of mean words to each other during your days at Hogwarts, but you weren’t even as quick to anger these days as he was. He was usually the one to start it. 

“I’m sorry about him.” George landed on those words, deciding that even if he didn’t understand the cause behind Fred’s petty anger toward you, he could apologize for it. “He can be a bit of a stupid git sometimes.” 

“‘Can be’ - that’s a funny way to put it.” You replied, nodding, your face breaking into a slight smile. 

George smiled. Again, he was pleased to have a conversation with you where you didn’t seem so deeply annoyed with him and didn’t try to insult him. Thus far, you didn’t even seem so eager to get away and end the conversation. 

He would even dare to say that you seemed content. That you were enjoying his presence. 

Typically, this would be the part of the conversation where he would say something like ‘I should let you get back to work now’, and then he would leave the room and leave you alone, knowing that your patience with him was thin and he shouldn’t wear it out. But this time, he decided to push things just a bit farther. He was trying to make progress with you, after all. (He knew that Fred had been joking, but he wanted to go on a real date with you before the end of the decade.) 

“Well, at least we can enjoy this week without him.” 

You were intensely curious about his use of the word ‘we’ in that sentence, but another word tripped you up far more. 

“Enjoy?” You questioned. 

You knew that sometimes Fred and George bickered with each other - running a business together could be stressful, and they didn’t constantly agree about everything. But as far as you knew, they enjoyed spending time together and they were practically inseparable. You didn’t think that George would be relieved to have time without Fred. 

You wondered why he seemed so happy not to have Fred around. 

“Yeah,” He nodded. 

George grinned at you, and you found a pang shooting through your gut. It was an odd kind of delight that you could barely acknowledge igniting inside of you as you realized that he was smiling at you, genuinely smiling at you. There was no indoor swamp or parade of water balloons to be found. You weren’t the butt of a joke in order for that smile to happen. It ignited an instinctive panic within you, but you found yourself really liking his smile. 

“We should have dinner together or something.” He chuckled brightly. “We could finally spend some time together outside of work. Have a discussion that doesn’t involve sales numbers or product displays.”

That small spark of panic flamed into a full-blown raging fire when you realized what he had meant. That the ‘we’ had been the truly important part of the sentence - ‘we can enjoy this week’ - he had meant that he wanted to spend time with you. He wanted to enjoy some time with you. 

He wanted to spend time with you outside of work? 

He wanted to be alone with you? 

He was asking you out on a date. 

No, he wasn’t - a voice inside of your brain instantly demanded. There was no way he was asking you out on a date. He didn’t like you, he never thought of you that way. There was no way he thought of you romantically. 

He was only trying to be nice because he was a decent human being. He had been raised much differently than you had. This was just his instinct toward common courtesy acting up again - the same one that had caused him to extend the job offer toward you in the first place. He thought you were pathetic and lonely and he likely knew that you spent all of your time outside of work by yourself. He was extending this offer to you due to pity. 

Absolutely alarmed with that internal panic, you forced yourself to break the horrible moment of ongoing silence by asking: 

“Is that… necessary?” You choked out, knowing that you sounded like an animal caught in a trap, hating how intimidated and unsure your voice was. 

“What?” George gaped in return, his face pressing tight with confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Are you ordering me to have dinner with you?” You asked, doing the cowardly thing and doubling down instead of clarifying what you truly meant - asking him if he had intended it romantically, as a date. “Are you asking me as my boss or can I do what I please in my own free time?” 

George’s face shifted from bright and hopeful to downtrodden, and seeing this instantly caused something inside of you to ache. It was the first time since unnerving grief of The Battle of Hogwarts that you had felt anything other than stress and tired boredom toward life. 

“I’m asking you as a friend.” He quickly clarified, a sharp sourness popping up in his voice, barely covering up the lulling sadness that tightened his throat. “And I thought that you would be pleased to spend your free time with me, but I guess I thought wrong.” 

Friend. 

For some reason that hurt you more than any insult could have. The strange reality of a date you could have dealt with. Even if he had come in and demanded that he was taking you out on a date - your mind would have eventually adjusted to the pure bizarreness of it. 

But him calling you a friend? It hurt and it was too strange, all at once. 

You weren’t friendly. You weren’t anybody’s friend.

Perhaps it was because something inside of you screamed that you didn’t deserve the title, but you hated it. Instantly, it caused you to seethe with anger. So as he finally turned and walked away in defeat, you had to open your mouth and deliver the final blow. You pushed yourself up off the floor, barely able to see over the stack of boxes to shout your next words at him. 

“We aren’t friends!” You spat out bitterly. “I’m not your friend.” 

When he turned back to you, he had the most utterly hurt expression that you had ever seen - his gentle eyes swimming with pain and his mouth drooping into a pathetic frown, his cheeks that were usually full with laughter sagging in a horrible way that didn’t suit him at all. 

Though it made you feel sickly to see him like this - in the typical fashion that you were taught, you killed any kindness that had been shown to you. You stepped out from behind the boxes, and continued firing blows as he tried to speak. You had to make sure that this notion of ‘friends’ was truly dead.  

“Y/N-” 

“No.” You rasped, your throat slightly tight with tears that you were holding back, hating yourself for being like this. “Just because we ended up on the same side, doesn’t mean we have to like each other. Fred doesn’t like me, so why should you?” 

George’s expression grew even more painful at this, but he didn’t have anything left to say. 

“I’m your employee, that’s it.” You said, firm and finite. “We can be courteous to each other, but we don’t need to have fucking tea parties and hold hands and-” 

“I get the point.” George sighed, cutting you off. “I get it. I won’t try to be nice to you anymore.” 

With that, he stormed out, not sticking around long enough to see the bitter, angry tears that you released as you moved to get back to your work. 

After he rang up a few off-season customers in the shop and then saw them off, his mind began churning and he formed a terrible, brilliant plan. Even without Fred around, he could still make plenty of trouble on his own. 

And as George plotted his clever, mischievous little plans to get back at you, he also thought about how you came to be employed at the shop in the first place. He thought back to the whole reason that he believed the two of you were friends at all. A night that he considered two parts luck and one part clever scamming on his part - as most of his life beforehand had been. 

… 

Three days. 

It had been just three days since The Great Harry Potter, The Chosen One had defeated Lord Voldemort once and for all, truly killing the darkest wizard of all time, even leaving behind a corpse to prove it. A corpse that had been burned in the courtyard of Hogwarts to many rousing cheers from the tired crowd of onlookers. It had been three tender days since the battle had ended, leaving everyone tired, battered, bruised, and cautiously optimistic for the future. 

It had been three days filled with roaring celebrations for the Dark Lord’s defeat, and those rousing parties were finally starting to die down, leaving a breath of space in the wake of the disaster, time for funerals to bury the dead and mourn the people everyone had loved. And finally leaving mindfulness for the discovery of gruesome things that Voldemort’s followers and people within the Ministry were trying their best to cover up. Many people who had ended up on the wrong side were fleeing the country, trying not to be apprehended for their crimes. 

George had been awake for days straight, setting up some extra spells to protect the shop from looting as Diagon Alley descended into chaos with so many celebratory parties having broken out. With Fred still in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing due to the injury he had sustained during the Battle, taking the time he needed to recover, George was on his own to make sure that Fred still had a shop to come home to. He had to make sure that everything they had worked so hard for wasn’t ruined in just a few short days. As happy as he was that Voldemort had been defeated, he was glad that all the revelry seemed to be dying down now. 

Though he was bone-tired and exhausted, as he locked up the shop, he chose not to go back to the apartment - vacant of Fred and far too lonely. And he couldn’t see himself going to the Burrow either, where Mum was likely cooking a feast to over-feed everyone and fussing over injuries. (He didn’t need his head wound cleaned until it was sore and he was feeling a bit too sickly to eat.) 

He couldn’t lay down and go to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was the image of Fred, his head bloody with a large cut across his forehead from where you had flung him into a wall, to save his life from tons of falling debris. But still, the sight of his limp, unconscious body on the floor as he grew more pale, unable to woken up no matter how much George shook him and called his name - it was a frightening one that shook his soul at the time. 

George had only been able to breathe again once he received the news from Madame Pomfrey that Fred was going to be okay. He would just be unconscious for a few days while the wound healed and the swelling in his head went down. 

So, like many other people on this day, whether it was for celebration or mourning or just to dull the pain, George wanted to get drunk. He was not surprised when he found The Leaky Cauldron packed, and he had to force his way in, using his height to his advantage to elbow his way up to the bar in an attempt to place his order. But before he could actually get the barmaid’s attention, any thought about drinking flew from his mind when he spotted you. 

You were leaning against the end of the bar, propped up with your face in the palm of your hand, your elbow pressed against the bartop - you looked as though the filthy, unpolished wood of the bar was the only thing supporting your entire system at the moment. 

Your dark eye make-up was smeared, and you were sitting on a long dark trench coat that you had draped over the barstool, your blouse was partially unbuttoned, revealing the dark, lacy bra that you had on underneath. Your dark stockings were torn in some places, beginning to turn into runs up your whole leg, your skirt riding up to a short length that he knew you would have deemed far too inappropriate and yanked down if you had been paying attention at all, one of your heels having fallen off to the floor. 

You were a drunken mess, that much was immediately obvious. As he shoved past more people and got closer to you, he could smell the scotch practically seeping out of your pores. 

George had to wonder how long you had been camping on that barstool, drinking away your sorrows. He wondered which loved one you were mourning - who had died that was close to you in order for you to need so much booze to drown the feelings out. He immediately felt an instinct flare up to care for you, and he knew that he wouldn’t be having his drink, and he wouldn’t be leaving the bar without you. Especially not when you were in this state. 

“Y/N.” George gently called your name as he came to stand at your side, still towering over you as you sat on the tall barstool. 

Instinctively, he put a hand on your back, feeling the need to protect you from the bustling crowd, suddenly conscious of how many men were in the bar and how vulnerable you were. He felt intensely lucky that he was the one to find you, and not some other foul git with worse things on his mind. 

Finally, after a long, delayed moment, you turned your head in response to him calling your name. Your eyes were terribly slowed by how much alcohol was in your system, and you moved in slow motion as your gaze wandered from the wall in front of you over toward him, seeming entirely surprised to find that the warm hand on your back was attached to him. 

“Weasley.” You said quietly, and then let out a small hiccup. “George. George Weasley. You’re the tall one.” 

“Yes.” George responded. 

He knew that with the bandage wrapped around his head, still supporting his very visible ear injury, (or rather, the random hole in the side of his head where his ear used to be) he was much more easily discernible from Fred. But he was still glad that you knew who he was. 

“How much have you had to drink?” He knew that it was likely a stupid question, but still, he felt the need to ask it. 

“How much have you had t-to drink?” You countered, slurring, scowling harshly at him. 

As much as he would like to pull up a stool beside yours and follow you into stupid levels of drunkenness, he knew that he had to be the responsible one. Stupid Gryffindor nobility. And he owed you, because you had saved Fred’s life just a few days ago. He would owe you for that for a long time. So it was time to start paying you back - even if getting you into a warm bed and making sure that you didn’t drown in your own vomit was small compared to saving someone’s life, it would still be a start. 

“Come on,” George insisted, wrestling your coat out from underneath you and trying to get you into it. 

Of course, you immediately started fighting him like a cranky drunk toddler as he moved to put your arm into the sleeve. 

“No!” You shouted at him, beginning to push him away, causing a few pairs of eyes in the pub to look over. “I am gonna keep drinking! B-because getting drunk is the thing to do. Drinking is the thing. It’s all that there is.” 

“Why?” George countered, pausing with your arm awkwardly halfway into your sleeve. 

You gave a long, lazy blink up at him. He thought that perhaps if you could vent your sadness to him, then you would be less inclined to drink, and you wouldn’t fight him off so that he could take you home to rest. 

Your face broke into a smile - not one of actual happiness, but a twisted one that said your mind was truly breaking under the weight of what had upset you. And then, you began laughing. A broken, harsh laugh that pierced right through George as your scotch-soaked breath puffed across his face. 

“I - I have nothing!” You cried out, sounding utterly mad. “I have no prospects, no family, no job! No future! Nothing!” 

So that’s what was upsetting you so much. The end of the war had reminded you that you and your ‘family’ had ended up on two very different sides. And the entire battle against Voldemort had disrupted your education and the Potioneer training that you had wanted to do after Hogwarts, so you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with your life now. 

It was all a very crappy situation to end up in. While George had the shop to go back to, and a very loving family to fall back on for support (his mother’s love so smothering that sometimes he dared to complain about it) - you didn’t have anything. A pang of guilt throbbed inside of him as he watched your face become distant and haunted, and even more terrible words came drifting from your drunken lips. 

“He even took Pixie.” You sniffled quietly, picking up the cup in front of you and finishing the last of your drink. “The bastard took everything… and he just had to - fuck. I can’t believe he killed Pixie.” 

“Who’s Pixie?” George wondered quietly, hating the depth of the mourning in your voice. 

He had to guess that the ‘he’ you were referring to was your father. It didn’t surprise him that he had killed someone dear to you, and that was one of the reasons you were in the bar, trying to drink yourself into unconsciousness. George wondered if Pixie was a pet of yours or something along those lines - it would be a bit of a strange name for a person. But if it was a person, he would report the murder so that your father would pay for the crime when they caught him. 

“She - she was my House Elf.” You told him with another drunken stutter. 

Oh. 

George had never been around House Elves much in his life. He knew that it was something often linked to Pureblood culture, and his parents had never liked the idea of having one around. They were much more into ‘the value of hard work’ and ‘getting stuck in’, and they had always taught the Weasley children from a young age that if you want something, you need to do it for yourself. It was likely why Fred and George had worked so hard to get the shop - making the products from scratch, getting their seed money by taking bets, filling out all the paperwork to get the lease in Diagon Alley. Even if it wasn’t exactly what their parents had envisioned for them, they had worked hard for it. 

George’s experience with House Elves was very minimal. Other than the few times he and Fred had ducked into the Hogwarts’ kitchens to hide out from a professor after a particularly epic prank, only to have dozens of beady eyes staring at them; or hearing Harry speak of Dobby as a good friend; or the few months the Weasleys had stayed at Grimmauld Place and he had tried his best to avoid Kreacher and his ramblings about ‘Blood Traitors’ - he wasn’t really sure what having a House Elf was even like. 

So he simply sat there and listened as you spoke about Pixie, your heart clearly aching for your lost beloved Elf. 

“She was m-more of a mother to me than… well my mother was dead. She took care of me more than my father did, honestly. She did everything for me. It was her job, but - it felt like family.” You choked on these words, clearly most mournful when thinking of this. “She used to wake me up, and cook for me, and do the little buttons on my jumpers. And she used to tell me ‘don’t frown, girlie, because you never know who could be falling in love with your smile’. And I know it’s stupid, but I loved her. And I was - I was gonna take her with me. I - I had no clue where I was gonna go, but I was gonna take her with me.” 

George’s insides ached as the undistilled sadness came through your voice, and he could do little more than to listen as you continued on. He knew that it was important for you to feel heard when you were at your weakest. 

“I went home. I wasn’t planning on staying, I just… he ruined everything.” You huffed, your words touched with anger even though grief was the prominent emotion. “He had burned all the pictures of my mother… and there was this jewelry box that she had given me that belonged to her grandmother. And he had smashed it. He just wants me to suffer. He’s such a bastard.” 

You looked up at George then, your eyes shining with tears, and his throat was throttled by his own unshed tears. 

“He is.” George easily confirmed. Unsure what else to do, he tried once again to get you out of the bar. “Come on, love. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, and we can get you some water-” 

He moved onto trying to care for you, knowing that he couldn’t take away your pain. He could only try to ease it - he could only be there for you now to make sure that you didn’t make a terrible mess of yourself. He was trying to make sure that you had a safe place to land. 

“I don’t even have a reputation.” You whispered this quieter, pulling George closer by the front of his shirt to say it, as though it were a fantastic secret. “That used to be all I could think about - my reputation. I used to spend every day thinking of what other people thought of me… I mean now I know what everyone thinks of me!” 

Much to George’s alarm, you back shouting, turning to stare at everyone else in the pub as you intentionally attracted their attention. 

“They all think I was part of it! They all think I’m one of them!” You hissed out, your voice struggling to slither out of your heavy, drunken lips, not sounding nearly as intimidating as you likely wanted it to while you glared at the crowd of on-lookers. “But look! Look, everyone!” 

George had no idea why, and then suddenly, you ripped your arm out of your jacket once again, and you began waving both your arms frantically, showing off your bare arms to everyone who continued to stare. 

“Look, everyone! No Marks! I am not the person you think I am!” 

Oh. 

You were desperate to prove that you hadn’t been fighting on the wrong side. 

“Just because my father is a self-righteous arseh-” 

“Love, calm down.” George told you, gently bringing your arms back down, knowing that you would regret making a fool of yourself later. 

You let out a sputtering laugh in his direction. 

“Good idea!” You gasped, and then waved toward the barmaid. “I’ll have another-” 

“No, she’s cut off.” George said sharply, looking at the barmaid rather than trying to tell you. 

George then went back to trying to dress you, squatting down and forcing your shoe on, which wasn’t too difficult. When he came back up and kept trying to wrestle you into your coat, he found the barmaid waving a piece of parchment in his face. 

“She hasn’t paid her tab.” She said gruffly. 

By the look of the amount, you had been there all night. 

“Send it up to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” George said, shoving the paper back across the bar. 

“Fine.” The woman huffed. “But I didn’t know that a couple of good boys like you associated with Death Eaters-” 

“She’s not a Death Eater.” George spat back. “She saved my brother’s life a few days ago. So you should check your facts before someone in a worse mood hears you spouting that shit,” He added on, giving a thinly veiled warning. 

George finally got you into the coat, and he kept an arm tight around your shoulders as he steered you through the crowd and out of the bar. Walking you down the cobblestone street, keeping you from tripping over yourself while you were wearing those bloody heels was certainly interesting. After a journey that felt too long, he finally got you through the shop and upstairs to the apartment above it. 

He and Fred still had a few boxes left there (more for storage purposes than anything else), and he would have to find something to make up the bed with, but it was better than nothing. Definitely better than trying to Apparate with you in this condition. 

He sat you down on the couch that they had left behind, and you sank into the soft furniture, quickly kicking off your irritating shoes as you relaxed back and closed your eyes. George went to the kitchen and got you a glass and filled it with water, bringing it over to you, knowing that something other than liquor would do you some good. 

You took it from him without a fight, and began gulping it down, finishing almost the entire thing as he smiled at you. He was glad to be taking care of you right now. Not only did it occupy his mind, but he was thankful for the company. Unlike what most people thought, you were easy to get along with. 

As you took a breath from the water, he moved toward the boxes, looking for something to make up the bed with. You gave him a curious look. 

“Is someone moving?” You slurred out, your words still weighed down by drunkenness. 

You would definitely need to sleep it off. 

“Yeah.” He answered. “Fred and I have already moved. We used to live here. But we got a better place outside of London.” 

“Oh.” You replied, giving another hiccup. “T-too bad. This place is kind of cozy.” 

He was surprised that someone like you - someone who came from riches and grew up with the ‘finer things in life’ didn’t make a comment about the apartment being small and cramped. But he supposed that you weren’t a snob like Malfoy, after all. 

“It’s nice that it’s empty. It means that nobody will care that I’m putting you up here for the night.” He told you. 

“What?” You gaped in return, seeming confused by his words. 

“You’re not Apparating while drunk.” He told you. “So you’re staying here.” 

There was a moment of comfortable silence, and then you surprised George when you spoke up again. 

“George?” 

When he turned around to face you, you were looking at him with that intense sadness in your eyes again, and it truly struck through his gut. He hated that he felt so utterly helpless. He hated that he couldn’t take your pain away. 

“What is it, love?” He asked, wondering what was on your mind now. 

“Do - do you think I’m a bad person?” You asked, your voice terribly pitiful and small. 

Just like the image of Fred bloody and unconscious, this punched a hole right through George’s chest. 

“What? No. Of course not.” George itched with the urge to reach out and sweep you into a hug, but he feared that this would make you uncomfortable. So he squeezed his hands at his sides and eventually crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke again. “You’re so far from being a bad person. You fought alongside us. You saved Fred. You’ve always been good.” 

“Not always.” You huffed quietly. 

“Well you’re certainly no Death Eater.” 

George declared, turning back and grabbing a quilt that his mother had made from one of the boxes and bringing it into the naked mattress that was still stacked on the twin frame in the bedroom. (When the shop first started, the twins had been so busy that they used to take shifts sleeping, and only needed one single bed between the two of them, so it was all the apartment had.) 

By the time he had made up the bed to be somewhat comfortable, he came back out to discover that you had fallen asleep on the couch. So he decided not to risk waking you up by levitating you, and instead he very gently lifted your feet up to join the rest of your body, tucked a small throw pillow under your head, and covered you up with the quilt. 

While he stood there, admiring how peaceful you looked in your sleep, he did have to use the deepest form of self restraint to keep himself from laying a small kiss on your forehead. He couldn’t let himself give in to that urge because that wasn’t the nature of your relationship. No - he just left you a note telling you to meet him downstairs in his office when you woke up. 

… 

When you found George in his office the next day, if you had any signs of a hangover, you certainly didn’t show them. You were carrying yourself very well - you had rubbed off your smudged make-up, tidied up your hair, straightened out your clothes, and even taken off (and presumably thrown away) your ruined stockings, giving him a rare glimpse of your bare legs. 

However, as you stared him down after knocking on the open door, he was surprised to see such a deep scowl on your face. He thought that the two of you had made progress the night before and that you would be… softer toward him. Especially after opening up to him so much. 

“Y/N-” He greeted you warmly. 

“Look, Weasley, I’m really sorry about last night. Whatever happened-” You began speaking vaguely, and he cut you off, immediately curious of something. 

“How much of it do you remember?” He asked. 

He would be mildly devastated if you didn’t remember the night before - the tender emotions of it, the way you had opened up to him. But he knew that you had certainly been drunk enough to cause memory problems, and that was likely the only reason you had opened up to him so much. He definitely wouldn’t hold it against you in the long run. 

“Excuse me?” You gaped, seeming almost insulted by the question. 

“How much of last night do you even remember?” He prodded, repeating the question. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” 

You let out a huff, your whole body tense. And then, deflating like a balloon, your posture slumped for the first time in all the years he had known you, and you finally let your guard down in front of him for the first time while sober. 

“No.” You admitted hesitantly. “Go ahead, start laughing.” 

You were on the verge of tears, and George hated that you thought he might make fun of some of your most vulnerable moments. 

“I don’t think people being upset is very funny.” He told you honestly. “People freaking out because they’re covered in muck or because something jumped out at them? Yes, that’s funny. Genuine upset - that’s not funny.” 

“Thank you for the clarification.” You said, deadpan coming into your voice as you were unsure how to proceed. 

You moved to leave, and George’s next words stopped you. 

“Last night, you were complaining because you said that you have no prospects.” He told you. “Nothing planned for your future.” 

You froze up, not yet turning around - absolutely hating the vulnerability you had disclosed to him. 

“Fred is gonna be in the hospital for a while, as you know. And I’m gonna need some help around the shop while he’s gone. We’re probably gonna help around here after that anyway. We’ve been getting busier and busier.” George continued on. 

You slowly swung around, heart pounding in your chest as you processed his words. 

“I know it’s probably not glamorous - it’s gonna be a lot of hard work and some of the products can be tricky-” 

“Are you offering me a job?” You asked, trying to get clarity on the situation. 

“Yes.” George nodded. “It’s fifty Galleons a day, flat rate, no commissions. Plus, if you want, the flat above the shop is vacant. And it’s furnished.” 

“What would the rent be?” You asked, thinking that there was a catch. 

George shrugged. “It comes with the position. But you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” 

He remembered what you had said about going ‘home’ but not planning to stay there - you said that you had no clue where you planned to go, and he wanted to help you out with that. He truly wanted to be your soft spot to land. 

He knew that you were likely used to living in some fancy mansion, and the flat above the shop was small and shabby in comparison - but you had called it cozy. You liked it. Hopefully you would consider it a nice place to live, especially in the wake of the war that had just taken place. 

“And you want me to take the job? You want me around here? In your shop? Every day?” You questioned, motioning toward yourself. 

“I can think of nobody better qualified for the job.” George grinned at you. 

You let out a sigh. “Okay. I - I guess you have yourself a new employee, then.” 

George extended out a hand to signify that it was a done deal, and out of ingrained social queues, you took it and sealed the verbal agreement with a handshake. 

That was how you came to be employed at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

… 

That had been over three years ago. 

You had truly believed that the whole thing would be temporary. And you found more and more that as the days went on, you didn’t mind working at the shop or living in the small apartment above it. 

You found that more and more - you were getting used to it. And you were even enjoying this quiet life. 

… 

You were dreading coming in after having that harsh conversation with George. Immediately after it happened, you regretted so boldly telling him that you weren’t his friend instead of simply taking him up on his offer. But it had been done, and you couldn’t simply go back and change your actions now. 

When you came into the shop that morning, you didn’t find any trace of George. Luckily, there was a set of internal stairs that led from your apartment directly into the shop, so you didn’t have to worry about needing a key for the front door in order to be let in. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if George was making you open by yourself due to his new policy about no longer being ‘nice’ to you, so you set about performing the opening duties all on your own. You swept the floor, faced the shelves, opened the curtains and made sure all the products in the display windows were working how they should be. It was lonely. You found yourself missing his usual quips about ‘barely having his eyes open’ and how he was surprised that you managed to look so awake and put together so early. 

But you had done this to yourself. So you had to accept it. When you were about to open the cash register and make sure that you had the correct amount of change to start the day, you noticed a small box sitting on the counter. A box with a label on it that signified it was from one of the nearby pastry shops in the Muggle part of London. 

It was a place that George ventured often to get baked goods, and he had brought you back pastries from there before. You eyed the box suspiciously. It was large enough to fit quite a few items, and with Fred not around, you had to assume that George had left the box on the counter, intending to share whatever he had brought back with you. He was revoking his promise awfully quickly, but you didn’t entirely mind. 

You were glad to forget about the previous day’s conversation and simply go back to the quiet, pleasant dynamic that the two of you had established. He harassed you with his niceties and you grew increasingly annoyed by it until he got the hint and left. It was simple, but it worked. 

You moved toward the box and lifted the lid, interested to see if he had picked up any of the chocolate croissants this time - 

“Fucking hell!” 

You let out a harsh scream when something jumped out of the box at you as soon as you opened the lid - a blur of green, a pair of glowing eyes and a forked tongue that leapt toward you. Instinctively, you jumped back and ended up with one of your high heels wedged between the floorboards (in a strangely large gap that you constantly whined at the twins to get fixed). This caused your entire foot to get stuck, which made you trip over yourself and fall into the display of Extendable Ear boxes that was set up behind the counter. 

You let out another undignified scream as you felt yourself falling, and you frantically looked around for whatever it was that had come out of the box, soon spotting the long, lanky body of the snake on the floor at your feet. You squirmed and screamed again, literally wiggling out of your own still-stuck shoe in order to escape it, frantically tripping over the downed boxes trying to get farther away.  

Your fright quickly turned to fury when you heard laughter. 

Laughter that was all too familiar to you. Except, it wasn’t echoed by a secondary voice that sounded like a pair to the first. It was entirely solo this time. 

You looked for the source of the laughter, craning your neck upward toward the voice. Soon you saw George descending from the second floor balcony that overlooked the main floor of the store, his face split with a wide grin as the sounds died off into a dull chuckle. You glared at him the entire time. You began to grind your teeth out of pure fury while he raised his hands and slowly began to clap. 

“My, my, that was magnificent.” He announced loudly, congratulating himself. “You dream, and you hope, but you never think it’s gonna be so satisfying.” 

“Satisfying?” You parroted back, the word coming out as an infuriated hiss. “You put a live snake in a pastry box to scare me and you-” 

“Live snake?” George quickly cut you off. “Seriously, do you think I’m that reckless?” 

He walked over to the area behind the counter, and you felt truly stupid when he picked up a very obviously rubber toy snake from beside your now empty shoe. He turned around and presented it to you with a wide, satisfied smirk - one that would have looked far more fitting on Fred. 

“It’s charmed.” He announced proudly. “Though I am flattered that you consider my work so realistic. But I suppose I had to step up my game after you critiqued my Serpent Morph-O-Mask to hell and back.” 

“Shut up.” You huffed at him, limping over with your uneven, one-heeled walk, going to retrieve your shoe. You hoped to put it back on and make up some excuse about something else that you had to do, and hopefully you would be able to avoid him for the rest of the day. 

“And you know, this wouldn’t have happened if you simply wouldn’t have assumed that anything in this box was for you.” George pointed out, motioning to the still open box of pastries on the counter, which you now noticed had a few very delicious looking croissants in it. The chocolate ones that he knew you liked. “You could have just asked me-” 

“So then I would have gotten scared by a fake snake after I asked you nicely for a pastry?” You fired back sarcastically, leaning down grabbing a hold of your shoe. 

You were soon disappointed to find that the heel was firmly wedged into the gap, and you yanking on it once, twice, did nothing to free it. You stood up and moved to grab your wand from your apron, but by then, George had knelt down and had a hand on it. He used a burly arm to pull it free with a grunt in one single motion - a show of strength that you would never admit had impressed you. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever find out what happens when you ask for things nicely, because you never do.” George told you, holding out your shoe for you as he continued to kneel, implying that he would slide it onto your foot for you. “Now, come on Cinderella.” 

His words confused you, but you stepped forward anyway, feeling exceedingly awkward about it. Especially with how unexpectedly intimate it felt to have him put a warm hand on your calf and guide you into the shoe, shoving it snugly onto your foot with his other hand. 

“What the hell is Cinderella?” You asked him quietly as you pulled your foot back, now with your shoe securely on it. 

“Oh, it’s some Muggle story that Hermione made Ron read. He was telling us about it-” He explained as he stood to his full height. “Some woman loses her shoe, and this prince-” He cut himself off abruptly. “Some ladies cut their toes off, and there’s mice. It sounds interesting, I guess.” 

You almost wanted to ask him to further explain it, mostly out of bored curiosity. But before you could, he changed the subject entirely. 

“Clean this up,” He told you, gesturing to the many boxes you had knocked over in your haste to escape the joke snake. “And then go sweep upstairs. Last night I had a mishap with some of the Instant Peruvian Darkness Powder on my way out.” He added on, speaking to you curtly like a boss typically would. 

He then took one of the croissants and closed the box before he promptly left to go open the shop’s front door for the day. 

You looked at the pile of boxes now scattered across the floor and heaved out a sigh. 

This was a horrible change of pace. Any time that the twins had pranked you in the past, they had always been the ones who had been forced to clean up afterwards. But you definitely weren’t at school anymore. They weren’t going to be forced to scrub cauldrons for detention if they did something to you. 

It was going to be a very long day. 

… 

With Fred gone, it turned out to be a grossly long week. 

Without his brother there, George was bored or something, and he turned to bothering you for entertainment. Which meant that his childish pranks only continued and grew worse as the week went on. 

The next day he brought you a cup of tea, seemingly as a peace offering to apologize because you had been so upset about the (fake) snake. You accepted it without thinking anything of it, taking a small break in between stocking shelves and sweeping the floor to drink it. 

Unknowingly, for the rest of the day, you walked around with large, bright blue feathers growing out of your head where your eyebrows were supposed to be. 

Customers gawked at you and children pointed and laughed, which you thought was run of the mill for a joke shop. You forced yourself to assume that they were enthusiastic about the products around you - not that they were laughing at you. You only thought to duck into a bathroom and check to see what was wrong after you spoke to George about a new product line and it was clear that he could barely contain his laughter through the whole conversation. That was around late afternoon. And when you finally saw what he had done to you, then you stormed upstairs, boiling angry, absolutely fuming at George for embarrassing you like that. 

Not wanting to start firing off spells so close to your face, you did the only thing that you could think to do - you trimmed the feathers down with a pair of scissors and ended up shaving your eyebrows cleanly, completely off, when you saw that there was still traces of the bright blue growing out of your roots. You ended up having to draw them back on with an eyeliner pencil, and by the time you returned, George scolded you for taking ‘such a long break’ and made you sweep cobwebs out of one of the store rooms as a punishment. 

Later that night, after consulting an article in Wonder Witch Magazine about overplucking one’s brows, you mixed up and applied the slightest dab of hair tonic to the area and managed to grow them back to the way they were, but you were still fuming angry with George. 

The rest of the week went like that. He disrupted your usual routine with childish pranks, making you angrier and angrier. Glitter bombs disguised in a package of Extendable Ears that you had to unpack, making frog sounds go off whenever you were talking to customers to disrupt you, and then escalating to releasing live frogs into the store to scare you and making you run around to catch them before they ruined the merchandise. 

Toward the end of the week, after a hard day of living in paranoia of every move he made, trying to dodge his childish antics, you went upstairs and collapsed onto your bed. You were utterly exhausted, and you couldn’t help but to think about a time when he had been kinder to you. You truly thought that without Fred around, George was a lot less lethal when it came to this ‘mischief for no good reason’ stuff. 

At least, that’s what your time at Hogwarts had led you to believe. 

… 

Umbridge was one of the worst things to ever happen to Hogwarts. 

You had seen far too many awful, unqualified professors in your time - and you could officially say that the man who turned out to secretly be a Death Eater was a better teacher than her. 

But even as you sat in a lonely, secluded, cold corridor after a long, late night detention with her - even as you clutched your bloody hand, she wasn’t the main person occupying your mind. She wasn’t the reason you were quietly sobbing to yourself while you clutched your hand to your chest, for once, not caring if you got your pristine uniform stained with your own blood. 

Being in detention with her had gotten you thinking about everything in your life. Your father, your blood status, everything that had led up to this point. And as you had written those hundreds of lines with her terrible quill, somehow scrawling in your own blood, you kept thinking about the last DA meeting that you had been to. A meeting where Harry had been teaching everyone The Patronus Charm, and you hadn’t even attempted it. 

Why not? 

Because you couldn’t come up with a single strong happy memory to focus on while casting the spell. And you were far too embarrassed to admit to anyone in the room, especially Harry. And the more you racked your brain, trying to come up with a memory that you believed could help you pull off the spell, the more you came up with: your father screaming at you, telling you that you weren’t good enough, casually tossing discontent toward you, telling you that you were stupid and emotionally immature when you were only a child. 

Your only friends being House Elves - who were nice to you, but forced to be there in order to care for you. You thought of lonely days at Hogwarts where others stared at you and whispered about your past, where the few attempts you made at friendship during your early days of school were met with children fleeing from you because they believed the rumors about your family and how ‘evil’ you must have been because of them. 

You thought of how embarrassing it would be to not be able to perform the spell in front of everyone at DA. How they would all know that you were a fraud. And the more you thought about how pathetic your life was and how embarrassing the next meeting would be, the more upset you became. 

So you wept. 

Little did you know, someone had stumbled upon you and was listening to your cries. 

Umbridge had come up with the horrifying but clever strategy of separating Fred and George for their detentions. On this night, while Fred was scrubbing cauldrons for Professor Snape while George had just finished shining the floor in the Defense Against The Dark Arts Classroom. On his way back to the Gryffindor common room, he was more than surprised when the sound of weeping in a corridor led him to you. 

At first he was terrified to approach - terrified that acknowledging you crying would get him on the wrong end of a hex. But as he lingered near the end of the secluded corridor, eventually, you looked up and spotted him on your own. 

“Oh great.” You sighed heavily, sounding entirely bothered by his presence. 

“I'm unarmed.” He said, putting up both his hands in surrender, showing you that he held no prank products and genuinely meant no harm. 

You hastily wiped your tears, an instinct to hide your vulnerability; though you knew there was no way that he hadn’t seen you crying. You were hoping naively that he would simply let the subject pass in silence - and he might have, until he spotted something on the back of your hand. A set of red welts that were bleeding freely that signified that you had just been freed from a detention with Umbridge yourself. 

“What were you in for?” George asked, gesturing to your hand, cautious not to get close enough to touch it, not wanting to unintentionally graze against the open wounds and hurt you. 

“Oh.” You sighed, glancing down at it, having been so caught up in your upsetting thoughts that you had almost forgotten about the smarting of your hand. “I must not tell lies.” You said, reciting the line now engraved into your hand that was illegible past the blood. 

You realized that you couldn’t tell him the truth - ironically, completely ignoring the directive that Umbridge had been trying so hard to drill into your head. So you quickly made up a lie about the reason you had been put into detention in the first place. 

“The awful old cunt was convinced that I was lying to her when I said I have no clue what you and Fred are planning next.” 

In actuality, she had called you in for ‘questioning’, and grown increasingly angry when you refused to drink the tea she offered you. Veritaserum was colourless, tasteless, and odorless, but because of your true talent for potions, you immediately recognized the amber tinted bottle on her desk that clearly contained it. Knowing that the stuff couldn’t be stored with any chance of light getting at it and tainting, so it had to be kept in tinted glass, you pushed the tea cup away and she immediately gave herself up with her petty reaction. 

She questioned you about what kind of ‘activities’ you got up to outside of class, only to receive boring, dead-pan answers from you about studying and sleeping, and then she moved on to asking you about why you were spending increasing amounts of time with ‘the Weasleys’, and Granger and Potter. When you went silent, she not-so-subtly threatened to Owl your father and tell him about ‘the kind of company that you were keeping, and you couldn’t help it - you grabbed a quill off her desk and slapped it down in front of her, daring her to do it. 

Which only ended with you writing lines for her. It meant that you had silently won that round. You guessed that she was actually slightly afraid of your father - or afraid of the fact that you didn’t seem all too scared of him. Not anymore. 

But you couldn’t possibly spill all of this to George now. Just because you worked on practicing spells with the DA members didn’t mean that George or any of the others cared about your personal gossip. 

Despite what Umbridge believed, it was just easier to make up a lie. 

“I don’t even know what Fred and I are planning next.” George replied honestly, light laughter on his lips. “We just use a mixture of improvisation and our knack for causing mischief.” 

“Exactly.” You said. 

“You know, I have a healing cream that works pretty well to prevent scars.” He said, reaching his hand out to show you his, where the once deep indent of ‘I shall not talk back’ was now barely visible. “Fred and I had to come up with something good after testing the early versions of our products on ourselves started to go awry.” 

You never would have guessed that they actually tested those awful products on themselves, but you had to silently admire them for being willing to do it. 

“Oh, um, thanks but - it’s not that big of a deal.” You said. “I’ll be fine.” 

Truly, the physical pain was not the thing bothering you the most. 

You moved to walk away, and George surprised himself when he dared to speak up again, shouting down the hallway after you. 

“Then why were you crying?” He asked. 

You turned back around, startled into facing him again. You hated that he had asked the one question you hoped he would avoid. 

You heaved a terrible sigh, fidgeting with the end of your skirt as you mulled in the silence, wondering if you should tell him the truth or not. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took the few steps toward you again, closing the gap because you weren’t eager to run away. 

“I -” You choked on a breath, and George waited patiently for you to speak. 

You hated to be vulnerable, but the darkness and the late night made it too easy. The fact that he was alone instead of being bracketed by Fred staring you down with his hyper critical eyes made it too easy. George - sweet George - and his damn soft eyes and his expression full of nurturing rather than judgement. He made it too easy. 

He made it all feel so safe. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid Patronus thing from DA, okay?” You admitted hesitantly, rushing to get the words out, bracing yourself for the laughter you felt was inevitably after he heard the words. 

This confused George slightly. 

During the last DA meeting, Harry had been teaching everyone how to produce a Patronus Charm - something that was difficult, but incredibly useful against dark creatures like Dementors. Even George himself hadn't been able to produce a fully corporeal Patronus, only a shield version, which Harry still congratulated him for being able to do. George had noticed you standing back to watch everyone else, pacing around the room with your wand grasped in your hand tightly, held down by your side, and he overheard something about you ‘taking time to think’ when Harry asked you if you needed help. 

He knew that it was a very difficult spell and upon leaving the meeting, he hadn’t faulted you when he hadn’t seen you cast one. 

“What about it?” He asked, confused. 

“I wasn’t able to do it.” You said, clearly embarrassed. 

George shrugged, letting off a nervous laugh. 

“It’s a really hard spell.” He said. “I can’t conjure a full Patronus myself. Not yet. That’s the point of DA - to practice. And-” 

“No.” You heaved, the word so heavy on your breath. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Pure tragedy overtook your features, and George’s heart ached for you as he waited for you to finally speak the words. 

“I - ugh.” You sighed, scuffing your heeled shoe harshly against the stone floor, unable to look at him as you said it. “I couldn’t even try. Because I couldn’t think of a happy memory…” 

You trailed off the last words very quietly, and if George hadn’t been straining his ears to listen, he wouldn’t have actually known what you said. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

George was struck with the horrible realization that not everyone’s life had been like his. He had always known that the two of you were very different, but… he had never thought about it like this. 

On that day in DA, he had struggled to begin because he had too many happy memories to choose from, and Harry theorized that he wasn’t concentrating hard enough on just one. He had memories of childhood birthday celebrations, family dinners, years at Hogwarts with friends, playing pranks with Fred, the Quidditch World Cup - all those among many memories that made him intensely happy. His life was so joyful. 

Finally, George landed on a particularly intense memory of when Bill had gifted him his first broom. It wasn’t brand new, but Bill had spent one of his first paychecks post-Hogwarts on two secondhand refurbished brooms for him and Fred on their birthday so that they could stop using the absolutely crap ones from the Hogwarts storage shed for their practices. That was the year they had both made Beater for the first time. Flying on that broom had felt like the most perfect, joyous freedom that George ever could have tasted. Especially knowing that his brother had gifted it to him. 

“It’s not like my life is terrible.” You quickly rushed to assure George. “But it’s all just - a blur. My father isn’t some vessel of affection. And I don’t remember much of my mother. And Hogwarts-” 

You quickly cut yourself off, sucking in a sharp breath as you held back more tears. 

Oh hell. What had Hogwarts been like for you? Fred and George tormenting you with pranks over some stupid house rivalry? Making your life more difficult for no reason? 

Did you even have any good friends? 

George never remembered seeing you around with anyone. At least, not with friends like he had. 

You always walked the halls alone, you always ate alone. But he thought that was how you preferred to spend your time. He always thought before this that you were simply snobbish and you never thought anybody else was good enough to be in your company. But more and more these days, he was realizing that fact simply wasn’t the case. (He supposed that Slytherins weren’t the easiest to make friends with, and Slytherins didn’t have much luck making friends outside of their house, especially not when their father was a known Death Eater.) 

Silently vowing to become your good friend from then on, George moved on to a more important matter first - helping you cast a Patronus Charm. 

“What do you remember about your mother?” He asked. 

“What?” You gaped, confused. 

“Your mother - do you have any happy memories of her?” He asked. 

You stirred in quiet thought for a moment. You hated where this was going, but with his gentle eyes still giving you that terrible sense of safety, you found yourself opening up to him once again. 

“I don’t remember much of her.” You told him quietly. “She died when I was really young - when I was only four. My father always talks about her like she was some horrid bitch. He never paints a kind picture of her, and I often wonder if I’m misremembering her because I was so young.” 

“You should disregard anything your father says as a general rule.” George told you, entirely confident in his own words as he always was. 

This was the first time that you considered, beyond his beliefs about ‘Mudbloods’ and your family’s ‘natural superiority’, that your father might have been wrong when he spoke about you. Before you could dwell on that thought, however, George spoke up again. 

“What do you remember?” He asked, stressing the word to put meaning on your own personal experiences, not the weight of someone else’s. 

He genuinely valued your opinion for once. It felt strange that someone did. 

“She was kind.” You said quietly, still reserved. “She smelled wonderful - like rising bread dough and fresh flowers. She was always smiling. She-” 

You cut yourself off, growing tearful. It had been a long time since you had allowed yourself to remember. 

“Keep going.” George encouraged you. “It's okay. You should hold onto these things.” 

The soft rumble of his voice - so much gentler than usual - made the words feel true. You tried to let yourself fall into the memories. Far off in your mind, you ran into your mother’s embrace. 

“She used to give me these little square sweets after every meal.” You said, making the small shape with your fingers as the memory truly sank in. “Different chocolates filled with things - mint and nougat and strawberry. She said that you should always have something sweet after every meal. And I would bite them in half and guess the flavour, and then I would give the other half to her and kiss her on the cheek.” 

It was something you hadn’t thought about in so long, and though it was tender, it did bring you joy. 

“Good.” George whispered, terrified to break your concentration on the memory. “Hold onto that.” 

He took his wand from his pocket, not even thinking about the fact that you casting the charm with his wand might not be as successful, if successful at all. He was simply too eager to try it out. He stepped behind you and you felt odd with the sudden closeness, wanting to run from the contact as he crowded up tight to your back and grabbed your wand arm, placing the wand in it. 

“Come on, you can do it-” 

“George, no-” 

“Just try.” He insisted, gently whispering in your ear in a way that was strangely intimate. “Just once. For me.” 

You had no clue why you went along with it, but you did. 

“What was your favourite flavour?” 

“What?” 

“What was your favourite flavour of the sweets that your mother gave you?” He asked. 

“Peanut butter.” You replied. “If it was a peanut butter one, she would let me finish the whole thing by myself. And she always laughed when I licked my fingers. Not in a mean way - she wasn’t laughing at me… but she was laughing because she was happy. Happy because she knew I was enjoying it.” 

“Now say the words.” He whispered, guiding your hand to raise the wand up into the sky. 

Strangely, you trusted him. 

“Expecto Patronum.”

Engulfed by the safety of George at your back and feeling the intensity of your mother’s love inside of you, the overwhelming magic flowed through you. In a moment, you were amazed as a bright white light came flowing out of the wand - George’s wand - not just blasting into a shield but forming into a beautiful array of moving, living beings that filled the whole corridor within seconds. The previously dark space was soon lit up by dozens of tiny bright little lights that danced so beautifully for the two of you. 

At first you thought they might be butterflies, but when you got a closer look at their wings and their size, you realized that they were moths - not as beautiful or well liked by people. How fitting. You couldn’t help but to reach out and try to catch one - and that dreamy little beam of light, that magical little white moth landed on your extended finger before it dissipated off into nothingness as the magic dissolved and the corridor darkened once again. 

“I told you you could do it.” George said cheerfully. 

You turned to George, and likely for the first time ever, you smiled at him. 

“Thank you, Weasley. I mean it.” 

When the Owl Post came the next morning, a random Tawny owl that you did not recognize dropped a poorly wrapped package into your lap and then screeched away. When you peeled it open, you were surprised to find a random jar of some cream, along with a package of peanut butter fudge. It came with a scrawled note that said ‘it would be a shame for that beautiful hand to be scarred forever’. 

You peered across to the Gryffindor table and found a certain tall redhead grinning at you, and he gave you a wink. The cream smelled vaguely of green tea, and was very soothing to apply. The marks on your hand faded within a week of use, and it never left a scar. The fudge tasted amazing, and thankfully, did not give you a fever. It reminded you of your mother - and for the first time in a long time, you actually let yourself indulge in those memories. 

You had to wonder where he had gotten the sweets on such short notice. But you supposed that was just another ‘Weasley trick’ you weren’t allowed to know about. 

That day had shown you a kinder side of George that you had never truly expected even existed. 

… 

Despite what you believed, George could be just as much trouble by himself, even when Fred wasn’t around for him to conspire with. 

The entire week culminated in an incident that you never could have predicted - one that had you mentally begging for Fred’s return. 

That afternoon, just after closing, you were tallying up the register as a part of your end-of-day duties, and George walked up to you, seeming far too ‘innocent’ for your liking. His presence now filled you with a slight sense of dread, wondering what he would do next, but you said nothing about it. You didn’t even look up at him - you continued your work, counting the money and writing down your tally while he lingered off near the edge of the counter. You hoped that if you didn’t acknowledge him, whatever prank he had planned next simply wouldn’t play out. You were far too tired for his antics now. 

“Y/N,” He called your name gently, and you still didn’t look up. 

Instead, you hummed gently in response to acknowledge him, pretending that you were far too busy to look up from your work. He let out a deep sigh, walking around the counter toward you. 

“Look, I do have to say that I’m sorry for everything. This week, I pulled a lot of immature pranks on you and it was a step backward between us,” He announced, his tone sounding oddly… insincere. 

You finally looked up from the ledger book to face him, and you found that his expression was… smug? His mouth was tight, clearly holding back a smile, and his eyes were glinting with an ardent joy that you knew had to be ill-conceived mischief. 

Your stomach churned as you wondered what he was up to, and you immediately knew that the apology was a false, a cover for whatever he was attempting. You didn’t trust him - not one bit. 

But you knew that you couldn’t call him out for it right away, otherwise he would simply try again later. And he would come back with a better set up, or simply try to catch you off guard next time. You had to figure out what he was doing first, and put a stop to it. 

So for now, you pretended to believe him.  

“Yes, it was.” You replied quietly. 

You glanced around, trying to see if he had set up any trip-wires, any hanging buckets. You looked down at the drawers in the front counter to see if any of them had moved during the quick break you had taken for a cup of tea (one that you had definitely made for yourself this time). You had to wonder if he had hidden anything inside of them that would jump out at you when you opened them. 

“Thank you for apologizing.” Your tone was dead, your mind too busy focusing on trying to figure out his next move. 

“I got you something!” He added on excitedly. 

When he reached into his pocket, you instinctively took a step back, your eyes glued to his hand as he took a few sweets out and laid them on the counter. The green sour apple candies that you loved. You were instantly suspicious of them, just like you had been the first time he had gifted you some (in the same manner of apology). But you had to guess that he wouldn’t stoop to tampering with them. 

You gave him a harsh glance, and he gave you a smile. And then, you reached your hand out to grab one. 

But that was your greatest mistake. 

The minute your arm was extended, he reached out with his arm - the one that was closest to you, his left, and before you could blink, he wrapped something cold and metal around your right wrist and tightened it. A sharp ‘click’ sounded through the air as he secured the metal around your arm, trapping you. 

He started cackling loudly - as both the hilarity and the victory of it truly overcame him, and your brain began to process what had just happened. You lifted your arm up, tugging on the metal, realizing that it was a wrist cuff attached to a chain no more than four inches long, and on the end of that chain was George Weasley. 

He had handcuffed himself to you. 

What. The. Fuck. 

He had cuffed himself into the other side and hidden it under his jacket sleeve before walking up to you, holding the cuff in his hand down by his side to hide it from you. He had planned this out. 

But what-? Why had he done this? 

Why the fuck had he chained the two of you together? 

You yanked on it again, causing his hand to flail along with yours, a sharp bite grinding against your skin as the metal tugged on your own wrist, very secure in place. The realization that the two of you were now solidly attached was truly, fully settling into your brain. 

“What the fuck?!” You yelled, shocked and slowly becoming angry as he continued to laugh and beamed a smile at you. “What the fuck is this, George?” 

“Oh come on, it’s a joke!” He replied, still grinning. “We both know that you and I could use some extra time together.” 

“I said-” You were about to remind him of your previous protests to this exact idea, but he cut you off. 

“You said that you didn’t want to spend time together because we’re not friends.” He reminded you. “And the only way for us to become friends is to spend more time together. Ironically.” 

He always had a way of making you regret your own words. 

You glared at him intensely, now absolutely fuming with annoyance and a growing rage. 

“I - I don’t care, you idiot!” You screamed in return, beginning to panic. “Get rid of it! Unlock it!” 

You continued to flail in panic, making your own wrist continue to hurt more as the short chain caused his arm to act like a dead weight against your own, preventing you from moving too far away from him. It made you feel so terribly trapped, and you hated it. 

Sure, of all the people to be trapped with, he wasn’t the worst by far. But you had already spent so much of your life feeling trapped; you had spent so long being defined by your father’s choices for you, in fear that all eyes in the world were judging you based on his reputation (which mostly turned out to be true). And just as you were barely becoming free from those chains, George had come and slapped another literal one onto your wrist. 

It caused a terrible anxiety through you, turning your muscles to putrid stone within seconds and tightening your throat as your body threatened tears. And you refused to let yourself cry in front of him, so of course, it only manifested as harsh anger toward him while your brain put up shields and tried to protect you. 

“Calm down, will you?” George replied, his face still vibrant with laughter, obviously not taking you seriously. “It’s just a joke.” 

Of course. His singular excuse for everything in life. 

“A joke!” You screamed back so harshly that your voice easily broke. “A joke?!” 

“Y/N-” 

You didn’t let him speak. 

“Everything in your life is a joke!” 

You shouted, getting closer to his face to magnify your words since you quite literally couldn’t get away. 

“You had absolutely no work ethic in school and wasted any brains you had on torturing fellow students for a few cheap laughs and now you wonder why you can’t get a girlfriend because you push away any woman in your life with immature antics and you refuse to actually reflect on anything more serious than what you ate for lunch!” 

Your throat became worn out from screaming so many words with so little breath, getting louder as you went along, but it felt nice to get some of the anger out. 

George just rolled his eyes and then smirked at you, and you became even more irritated by the fact that he didn’t seem at all phased by your words. 

“Are you done, lover?” He asked as you took a breath, still shaking with rage. “You are starting to hurt my one good ear. And it is rather precious to me, as you could understand.” He added on, using his free hand to gesture to that side of his head. 

‘Lover’?

This pet name, and the casual nature with which he spoke it, just left odd confusion mixing in with your anger. 

“Weasley, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t take this off me within the next minute-!” You began to threaten him, grabbing your wand out of your apron pocket to point it squarely at his chest. “I will singe all the hair off your body and turn your cock into something so shriveled and unrecognizable-!” 

“So you do think about my cock, eh?” He said, cutting you off, his smirk growing even more intense now. 

You let out a deep growl of frustration and pressed your wand into his throat, and then, as a warning, you began to count. 

“Ten, nine, eight, seven-” 

You weren’t sure if you were counting down to when you would start firing non-lethal curses at him, or if you were counting down to try and make your rage less potent, but you were glad when it worked. 

“Alright, alright, calm down.” George sighed in surrender, and batted your wand down from his throat with his free hand. You weren’t so easily convinced and continued to hold the weapon in his direction, glaring at him. “I’ve got the key right here. It was just a little joke, a wind up, ya know?” 

He started searching the pockets of his jacket, finally ready to give up the key and unlock you. You did feel a twinge of relief, even if you refused to show it, keeping your appearance firm and stony - a way that you hadn’t looked at him in a long time. 

However, that bit of relief was incredibly short-lived as his hand went into more of his pockets and came up empty-handed again and again, and he seemed to grow increasingly more frantic. You grew more panicked too as you noticed him doubling back and checking his pockets over again, even checking his pants, and dumping things out onto the floor - causing random sweets and crumpled pieces of parchment to fall by your feet… 

But still, no key. 

“George.” You ground out between your teeth, pressing your wand tightly against his cheek. 

“I have it here somewhere,” He mumbled hastily, giving you a nervous grin. 

“You lost the key?!” You shouted, lowering your wand now, knowing that another flash of accidental anger would end up with him on the wrong end of a jinx, and (as pissed off as you were) you didn’t want to hurt him by mistake. 

George continued frantically fingering his pockets, but his expression grew more honestly worried now. Whether it was because he was terrified of what you might do to him, or because he actually didn’t like the results of his own prank and truly didn’t want to be chained to you, you weren’t sure. You had to guess that it was the latter - being chained to you for a period of time longer than five minutes would be incredibly unpleasant for anyone. 

“It - it was an honest mistake, really.” He stuttered out nervously, still frantically looking for the key. 

However, you knew that it was just your luck that the key had gone missing - likely fallen out of his pocket somewhere and truly gone. You didn’t count on him finding it anytime soon. Still, you continued to internally panic - you weren’t prepared to spend much longer like this. 

George flinched when you waved your wand again, and you wanted to go on a rant about how you weren’t actually going to hurt him (even as much as you wanted to). But instead, you fought against his dead weight to raise the cuff attached to your wrist upward, and then you began firing off spells. 

“Alohomora!” You tried the first and most obvious one, and naturally, it did not work. “Aperta!” You tried something a bit more advanced, and still nothing. 

“Wow, I actually thought that would work-” George began. 

“Shh.” You cut him off, trying to think. 

You dug through your knowledge for something a bit more advanced - and you thought of a lock breaking spell that you had read about in a rare Japanese spell book during your time at Hogwarts. Back when you had spent most of your time studying because your social life really hadn’t been that great. 

“Hirake Kagi!” You spoke the words sharply, hoping that you remembered the pronunciation well, causing a small bright white light to fire off into the small key hole beside your wrist. 

When you tugged on the cuff - still, it was locked solidly tight, and you heaved a grand sigh of frustration. 

“Okay, well, that didn’t work, so-” George began to speak again, but you found yourself ignoring him. 

You raised your wand again, this time firing off curses toward the short chain that attached the two of you. 

“Confractus!” You fired a simple spell with the intention to break the chain, and nothing happened. 

“Reducto!” 

A large bright white beam of energy burst out of your wand, and as soon as it hit the small chain, it was deflected off the seemingly unbreakable metal and ended up hitting a nearby display of products, destroying a few of the boxes and knocking far more of them over into a heap on the floor. 

“Ignitis!” 

You moved on to fire, causing a bright orange beam to come shooting out of your wand, one that was also deflected off the metal - this time with slightly worse consequences. The ensuing fragments of energy singed up George’s arm and began to light his coat on fire, and caused you to jump back as particles of ember threatened up toward your face before sizzling out. 

“Woah, woah, stop it!” George demanded, grabbing your wand from you and putting it on the counter. 

Luckily, he had a decent amount of experience with this kind of stuff due to his and Fred’s early failures with their products, and he didn’t panic - he simply brought his free hand up and began aggressively patting out the fire until his jacket was only dully smoking, which did impress you. You liked that he could be calm among chaos. 

“You’re going to kill one of us!” He added on, sounding slightly annoyed himself. Perhaps he had a point. “And trust me, you don’t want to be chained to a dead body that you have to lug around. I am a lot heavier than I look, love.” 

The affectionate nickname gave a confusing twist in your stomach, and you glared at him. 

In the back of your mind, you did consider the fact that you didn’t want to be chained to his dead body - because it would be terribly inconvenient, and because at the end of the day, you didn’t want to see him hurt. Even if you wanted to strangle him with the chain of the cuffs to prove a point, you would have stopped before he lost consciousness. 

“Well what do you suggest, if you’re so clever?” You hissed at him. 

He grinned at you. 

“Leave it to a Slytherin to try and brute force her way out,” He said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket for his own wand. 

“This isn’t about Slytherin or Gryffindor, or any of that pathetic bullshit.” You griped, shaking your head. “Whatever, just - what’s your idea?” 

He raised his wand proudly and announced his spell. 

“Accio key!” 

Then, from seemingly every corner of the shop (including the pile of junk that had landed at his feet after he had emptied his pockets), with drawers opening and doors upstairs creaking open, about a dozen different keys came hurling at the two of you. You instinctively ducked down to avoid the sharp metal that would have pierced your skin and likely left harsh gashes due to his lack of foresight. The cuff tugged on your wrist as a reminder of your predicament, and you conveniently used him as a shield for the oncoming debris, hearing him let out a few grunts as some of the keys inevitably hit him. 

“Oh yes, that was clever.” You griped sarcastically. “That was downright brilliant!” 

“Okay, fine, not my best moment.” George sighed as you stepped out from behind him. “Just help me look through these and see which one is the handcuff key. And then I’ll unlock you and you can be free for the rest of the weekend.” 

He let out a tired huff as he bent down and began picking up the collection of keys off the floor, putting them on the counter to go through them. 

“And Monday.” You added on. “I’m taking Monday off because of this little stunt.” 

“Fine.” He quietly agreed. 

The more keys you looked through, the more anxious you became. You recognized each of them - a ring of keys that unlocked different doors in the shop, a key with a fuzzy dice on the end that was a spare for Ron’s Muggle car (that Fred and George maybe had permission to use), a spare key to Ron’s apartment in London in case of emergency, a spare key to the front door of the shop that Fred had lost months ago, a key to your apartment upstairs, a key to the desk in Fred and George’s office, but - 

“You’re sure that none of these is the right one?” You pressed, panicking. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” George replied, sounding slightly downtrodden about it himself. “It was a little one, a tiny small key-” He gaped, gesturing with his fingers, showing you the intended size. 

“And you lost it!” You cried out, angry and upset at the same time. “Oh, you idiot!”  

George sighed in defeat and you kicked the counter in front of you, causing all the keys laid out on the countertop to rattle, along with the change that was sitting in the open cash drawer from your still unfinished closing count. Strangely, this caused you to come up with a new idea. 

“What shop did you buy the handcuffs from?” You pressed, turning to him with a bright, relieved smile on your face. “We can just go there and buy another set for the key!” 

George’s face twisted into a sickly, nervous expression. Your smile immediately dropped, teeth clenching down so hard that your jaw began to hurt as you glared at him even stronger now. 

“What?” You demanded harshly, not even opening your mouth to grind out the word. 

He was going to kill you with stress before the night was even over. Then he was going to be the one dragging around a dead body. 

“I - I didn’t buy them.” He confessed, his voice quiet and obviously embarrassed. 

Unable to resist the urge this time, you reached up and slugged him, delivering a harsh, solid punch to his shoulder. He let out a grunt. 

“Okay, maybe I deserved that-” 

“What did you do?!” You demanded. “What the hell did you get me into?!” 

“Look, I’ll fix it, I swear-” He began to ramble out apologies, but you were more interested in something else. 

“Where are the handcuffs from?” You asked, slowly creeping into insanity, and definitely losing your patience. 

“I found them in Harry’s desk.” He rushed out the words all at once, and your mind began to spin. 

You had to guess that he meant Harry Potter. 

Which meant that you were truly fucked. 

Harry wasn’t officially an Auror, at least not yet. The Ministry had been trying their best to charm him into the program since The War had ended, and this included having him work as a freelance agent on only the most attractive and exciting criminal cases - something that he and Ron liked to talk about a lot. It meant that his name and picture could be slapped all over the Prophet whenever he brought in a high profile Death Eater that had still been on the loose. 

Because he didn’t officially work with the Ministry, he didn’t have an office at their headquarters (even as many times as they kept offering him their best, most gorgeous offices, including all the perks). He had told you once that he hated the idea of being ‘cooped up’ underground all day. Though you didn’t see how his current accommodation was much better. 

You had been to Grimmauld Place a few times during your time as a member of The Order of Phoenix, but you had only found out that it was Harry’s inheritance and current place of residence a few months after The War. Hermione had invited you over there for dinner (you did appreciate being included, even if Ron and Fred often showed their disdain for her trying to do so). Harry had proudly showed you his office and the many keepsakes within - trophies that Dumbledore or others had gifted to him, and creepy, cursed objects that he had trapped in glass cases that had come with the Black family home. 

You could only imagine what kind of ancient demonic magic was keeping the handcuffs from being destroyed. 

(Little did you know, these handcuffs were a relatively new pair of Muggle handcuffs that one of the other Aurors had modded with many intense, advanced spells and given to Harry with the purpose of keeping their perps from escaping.) 

“It’s not my fault!” George insisted with a yell. “He just left me alone in there with all that stuff! And his desk was unlocked! And I wasn’t even looking in the drawers for a pair of handcuffs, I was looking for documents with some kind of gossip! And when I found them, how was I not supposed to use them for some greater nefarious purpose? It’s entrapment!” 

“Just shut up!” You snapped. “Shut up and let me think!” 

You became breathless from screaming for a moment, and after you gulped in air, you spoke again. 

“What the hell are we gonna do?” 

It was more of a rhetorical question, speaking to yourself as you truly took in the utter horror of the situation at hand - being chained to another person with seemingly no way to escape. But naturally, George had to crack another joke. 

“I thought you wanted me to shut up so you could think,” He mumbled quietly. 

You rolled your eyes sharply. 

And strangely, it was your annoyance with him that fueled your next idea. 

“Harry’s desk…” You mumbled out. “Maybe he has another key? We have to go and talk to him.” 

George frowned again. 

“Harry is in Romania.” He said. “Apparently he’s on some top secret mission. Ron couldn’t stop blabbering on about it, so it must be really important.” 

Romania. Great. 

You clenched your fists incredibly tight, jabbing your nails harshly into your palm, trying to distract yourself from George’s presence. Not ending up in Azkaban for murder was the singular motivation that kept you grounded for a few moments as you forced yourself to take deep breaths rather than to scream. 

“So what do you suggest?” You huffed out, your voice quivering with ill-concealed rage. 

“We could try Bill?” George posed. “He works with cursed objects sometimes. He might know more about this than we do. He might know how to break us out without the key. I’ll send him an Owl?” 

You let out a breath of relief, for once, actually glad that the Weasley family was so large that they had members of such varying degrees of expertise. 

“But we have to get to the Owlery before it closes.” He added on, looking at his watch on his free hand. 

Before you could blink, he was attempting to move around the counter, dragging you with him in a sharp jolt, causing your shoulder to pain harshly. Your mind took a moment to kick in and realize that you had to walk along with him to avoid that dragged-along effect. Even if Bill could solve this, you would still be stuck close by George for the next few hours. 

Great. 

As he headed toward the door, going for the Owlery on the other side of Diagon Alley, you realized something even more terrible - he was about to parade you through the streets chained to him. It was the most foolish, embarrassing thing ever, and though it hurt your wrist, you gave a harsh yank back on the cuffs, causing him to hiss in pain quietly and stop dead in his tracks. 

“What?” He asked as he looked over his shoulder toward you, his tone now becoming ripe with annoyance. 

“I am not being paraded around as your new accessory!” You argued. “I already look foolish enough wearing this gaudy apron! I don’t want to have to explain your unique brand of stupidity to other people!” You demanded, shaking the cuffs for emphasis.

“Well, we are currently stuck together, so if I need to mail an Owl, you’re coming with me!” He shouted back, trying to pull you toward the door once again. 

Instinctively, you reached out and stomped on his foot to stop him (your wand still sitting on the counter where he had put it). Your high heeled shoe made a firm imprint in the middle of his expensive dragon-hide oxford and caused a shooting pain through his foot that had him howling and jumping back, glaring at you. 

“Okay, stop it!” George huffed at you, wagging a finger tightly in your face that you resisted the urge to reach out a bite simply to spite him. “If we’re going to be stuck like this, even if it’s only for a few hours, we have to agree not to wound each other.” 

He would never try to physically hurt you, no matter how upset he was, but he mostly wanted it to be a mutual agreement so that he would be safe from you. 

“Fine.” You sighed. He did have a point. Devolving to petty fighting would only make things worse. 

Then, you thought of something that would make going out in public a bit more bearable. 

“Give me your coat.” You demanded. 

“What?” He gaped at you, confused. 

“Just give it to me!” 

He began to remove it from his free arm, but then he realized a glaring problem - with his hand in the handcuffs, he wouldn’t be able to remove his jacket off the arm that was attached to yours. You saw this issue too and let out a huff, grabbing the fabric from him anyway - it would still work fine for your purposes. You took it as far down his arm as you could and then draped the fabric over your joined wrists, doing your best to conceal the handcuffs from any public eyes. Still feeling the chain biting into your skin as the distance tugged on your wrists, you moved to grab his hand, hating how blazen warm his skin was as you laced your fingers with his to keep him still. 

“You know if you wanted to hold my hand, you could’ve just as-” He began to say, smirking at you. 

“Shut up.” You hissed at him. “Just go.” You motioned toward the door, and the two of you finally set off. 

To the late-afternoon stragglers in Diagon Alley, the two of you would have looked like a simple couple holding hands as you walked along, too lovestick to let each other go. No one would have suspected that you were actually chained together under the fabric of George’s coat due to an ill-timed, poorly thought out ‘prank’. 

Apparently it was almost too convincing. 

George paid for some supplies at the Owlery to write his letter, and of course, he had to be the one to write it because he had conveniently set this up so that his proper, dominant hand would be the one free and anything you wrote with your non-dominant hand would be awful chicken scratch. You almost had to wonder in the back of your mind if your spells had gone so wrong because you hadn’t been using your proper wand hand. 

But you couldn’t linger on those thoughts for long, because the woman behind the counter kept eyeing the two of you heavily as your joined hands rested on top of the counter under the folded fabric of his jacket. 

“You two are just the sweetest, aren’t you?” She said, smiling at both of you past thick wrinkles, clearly endeared by a young couple. “It’s just so sweet to see a couple so in love that they run errands together - just can’t leave each other’s side, not for a moment.” 

“Oh we’re certainly attached, alright.” You replied, knowing that the woman was too rosy-eyed to pick up on the bitter sarcasm in your voice. 

“I wouldn’t trade my Y/N for anything,” George added on, giving you a fake, gooey smile. You resisted the urge to hit him again. “We’ll be back here soon mailing the wedding invitations.” 

You gave him a sharp glare for this comment, especially when the woman giggled brightly at this and started asking George more questions - wanting to know about what day your wedding was planned for and how long the two of you had been together. You were thankful when he wrapped up the conversation with her and mailed off his letter to Bill, and after some more dreadful hand holding back down the street, the two of you got back to the shop. 

He locked up behind the two of you and you both decided to wait for the reply upstairs in your apartment. You hated feeling embarrassed by the bits of mess that you had naturally left in your apartment, not knowing that anybody else would be seeing it anytime soon. Random dishes in the sink, an unfolded blanket on the couch, random magazines around. You wanted to rush to clean up, you wanted to do something - 

“We should probably sit down.” George said, pulling out one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. “It might be a while.” 

You didn’t even have the energy to respond with anger. 

You simply pulled out the chair opposite and collapsed into it, glad that you could yank off your apron over your head and throw it to the side. 

… 

You and George waited in silence for the return Owl. 

You picked up a nearby book, trying your hardest to read when his presence was so distracting, and he simply sat there, contemplating (hopefully considering his life choices and thinking about the consequences of his actions). About an hour passed before there was light tapping on the window, and you were grateful to look up and find a brown barn owl there, waiting for the two of you. George rushed up to open the window and you let out a hiss of pain as he inadvertently tugged on your wrist, still not used to being so closely attached. 

“We’re still attached, moron,” You grunted out, rushing out of your chair to follow him. 

“You know, you don’t have to call me a moron every five minutes.” George sighed. “I know that what I’ve done is stupid.” 

He opened the window and took the envelope from the owl and slipped a coin into a pouch on its leg as a tip for the delivery - clearly another Owlery owned owl. 

“If you knew that, then you wouldn’t have done it.” You replied dully. 

George didn’t reply any further, too busy ripping open the envelope to read the letter while you closed the window. You were curious, but too nervous to read over his shoulder; even when you took a glance at the paper, you found the handwriting too messy to even make-out. Though with the way George was murmuring under his breath as he read it, apparently he could understand it just fine. 

“Oh.” 

“What?” You snatched the letter from him, though you didn’t bother to read it, looking from the parchment to George’s once again nervous expression. “What?” 

“He said that he knows a good professional Ministry curse breaker that he can get us an appointment with.” George announced, forcing a grin. Clearly trying to make you feel better about the news. 

You had a feeling that there was a very large ‘but’ coming. And when you didn’t say anything - when you didn’t start celebrating, instead staring him down with an imposing look, leaving the air open for more words, George provided you with it. 

“But the next available appointment is in two or three days.” 

“Two or three days?!” You screamed, your throat becoming sore from how much you had screamed that day. “Have you stressed the exact nature of our predicament to him?” 

“Yes!” He assured you. “But these are very busy people! And they’re dealing with situations much more life-threatening than ours at present!” 

George Weasley had handcuffed himself to you, and now the two of you were stuck together.

...

A/N: I will ask you kindly - if you enjoyed this fic, please reblog it or comment something meaningful down below. I would love to have a conversation with people who enjoyed the fic and sat through the entire thing to be able to read this ending message.

Typically, with a multi-part fic, I would have some kind of reblog and comment goal at the end asking people to give the fic a certain number of comments and reblogs before I post the next part, but I have found that even this doesn't get people to meaningfully engage with fics. The last time I did this with a fic, the goal was not met, and it has been sitting there for months with enough likes to have more than doubled the goal, but people just don't give a fuck to actually comment or reblog. They just leave a like and move on without caring how much effort it actually takes to write a 30k, 40k, 50k fic.

If you're going to comment, I don't care to know if the writing quality was good or anything like that (because it doesn't really start a conversation when people go "this is so good!" it just makes me nod and throw a thumbs up - I want to have genuine conversations about my fics and what is happening in them), I do want to have a genuine discussion about the plot of the fic, the dynamic between the characters, and what you anticipate will happen in the next part - I want to talk about your experience reading it and how that experience differs from other fics. I don't just want to be praised (in fact, I don't want to be praised at all), I want to have fun talking about the characters and the universe here.

Because in case it passed your notice, writing a 50k fanfic (which, this adds up to 50k between both parts) - is a lot of work. And all I ask for in return after putting in hours and hours worth of hard, back-breaking work into a fic like this and then posting it for free, is that people take a few minutes to discuss it with me if they took the time to read it.

Also I ask for the courtesy that people please don't hound me and bother me by asking when the next part is coming out.

The next part will be posted when I am finished editing it, and that could be in 2 days or 2 weeks or 2 months, or even 2 years from now if something comes up. Stick around my blog if you want to see it, especially because I will be posting updates about the progress. And for reference, the next part will be the final part - this is not a series, this is a oneshot that has been divided in half for more convenient editing and reading.

That's all. Even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope that you have a great day. <3

[pink-nostalgya]

Maybe was a bad idea

Natalie Scatorccio x Fem reader! Summary: After the rescue, the group tries to put their lives back together. Natalie, always the sullen one, clings to you because you're the only person who doesn't treat her like a basket case or a victim. But when an old friend from before the accident reappears in your life, Natalie becomes irritating, cutting and definitely jealous…though she'd never admit it. Author's note: Just heard Lorde's new single, what a woman.

Chapter one

It has been a few months since you have returned to normalcy, but a part of you is still there, in the woods, in the winter, hungry and cold. All of you despite the events are still quite close, at least in the first months, going to group therapies and calling each other continuously especially when journalists harassed the group to get a juicy story out of you, you felt that you alone could understand each other, and in a way it was true.

But someone was clinging to you, wouldn't let you get away from her and was always looking for you even if it was for a cigarette smoke outside a bar: your dear Natalie. To say that she was the most affected of the survivors is an understatement, as she let it shine through not only by her appearance but by the way she lived her life. She smoked like crazy and drank worse, took any drug you could get her hands on and lived anywhere she could, sometimes it was in motels other times it was at a friend's house she made in one night and most of the time it was your apartment, or as she saw it her own little hideaway.

With everything that had happened to them together and everything they didn't want to talk about, they all forced themselves to go to group therapy sessions where more than talking about their experiences outside, they talked about their current lives, trying to find the security they had lost during so many months. But without a doubt the one who was most against these sessions was Nat, she saw them as a waste of time and a constant migraine, especially because she had to see faces that were not so pleasant for her, but she didn't say anything for the good of all of them.

When she went, it was because you forced her to, you knocked on her motel door and waited until she came out, with her dark circles under her eyes and her messy hair, you forced her to change to go together. In the sessions she was quiet playing with her fingers, and if someone else ask her something she wouldn't answer, but if was you who asked her something she would answer in the most curt way, and to the other girls she wouldn't look them in the face, she couldn't do it, but with you she did. For you she would gave  a longer answer and looked you in the eyes, having a more delicate voice in spite of its raspiness.

You tried as much as you could to carry on as normal if that was even possible, you entered the local university to study literature and despite the constant stares of the people around you, you managed to live a quiet life, until a few months ago you met again with an old friend of yours whom you always assumed liked you.

He was a cute, attentive and recently changed boy with a confident and charismatic energy, nothing like that nerdy and shy guy you knew in high school, but it's college so you didn't mind and started a friendship with him, trying to start connecting with people on the outside. You saw Natalie every day so at one point or another you had to tell her of the new friendship. They were in your apartment smoking a cigarette in the window to your kitchen to avoid stinking of tobacco your place and you were with your hands in the food you were preparing for the two of you.

“That doesn't sound like the Steven I knew, sure it was him or his sexy twin by any chance?” she said incredulously at what you were telling her.

“It's been two years, a lot has happened in that time and people stop being who they once were.”

“Yeah, don't explain it to me,” she said, turning her gaze back to the window. She looked a little distracted after that, her mind full of doubts and thoughts that you didn't know, and no way was she going to let you do that.

Talks with him became more regular as time went on, and you couldn't be happier about it. It became for you the gateway to normalcy and new friendships on campus, becoming a more welcoming and less tense environment, now that people saw you more as the nice girl and not the freak from the accident. On the other hand Natalie became more distant when she noticed that, she no longer visited your house every day and only did so when she had nowhere else to go or missed your company the most, but whenever she did the passive-aggressive comments were not lacking, she looked angry or even irritated by all the socializing you were experiencing and it was only with you, the others could care less in her mind, but you, you were different.

“Him again?” she asked after you told her what you had done for the day, telling her that you had gone for coffee with Steven to study for finals but ended up more talking than actually doing anything ”Good, at least one of us has a life.”

But everything that was going on between you was triggered at a party you had been invited to after who knows how long, it was at the house of a girl you didn't know but you had taken some classes with her. You found yourself in the middle of the room with a drink in hand and everyone around you, you were a ghost in the crowd like before, like before everything happened, but now it gives you a peace as if things had stopped in time, as if nothing had happened. 

"T/n, you came," Steven said as he found you alone, happy to see you in the middle of the crowd. 

You smiled warmly at him and caught up with your days, him telling you about his boring morning and you about what you did with Natalie earlier that day.

"Scatorccio, I thought you stopped talking about her," he said quizzically, but you were confused and didn't understand that, especially when you were always talking about her. 

"What are you talking about, do you not listen to me or what?" you said still joking, thinking he just didn't remember, still not wanting to think of something ugly. 

"It's just... my friends say things about her, nasty things and I just don't put her together with you, cause you're nice, you know?" she said, thinking it was a compliment.

"What?" you said curtly, clenching your plastic cup, unable to believe what he was saying about her you looked at him with pent up rage, one that was out in the woods and now wanted to resurface.

"Okay, it was fucked up what she experienced..."

"We experimented" You corrected him with a tense jaw.

"You experimented" he corrected himself, this time already stumbling in his words, noticing and feeling your powerful look "Anyway, I know you experienced the same thing but she's too unstable and compared to you she's a total basket case, so if you want some advice from me you better stay away from her because you'll most likely become one in the future by her side."

Those who saw you at that party could not believe what they saw, that the pretty girl with everyone else threw a soda with vodka on Steven's polo shirt, and that you slapped him while you yelled at him what an idiot he was, letting out the accumulated rage that you felt inside you, since you came back and never let out. 

You left that party like a beast, with your legs as hard as a rock and your hands shaking from the adrenaline, so you decided to go to the only place where you knew the only person you wanted to see at that very moment was: the bar where you got drunk the first time.

You found her there playing pool alone, with her tank top that made her look sexier than she was with a cigarette on her lips. Seeing you walk in didn't make her move a bit, she just kept playing while you approached her. 

"You look like shit" she said when she had you next to her, watching you from head to toe without releasing her position so she could hit the ball.

"Well, Nat... I had a shitty night so I guess that goes hand in hand." 

"What the perfect Stev wasn't what you expected, or was it his friends this time?" she asked, this time noticing your state by the slurred and slow words, also with her need to look you in the eye, she only had it when multiple beers or half a bottle of vodka were in her system.

"Why do you care so much about who I hang out with Nat?" you asked not wanting to tell her what had just happened, but with doubt that her attitude was so weird since you were starting to have a social life without her.

"Are you here to make a speech or what?" she spits this time, avoiding your clearly embarrassed gaze.

"No, I just want to know why now that my life stopped being so shitty you look angry out of nowhere Nat" you said clearly annoyed.

"I don't care. Do what you want."

"Bullshit."

She left her position and stood extremely close to your face, so close that you could clearly feel her breath on your face and smell the alcohol in her voice "And what do you want me to say! That it drives me crazy watching you creep on someone who doesn't even deserve the sound of your voice? That every time you smile at a call from him it makes me want to shoot something? Well yeah, happy, I'm jealous as fuck! Happy?"

There was silence for a good few minutes, minutes in which you couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth and left you wondering. 

"No, I'm not happy. Because you could have said that earlier. Without me guessing clues like an idiot."

She pulled away from you a little as you continued to stare at her, not taking the intensity out of it making Natalie nervous as she felt it penetrate her to the depths of her soul. 

"I'm... I'm not good at that kind of thing" she said putting her hands in her pockets and with a slurred whisper.

"I know that. That's why I'm giving you another chance. Say what you really want to tell me, please Nat."

She was this time shy, scared of you and with your eyes locked on her she looked up at the ceiling and cursed to herself, while biting her lip trying to contain the wave of emotions she felt. But she decided to trust you, to trust the person she most wanted to see out of that hell and at least try the life she wanted out of there.

So looking next to you, with tears in her eyes, she sniffled and finally confessed to you what she felt deep inside.

"...I don't want him to touch you. Don't let him take the only good thing I have. Do you understand now?"

You don't know why you let her do that but in the end you did, she left you there perplexed and unable to react but a part of your heart was screaming at you not to let her go, the same one that took care of her when she couldn't even get up, the same one that visited her every day to see that she was still alive, the same one that forced her to go to therapy for fear that she would collapse in your arms and the one that that same night defended her to someone who didn't know who she was, your Nat.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Yunho x Actress Reader

Warnings: Dom Yunho, smut, fluff, angst.

When actress Y/n stars opposite K-pop idol Yunho from ATEEZ in a romantic drama, their on-screen chemistry quickly becomes something more. What begins as a professional working relationship quickly evolves into friendship as they bond over shared interests and an undeniable attraction neither can ignore.

As they navigate the blurred lines between their characters' scripted romance and their real-life connection, a playful game of push and pull unfolds. Teasing texts and midnight calls gradually escalate the tension between them, revealing unexpected dynamics that captivate them both.

With their careers in the spotlight and professional boundaries at stake, Y/n and Yunho must decide if their slow-burning attraction is worth the risk of ignition—and discover that sometimes, the most rewarding connections are the ones you never saw coming.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter 1: The Big News coming in June!

Chapter 2: Chemistry coming in June!

Want to be added to the taglist? Comment on this masterlist!💜

[delicateperspective]

Lyrical analysis: “All This Time”

I wasn’t planning on doing any lyrical analysis right now, but this hit me like a ton of bricks and now I need to share. I beleive this song was written for us. A love letter. And the more I look at the lyrics, the more convinced I become.

Line-by-line analysis:

It’s late now

Right away we’re starting with a timestamp—but not one that feels grounded. “Late” as in “too late,” or maybe “later than it should have been.” There’s a subtle regret in this line, a recognition of delay. Of silence.

I’m trying to find the words to say for ages

This feels like the emotional thesis of the song. He’s saying the thing he’s been holding in for years, and acknowledging that the silence hasn’t been apathy—it’s been inability. There’s a sense of pressure here, of time compounding the weight of what he hasn’t been able to say.

Just have patience

Soft, direct. Spoken like a plea. Or a reminder. Not the first time he’s asked us for this—and likely not the last. It’s quiet reassurance from someone who knows how long we’ve been holding on.

It’s not how you spend the time, it’s if you waste it

This line really guts me. Because it flips so much of what’s been weaponized against the fandom on its head. The idea that believing in him, in this, in them, is a waste of time. He’s telling us no—it’s only a waste if we get nothing meaningful from it. And we’ve gotten so much. Friendship. Art. Community. Queer joy. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point all along.

And I keep on building mountains Hoping that they’ll turn to gold

He’s working. He’s pushing. He’s trying to shape something massive out of what he’s been handed, hoping it’ll transform into something worthwhile. That all the effort won’t be for nothing. That the structure he’s building will free him.

But the truth is, I still doubt that What I do can get me home

This one hits hard. Home has always been symbolic in his narrative—it’s tied to peace, to authenticity, to Harry. And here he’s admitting that even he doubts whether the path he’s on can get him there. The plan isn’t foolproof. And the cost is high.

When it gets cold Oh, sometimes, sometimes, I lose my hope

There’s a vulnerability here. He’s not just putting on a brave face—he’s showing us the cracks. Telling us that yes, he breaks too. That some days the fight feels too big.

Our eyes meet And I can tell that you’re the same as me

This line changes the whole tone. Suddenly, we’re not looking at him—we’re with him. This is the gaze exchanged between artist and audience. The ones standing at his concert waving pride flags. He sees us. He sees you. Just like we see him. And he’s saying: you understand.

It’s the way we It’s the way we see ourselves through walls of trees

There’s so much metaphor here it’s almost dizzying. “Walls of trees” evokes something dense and natural, like a forest you’re trying to navigate. It’s hard to see clearly. But we do. Through media stunts and denials and years of silence, we’ve always found him. And he’s found us, too.

And you keep on building mountains Hoping that they’ll turn to gold

The mirror flips. This time, the mountains are ours. We’re the ones putting in the effort—tracking, believing, showing up, holding the line. Hoping it still matters.

But the truth is, you still doubt that What you do can get me home

This is the part that knocked the wind out of me. In the lyric video, the official words are “get me home,” not “you.” And that matters. Because it means he sees the loss of faith in the fandom. He knows how much we’ve invested, and he knows that some of us are starting to question whether it’s still worth it. Whether we’ve done any good. Whether our faith ever meant anything. And he’s acknowledging that doubt head-on.

When it gets cold Oh, sometimes, sometimes, you lose your hope

The parallelism is deliberate. The song isn’t just about his doubt—it’s about ours. He’s tracing the arc of hope and hopelessness that runs through this whole journey. And he’s not blaming us for it. He’s just... naming it. And in doing so, validating it.

But the friends we make, the love it takes Is worth, is worth, is worth the pain

This is where the whole thing shifts. It’s not a sad song. It’s a song about endurance. About choosing each other, even when it hurts. About the joy and love that grew out of all of this, despite everything.

The friends we make, the love it takes Is worth, is worth, is worth it all this time All this time All this time It’s worth it all this time

A refrain that doubles as a mantra. All this time. Every year, every theory, every concert, every coded lyric, every painful denial. It’s all led here. And he’s saying it's worth it. That we were worth it. That this hasn't been for nothing.

Final thoughts:

This song doesn’t scream. It doesn’t wave its arms. It whispers. And in that whisper, it carries everything he hasn’t been able to say.

It’s about the silence. It’s about the fans who stayed. It’s about the pain of staying closeted and the people who kept the light on for him. It’s about doubt and fatigue and joy and the relentless choice to believe anyway.

It’s not a love letter to Harry. It’s a love letter to us. To the fans. To the ones who saw him and stayed. To the ones who made art and built community and found each other because we believed there was something real worth holding onto.

And he’s telling us: I know this is late. But I still see you. And it has always been worth it.

[mysteryshoptls]

Jade Leech Shared Lines

Tutorial: What have you planned to do today? I shall accompany you wherever you go.

Level Up 1: Oh, my... I see you've chosen to look after me.

Level Up 2: Much obliged. I shall do my utmost to live up to your expectations.

Level Up 3 / Buddy Level Up: Heh heh... This feels somewhat exhilarating.

Level Max: I am surprised at my own capabilities for such power... Hehe, not bad at all.

Vignette Level Up: How strange, at first I thought you were just a dull human, but... Oh, please don't be upset, that means I don't see you that way anymore.

Spell Level Up: Magic on land is rather fascinating. I would certainly like to try it for myself.

Friendship Level Up: It seems I cannot help but stay longer than intended here in Ramshackle. I do hope I am not disturbing you.

Friendship Level Max: Thank you for everything. Your hospitality is pleasant and appreciated. Perhaps I could receive some guidance in these matters sometime? Of course, you’ll be fully compensated

Uncapped: I am grateful at how much you've done to bring me to this point. I shall keep it up as to not let you down.

Groovification: I didn't mean for you to witness something so unsightly... It seems I got a little unexpectedly excited. Heh.

Lesson Select 1: Please select whichever class you'd like. If it suits me, I may join you.

Lesson Select 2: Allow me to assist you in whichever class you select. I am always fully prepared.

Lesson Select 3: Shall I provide my highest recommended classes for you since you're feeling so indecisive?

Lesson Start: We must make sure to enjoy today as well.

Lesson Finish: Well done. Time to turn our efforts to the next class.

Battle Start: Please go easy on me.

Battle Won: I had hoped to have a little more fun… How unfortunate.

Trouble 1: I apologize for the shameful sight.

Trouble 2: What a shame. I was so close… Oh, I’m only talking to myself.

GIFT CALENDAR 2023: “How will you be spending the day?” I thought perhaps I would make a herbarium. The atmosphere this time of year tends to be dry, so it is the perfect opportunity. How would you like to join me? No need to worry, I will show you how everything is done.

Birthday Login Message 1: Welcome to Floyd’s and my birthday party. I am sure Floyd will be ecstatic to also hear that you have come. Now, the food has already been prepared. Fufu, no need to hold yourself back. I am only doing what I wish to do.

Birthday Login Message 2: Thank you for your well wishes. And to think that you would also listen to what I wish as a present… Let me see… How about next time, could you accompany me on a hike? …Fufu, I’m honored that you’ve agreed to come. This has become such a wonderful birthday.

Birthday Login Message 3: Thank you for your warm wishes. Will you be able to attend my birthday party today? …I am glad to hear it. Incidentally, do you have any foods you dislike? …Oh, by no means do I have any intentions of learning your weak points, or anything of the sort. I am only looking to enjoy today’s party with you to our hearts’ content. Fufufu.

Birthday Login Message 4: Is that supposed to be a present for me? …Ah, no need to shirk. I will wholeheartedly accept this from you. You see, there are those who would attempt to startle me with trick boxes and the like, so… I was simply wondering what it was that you were planning on giving me. Fufu, I am looking forward to opening it.

Birthday Login Message 5: Oh my, have you come to celebrate my birthday? I thank you from the bottom of my heart. My schedule had just opened up, so please, stay a while. You see, due to the change of weather, unfortunately the Mountain Lover’s Club was unable to proceed with our club activities. I’m afraid I was quite devastated that I would not be able to spend my time basking in the mountain’s glory… But then you appeared, [Yuu]-san. I’m sure we can make this birthday a lively one.

Requested by Anonymous.

[brazilian-girl02]

Flower little Girl (yandere platonic!Marauders era x fem!Reader)

🍀 Imagine, you are a girl who is in your 3rd year at Hogwarts and your house is Hufflepuff. You are very skilled in the area of ​​Herbology and adored by the house elves in the school kitchen, who even taught you some of the recipes;

🍀 In addition to you not being so well known by other people, having a cordial relationship with your housemates;

🍀 One day when you were in the library going to study, you ended up having to share a table with an older Gryffindor student. She introduced herself in a soft voice, her name is Lily Evans, she helped you with some things in your studies and you got closer;

🍀 Within a few days, she became your friend and I introduced you to her group of friends. First it was Marlene Mckinnon and Mary Mcdonald, two other Gryffindors, and lastly it was a Slytherin named Severus Snape;

🍀 The girls are like the older sisters you never had. Lily, the mother hen, Mary, the tough but kind sister, and Marlene, the punk and protective "aunt". Severus is more discreet than the girls, he helps you with potions and treats you calmer, but he is still very protective;

🍀 Little by little you didn't feel very lonely. until one of the days when you were studying with the girls, more you, Mary and Lily than Marlene, you were approached by the Infamous Marauders;

🍀 You were aware of them, the girls and Severus had mentioned them before. James Potter, the boy with glasses, started making cheesy pick-up lines to Lily, who promptly ignored him but with a slight blush on her cheeks. until a boy full of scars on his face, Remus Lupin you think his name is, seems to notice you entering the girls;

🍀 He smiled slightly and introduced the group to you. After that the Marauders began to keep you company frequently, much to Severus' disappointment;

🍀 For James, you were initially a way to get closer to Lily, but he quickly became attached to you, even if you didn't like Quidditch he would explain everything about it to you. For Sirius, you were an encyclopedia of Herbology, he loves it when you tell random facts and both he and James would spoil you a lot, after all money is not a problem for either of them;

🍀 For Remus, you are a person who needs protection, he has become a worried father when it comes to you, he distances himself when it is close to the full moon out of fear and concern that he might harm you. and for Peter, you were a mirror of himself, a quiet person who was surrounded by extroverted people, he accompanies you to the school kitchen and just like Remus always has a snack, Remus having the sweets and Peter the salty ones;

🍀 Unfortunately, your friendship with the Marauders has drawn attention, both because their clashes with Severus have become more frequent. Having you let yourself be led by the Marauders, your house monitor, Alice Fortescue, begins to "take care" of you... she only joins the girls to take care of you;

🍀 You know that Sirius's family discovered his friendship with you, even though he no longer lives with them, and how do you know? His younger brother simply stares at you as if he were going to disintegrate you;

🍀 Regulus Black never had any interaction with you, but he knew you from the few times Severus accidentally let something slip. He started watching you from afar, but after a while he warmed up to you, he researched to try to prove that you were pure blood and maybe talk his family into adopting you;

🍀 Speaking of the other young people in the Black family, Narcissa proclaimed herself as your "teacher" to teach you everything a Black lady needed to know, with a Bellatrix following you around and hexing anyone who came even remotely close to you that she thought didn't deserve to be in your presence. At least the letters from Andromeda and her husband, Teddy, an ex-Hufflepuff who helped you in your first year, managed to calm you down a little, besides the many drawings of little Nymphadora;

🍀 Now you hope to survive this tug of war until your senior year, so it's going to be a long school life.

----------------------------------------------------------

First of all, I do not support the author of Harry Potter, and I hope you enjoy this reading. I also only know the basics about the Marauders era, so feel free to correct me if I've mischaracterized anyone.

[luvs4matt]

clearing a few things up said by rory in this post.

first i am going to talk about this. when rose kicked them, it was because she noticed the mean behavior coming from the gc she was already in so she kicked everyone else that was also in that gc along with rory.

getting kicked from a gc is not that serious, it’s an oh well moment, but not for rory.

rose blocked her soon after because rory immediately went into her dms cussing her out which below is provided ss of their conversation. she was given the chance to speak to her and she did, just not in the way she should’ve. she did not have to take it to her blog.

next, this.

i was saying facts, not just being rude, that is not the person i am. i was stating that rylee has my same au word for word, 0 differences. i was also using that as my defense for rory sending much hate to my dilf!matt au.

coming to someones defense is actually defending and clearing their name on something when needed, not coming to a girls comments to start issues which becomes harassment, straight insults, and bringing up the girls other friend who had absolutely nothing to do with the situation that wasn’t even a situation before you got involved. (ss here of all reblogs made, all comments can be found under this blurb)

next.

so you and gen just so happen to be good friends and in the same gc while rose and gen had a very public friendship, but you had no mutual friends, nor did you know..? right..

“i was kicked before making the post” so you had 0 intentions of handling it privately! you planned to make a post and start more drama. again.

the jokes about fingering matts butt were not between an adult and a minor directly, and even if it was, that honestly isn’t bad, it is jokes people, not asking a child about their sex life.

you can be harmful to minors when harassing them and leading your friends to do it too! you started at 6pm and ended at 11pm, you ended after i tried to reach out to jules but i was blocked, i tried to reach out to rylee, i reached out to rory directly, i was going to reach out to jules through maria, but then genesis finally answered my message and that is what got you to stop.

i agree, i am not a baby, but my communication was not off. i was not disrespectful before i needed to be and that was shown in past ss which i believe i have now deleted if i remember correctly.

i will not dm you because i refuse to unblock you on any platforms, even if i do reach out, all you would do is try to argue, and quite frankly, i don’t have anything nice to say to you.

next.

this is the one thing rory didn’t lie about. she was not the one to say i was writing ddlg, it was genesis. the same genesis who was requesting a week before hand, and only a day before telling me how much they love and need dilf!matt. they said that because they wanted approval and wanted rylee to like them.

i do not believe i write ddlg because i have my storylines for many things but i do not get many asks actually asking about the au so i have not been able to explain it. or maybe i am just in denial because i get disgusted at some of the things involved in ddlg, idfk 😭.

none of her friends can come at me for ddlg content when the exact words, copy and pasted from rylee’ dilf!matt fic is “once i’m done with my work we can play, jus’ lemme finish first, okay baby?” and the context of this is reader riding him. that is some shit i would never write because that is literally something predators say to little girls.

next.

i never posted anything publicly about rylee until i started being harassed and rylee can tell you that herself. rory was the first to say anything publicly, and was also the one who made it drama, it was not any kind of drama before rory inserted herself.

i really don’t care if i name dropped first, i was trying to get my point across, and people would’ve figured it out anyways.

if coming at someone is politely asking someone why they removed my au credit then they get attitude with me, then i guess i came at her many times.

you did say hurtful things to me, if the things you did wouldn’t effect me at all then why would i go through everything i did after the fact? i will not get into all of these things because i don’t want it to seem like i am looking for sympathy.

i started the au before it became semi common on tumblr, i started it a year ago after searching for 6 MONTHS of anything close to my au on all platforms, no dilf!matt found, none of the same persona, so i made the au and assumed i made it. it came to my attention very recently that i did not fully create the au, but i do still believe i was the first to write him in that way, i was the first to start writing him multiple times instead of just once and making him an actual character, and popularized him on tumblr. it did become a “commonly used au” until recently, not a year ago when i started. i had every right asking for credit of an au that i was under the impression that i started because no one corrected me the whole year. after i was made aware of me not being the first, i reached out to everyone, besides rude bitches, about me no longer needing credit unless inspo was used.

to this anon, i did not respond earlier because i simply did not feel like it, and did not want to deal with anymore of your bs about me “dragging it and always posting about it”, but i will respond here since i bet you are reading this.

all of these posts have been made in the last week which was either only talking about the situation or mentioned it.

all of the apologies were half assed and didn’t mean anything. they either apologized that it was POSTED, copied and pasted apologies, used memes, or blamed others on tumblr.

my own personal notes.

everything with maria has been cleared up on all ends, but for her sake, please do not mention her in any posts or mention her in any of these drama posts. this is just a precaution so nothing of these sorts interfere with her mental health. if you have any questions, you can come to her yourself, but if you are not nice and don’t approach it correctly then you will be blocked and i will be fighting you 🩷 (i’m joking chat… but not really)

same thing goes for rose. please do not mention her in posts made, i don’t like seeing my friends mental health being ruined over tumblr so please do the same thing for rose as maria! if you have any questions regarding both of them, they are both open to answering if approached the correct way, if for some reason you do not have access to ask them said questions, then you can message me and i can ask for you.

tags — @cvnntagiouss @bernardsbendystraws @mattsmatcha @nickssidewitch @nickspennies @mattysangelgirl @y3sterdaysproblem @chrisspussygang @tripoutsweirdos

[skay-ali]

The sacrifice of a poor soul

Well, maybe the whole family won't appear yet, but I want to give the reader a little development in this chapter. I think their entire dynamic is explained in this one. So, in the following ones, there will be more interaction and more story related to the comics and movies.

0 1

Oh innocent soul

Oh withered flower

While you continue to wait with hope

Your loved ones sharpen their spears to stab you

And watch you bleed to death

Ever since you became self-aware, you knew one thing very well.

You were in a big world and you were just a little girl, but that wasn't the problem, well, not the one affecting you this time...

You hated yourself.

You didn't feel much love for who you were, your life, your appearance.

You thought that at some point there would be something better, and you waited for it with open arms.

You were on autopilot, oblivious to the time you wasted being capricious, hating yourself with every fiber of your being.

You didn't think of yourself as pretty or nice; you only saw a reflection in the mirror, a horrible one, one that reflected an insect, a freak.

Then you met him, the most handsome boy, an ethereal beauty, who was very kind, funny, and nice to you. It was like a dream. He was an angel, somewhat ironic because the day you met, when your eyes met for the first time, that boy was dressed like an angel: a baggy shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned, revealing his abdomen, also white pants, and wings with thin, fluffy feathers sticking out of his back.

He smiled at you, leaving a conversation with his friends who couldn't stop talking among themselves, pushing each other, and laughing.

But it only took a few minutes for you to reconsider. He was a radiant star in a sea of ​​​​little lights and dull stones, where you belonged. Ha, why would he smile at you?

You smiled, but not in response to the boy. No, tonight was your night. You wore a lot of makeup and a good costume. You were a total loser at this point, so you'd let go of your fears and enjoy the party, or try to, before running home scared.

And minutes later, fate believed it was time for your canonical event.

You met that boy dressed as an angel. What you thought was a one-night stand and flirtation turned into a friendship at school, and later into a relationship.

You were truly happy. You no longer looked in the mirror and saw every little imperfection.

You were no longer unhappy at home, no longer so alone. You had someone who truly cared about you.

For a socially marginalized girl, in her daily life and at home, reserved, introverted, difficult to understand. It was a dream, something wonderful.

A dream that later turned into a nightmare, and then you wished you'd never met this boy... he wasn't an angel, he was just a disguise.

"They say they cut out his heart while he was still breathing."

"Only a deranged mind could have done it."

It was the talk of the school; his death was shocking.

"I think he deserved it."

"Did you know the kind of person he really was? He deserves it."

You sighed, locked in the large closet in your room.

What did you do?

What a monster you've become!

"Get up, subject, we have a plan to put into action."

You turned a deaf ear to his words.

Your body didn't want to move, to leave your comfortable, warm state inside the darkness of your closet.

Curled into a ball, tormented by all your actions.

"How many people now? Ten people," you said in a weak, soft voice.

"Fuck, I ate my ex, his heart, and... I ended him." Your voice cracked.

"I truly loved him."

"And... and he gave me love, he gave me attention, happiness."

"Is that so? Don't forget what he did to you."

You froze.

Your sadness wavered.

"I'll break up with you at the concert and leave you alone at the concert."

His voice was mesmerizing; you couldn't turn a deaf ear, ignore it, or refuse to believe it.

His words were true, undeniable.

"He was the one who left you vulnerable to being kidnapped."

"He left you just like your family."

"Oh, come on. Now they're going to be mentioned too."

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, comforting yourself.

"Don't you see how devastated I am... why do you insist on making me suffer?" you sobbed sadly.

"I, I make you suffer, react, silly human."

His voice was now cynical, no longer holding any playfulness.

"None of them care about you, not your dear deceased love, not your family, not your friends, no one."

"Your true love, as you always mention in your head, made you suffer until the very end, even if you try to justify it."

"Your family, you were always the last person on their list. Not even they, with their great role as heroes, saved you."

"No one protected you from me, a demon, or from being sacrificed."

"I am all you have, the one who gave you another chance."

"Stop feeling sorry for them and think more about yourself."

"My first subject, one of the few survivors of my new world."

Harsh, cold words.

You stared at your food, with no appetite for the contents of the plate.

It was too sweet for you, but not in the way that it was something super delicious and after a few bites you couldn't eat anything else.

It was more like something unappetizing, a sour taste running down your throat every time you looked at the contents.

You felt full just looking at it, as if you'd just tasted something more delicious.

You played with your food, your fork moving from one side to the other, scattering food across the plate.

You felt lost, so out of yourself.

You were no longer able to recognize why you kept moving.

Why were you still alive?

It was silly to say, but the only person who had ever understood you, made you happy, the only one who stayed, made you feel loved... was gone.

You didn't have friends to keep you company in your free time or to be there for you in insignificant moments, people to talk to, laugh with, share profound things with, and have fun doing fun things with. You were alone, with no one to talk to.

You didn't have any family, it was cruel to say, difficult to acknowledge after so much time.

But you never had any family after your grandmother died.

Your mother was long gone, and some time later, your last caregiver, whom you loved so much, left... You were surrounded by serious, cold, emotionless faces.

Strangers who didn't see you as anything more than a passing presence.

"So I decided to skip school."

"I had a great role in the new play."

"I was lucky enough to buy one of the new unlimited series that were released."

"It was a difficult case, one that kept the whole department busy, but I managed to solve it."

"I got the perfect movie for our next movie day."

You didn't pay attention to the distant voices; it was probably a small meeting before dinner.

The loud thoughts screaming in your head were too powerful for you to focus on anything else.

The butler was still in the room, watching you eat.

Waiting for you to devour your plate, thank him, exchange a few words, and finally, disappear until the next meal.

That reminded you of when you were still a child, your grandmother watching you, convincing you to eat, always with a smile and a kind voice.

How she would give you a sweet after you finished your plate, how you would devour it on the house's old wooden porch, where you would watch the birds, the cars, and the people passing by.

You no longer had that happy moment where she would tell you little stories, stories that bore no resemblance to the ones you knew, but which you loved to hear, leaning on her lap, feeling the fabric of her skirt on your head.

She combed your hair, carefully, causing you to tingle and feel relaxed and calm.

You missed your mother's warmth, her smile, her warm touch, the time you spent together, the jokes you told, the silly things you shared every time she drove, her concern every time something changed in you.

She knew it instantly and was there with open arms, ready to wait for you.

You missed your home and the thousands of memories you had.

You missed the food cooked by the two women you loved most in your life.

Even... with their presence... with their cooking... you wouldn't have eaten it.

No, you couldn't, because now you were a monster... you were a horrible being, at the mercy of others just to keep breathing.

You pushed the plate away from your sight with trembling hands.

You looked down at the table.

How you wished it was all a dream and that you could wake up on your grandmother's lap, her waiting for you to get up to make dinner until your mother returned from shopping.

Please...

Please...

I don't want this nightmare...

You didn't stop begging.

But everything remained the same: the dining room, the dinner plate, the empty room, cold, devoid of familiarity and feelings.

You watched reluctantly.

Your gaze met the demon that was possessing you and slowly destroying you.

He only smiled, a sinister smile, full of hidden intentions.

He had the power, even though he was a small creature, a rare kind of black cat, with fangs, an arrow-tipped tail, and horns instead of ears.

Tim was exhausted.

He'd spent many days investigating his last case, adding his missions with his team and his work as a civilian at Wayne Company.

It had been an exhausting week.

Now all he needed was a little rest and a good meal for dinner.

The house had been empty since his brothers and their father had left a few hours earlier.

Alfred was in the laundry room, he deduced as much when he remembered the man carrying a basket of dirty clothes.

Then what he saw as he passed by the living room surprised him.

It was you, his sister, the one who didn't fight or take justice seriously, the quiet and strange girl in the family.

But it wasn't your presence that surprised him; it was the state you were in.

As if it were a horror movie.

You were hunched over the table, staring into space, concentrating your gaze on a single point, your long hair covering almost a large part of your face.

A gloomy air seemed to surround you; worse, you were alone, and you showed no signs of moving...

how long had you been in that state?

Before he knew it, you were already standing up, still hunched over, at a slow pace.

He watched as you left the dining room, appearing mesmerized as you continued on your way.

Curiosity was piqued.

Now what the hell was happening to you?

What are you up to?

Then he heard the front door open, slow footsteps, and the sound of the large door closing.

Now he didn't know if he should worry...

You had lost your boyfriend; that must have affected you, even if it wasn't a big enough deal to drive you crazy...

A little drama of yours, maybe...

Oh, actually, you were in trouble...

"Where are we going?" you asked with curiosity and fear.

"Ahgg, you're becoming more and more disappointing and pathetic."

"I can't let this continue."

Nervous was too small a word to describe what you felt.

You were walking down an unknown, dark path, full of danger, without a weapon or anyone to protect you, blindly following a demon.

A long walk led you to an abandoned building. Where many dangerous-looking men crowded the area.

Their gazes fixed on you, burning your body, displaying malicious smiles, swearing as compliments, and warnings about what they were planning to do to you.

You swallowed in fear.

"No... I don't think we should be in this place."

"Damn, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you."

The little demon continued walking through the halls of the building, already annoyed by your cowardly and soft behavior. He didn't think that this behavior of yours would be a great impediment to his plans.

Because you can't be the same as the wild, sadistic, revenge-seeking girl you were the last two times.

That's why he brought you to this place.

The small pit of sin created by one of his former acquaintances who managed to get out of hell before him.

"Oh, it's you. I'm surprised to see you, especially with that appearance."

"Yes, yes, yes, save your words," he said reluctantly.

"ahaha you never change no"

Ignoring his words, he decided to continue with his plan. "Look, I didn't come here for a good meeting. Right now, I need this follower excuse to become stronger and less whiny."

"Oh, so you got a human?"

"Is there anything wrong with that?" he asked, no longer willing to put up with the annoying guy.

"Hey, calm down. I just think it's funny. You're a high-level demon, one of the favorites with a human."

"Haha, I think it's really funny. I even think it confirms the rumors."

The commotion stopped when a scream of intense pain was heard.

The demon only angrily moved his elongated tail away from the human-like demon's chest, who fell to the ground and tried to stay steady.

"Do you still believe those rumors?" he asked reluctantly.

Receiving nothing but a scared look, he walked away and returned to his human, who was distractedly staring at the large ring where two men were fighting.

"If you don't mind, I'll borrow your fighting space."

A massive punch came at your face. You luckily dodged it, but immediately another punch came at your body. You couldn't dodge it, and it hit you with great force.

A sharp pain ran through your body. A clean blow to your stomach knocked the wind out of you, leaving you sprawled on the floor, writhing.

"Get up and continue," the demon ordered.

You didn't; you tried to recover from the pain, but a kick landed directly in your stomach, knocking you a few feet from where you were lying.

The pain intensified.

With little strength, you tried to get up.

Muscular arms lifted you up and threw you to the other side of the ring.

You collided with a post, a very hard object that impacted your back, leaving your bones in severe pain.

You held onto the ropes that extended from the post to those next to you.

You needed to get out; you couldn't shovel.

"No... I can't," you cried, scared. Those blows were horrible.You didn't want to continue this crazy excursion.

"Get me out," you cried desperately.

"keep fighting ____"

Seeing the demon's refusal and no one from the cheering, screaming crowd tried to save you.

You pulled up the laces holding you up to throw you to the floor.

They grabbed your feet, a great force knocking you to the ground.

Your chest hit the floor hard, and your knees also took a heavy hit.

You tried to crawl, but the hands from before held you tight.

"Please stop... I give up," you begged again and again. It was your last way out. You received no response; the blows continued.

You ended up on the floor, trying to regain consciousness. Despite the pain, you tried to move.

This was a nightmare. You were feeling intense pain, just like that day...

That day, where everything changed, that day where thousands of stab wounds pierced your skin.

You looked at your skin, at your arms that must have had scars. There was nothing, it was smooth skin without imperfections. You were painfully aware that this torture wouldn't end quickly. Your body was healed despite the pain. You were sure that when you recovered, the blows would return.

You cried in helplessness, knowing what was next.

"Stop crying, that's why you're on stage."

"You were a coward, and I don't need a coward."

"I can't," you cried, frustrated.

"I can't do it, you should have thought of that."

"Ahhhhh," you were so angry.

Everyone wanted to see you in distress. The voices cheered and filled with joy.

No one ran to your aid, didn't they care? They only enjoyed your sacrifice.

They only used you.

They were destroying you.

Suddenly, something clicked.

You saw the blood on the floor, your blood coming out of your mouth and nose.

You were filled with rage.

At first, this demon forced you to do terrible things.

They wouldn't let you be miserable.

Your family is still the same shit as always.

Your damn friends are still top-notch hypocrites.

Everyone wants you dead.

They're thinking of sacrificing yourself again...

They want to kill you again...

You slammed your fists hard on the floor.

They turned red, and the pain made you stand up.

Carefully, still in pain, but with great anger and determination, you stood up.

You walked carefully toward where the woman you'd fought was strutting.

You grabbed one of her shoulders. With a strength you didn't know you possessed, you threw her across the room.

When the woman reacted, you prepared your fist and slammed it hard into her stomach, causing her to spit and gasp for air.

The screams peaked again. The smell of blood and sweat grew stronger, as did the alcohol.

The woman recovered again, but you were already ready, waiting for her attack.

You wouldn't dodge it; you would receive it and take advantage of it to take the woman with you.

You tasted the blood in your mouth with every blow.

There were blows, punches, kicks, intense lights on the stage, fierce screams, splattered blood.

"Haha, that's what I'm talking about, girl."

"Sniff... I'm so proud."

You regained control and threw the woman to the floor.

And with a great surge, your hand flew to her face before she could get up.

This left the woman lying on the floor.

A few minutes passed, and she didn't move.

Then everyone celebrated.

You had won.

It was a shame you couldn't end your feast another way.

"Wow, looks like we have a new threat in Gotham."

"Oh, a new partner."

"I don't think it's just Gotham that needs to be careful."

"Did you record it?"

"Yeah, dude, I did it. This will make us a lot of money," he smiled.

"Oh, wait until we make it public, it'll explode." He was very excited about his new content.

"Hey, kids, I told you, get out of this place."

The two teenagers ran away when the guards recognized them.

Wow, I just got back to my apartment, back to college, in a city a few hours away from home... and I feel like shit. Not even my adorable little four-legged companion helps me stop and forget about feeling miserable... damn, I miss my home and my family... It's even more damn now I think about all the bad things that can happen to my little company while I'm gone... I'm in a spiral...

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 7

Theme: jealous homoerotic friendship angst

A/N: actually not sure how i feel about this chapter, got done writing it and wanted to scrap the whole thing, just don't feel like it's my best... but i said i would get a chapter out tonight and it does move plot along so I won't do that to you guys, hopefully it'll still be a fun read... and for those wondering, there is no box/gift reveal this chapter lol

WC: 5.2K

Warnings: angst

**** Chapter 7 ****

Word traveled fast on campus.

Faster than she expected. Faster than felt possible, honestly, considering no one actually saw her kiss anyone or leave with anyone or do anything remotely scandalous that night at Ted’s. But apparently, all it took a few drinks and Lexi Reyes showing off her biceps in a crop top for the entire women’s sports community to suddenly decide Azzi Fudd was having a queer awakening.

(Which—fair. But still.)

She hadn’t even been flirting that hard. At least, she didn’t think she had. It was mostly laughing. And leaning a little too close during darts. And maybe touching Lexi’s arm once. Twice, tops.

Not her fault Lexi had great arms. Or that she laughed in a way that made it feel like the whole room fell away for a second.

What surprised her most was how fast people picked up on it—like there had been this collective pause around her lately, everyone waiting for her to catch up to herself. Like they all knew before she did.

Even more surprising?

She didn’t hate it.

It was terrifying, yeah. And weird. And definitely not something she’d ever pictured herself navigating at the start of the school year. But still, for the first time in a long time, Azzi felt like she was actually herself. Not Paige’s maybe. Not someone’s favorite sharpshooter. Not the girl everyone expected to smile and nod and keep her head down.

Just… her.

Fully. Honestly. Finally.

And if some girls were suddenly smiling at her in the dining hall or sliding into her DMs with sparkly emojis and suspiciously well-lit selfies—well. That was new, too.

But not bad.

She spotted Lexi outside the dining hall, leaning against the brick wall like she had nothing better to do. Hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked dangerous in that annoyingly casual way she always did—like a dare and a joke at the same time.

Azzi had meant to just say hey. Keep it simple.

But Lexi fell into step beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“Oh look,” she said, grinning. “There’s the sharpshooter.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” Lexi said. “You started it at Ted’s.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just shook her head—and didn’t move when their arms brushed again.

She was still getting used to this. Not the flirting exactly—though that was definitely new. But the feeling that she could take up space. Laugh a little louder. Be looked at and not shrink under it. That she could like the attention and not feel guilty about it.

And weirdly, it was showing up in her game.

She’d been playing better. Looser. More confident. Not reckless—but unafraid.

Coach had noticed. Her teammates had, too. Even her shot felt different—like it had more air behind it. Like she trusted it to land.

It wasn’t about Lexi. Not really. But something had cracked open in her this season. Like she’d stopped waiting for permission to become whoever she already was.

She didn’t know what that meant yet. Or where it was heading.

But today, right now, it felt good.

Paige

It was the kind of night that felt like a dare.

Bright lights, sticky floors, a faint smell of feet and nacho cheese in the air—and Paige, somehow, was standing in the middle of all of it, wondering how her life had managed to spiral into this specific flavor of awkward.

Kathryn was perched on the edge of the plastic seat beside her, legs crossed, her lip gloss catching the overhead lights every time she laughed. Lexi was halfway through a monologue about why no one should ever bowl with bumpers past the age of ten. And Azzi—Azzi was off to the side, lacing up her shoes like they were her sworn enemy.

One big happy group outing.

If your definition of “happy” included unresolved history, romantic confusion, and exactly one person (Paige) having a slow-burn existential crisis behind her carefully neutral facial expression.

"You're up, Bueckers," Lexi said, nudging her with the side of her sneaker. “Try not to embarrass your lineage.”

"She's got this," Kathryn added, soft and encouraging, which only made Paige feel worse for absolutely not having this.

Paige stood, adjusted the sleeves of her hoodie like they were armor, and picked up a ball that looked radioactive under the neon lights. It was green. Shiny. Slightly chipped. She was pretty sure it was judging her.

Behind her, someone laughed. She didn’t know who. She didn’t look back.

You are a grown adult woman. You are fine. It’s just bowling, she told herself, which was objectively a lie, because nothing about this was fine.

The ball hit the gutter like it had been magnetized to failure.

Lexi let out a cackle so sharp it echoed. "Daaaaang. You sure you a D1 athlete?"

Kathryn laughed too, trying to soften the blow with a quiet, "It’s okay, babe," but Paige was already smiling too hard, the way you do when you're two seconds from spiraling and need everyone to think you’re okay.

Azzi clapped once, the way you do when someone drops a fork in the cafeteria and you’re pretending it was impressive.

Paige turned around and gave a little bow. “Your applause means the world to me.”

Then she sat down too hard on the bench and let the noise blur around her for a second. The music, the pins crashing down in the next lane. Her palms were warm. Her stomach was off. She could feel herself slipping into that familiar Paige place: where everything was technically fine, but also not at all.

She reached for her drink. Drank too fast. Let the carbonation sting.

She could’ve been in sweatpants, curled up in bed, halfway through a bag of TruFru and watching whatever basketball game was on that night. Instead, she was here—trapped in a four-person fever dream that felt suspiciously like a double date, with the girl she likes, the girl she never really got over, and Lexi, who was somehow the most annoying person she’s ever met.

There was only one logical explanation, and it started, unfortunately, with lunch.

****

It was supposed to be a normal lunch.

Not “normal” like her schedule had ever actually been normal, but still—she was aiming for predictable. Grilled cheese, a corner booth, and maybe a half-finished reading assignment if she didn’t get too distracted people-watching.

Kathryn was already there when Paige arrived, smoothie in hand, lips pink from whatever fancy berry mix she liked lately. She greeted her with a smile and a granola bar, sliding it across the table like they’d been doing this forever. Easy. No pressure. Just... something.

And then, just as Paige was starting to relax—starting to think maybe this really could be easy—Kathryn’s expression changed.

She was mid-sip of her smoothie when she said, “Oh hey,” lifting her hand in a small wave, casual and sunny.

Paige turned, and immediately regretted it.

Lexi. Carrying a tray that held two cookies and absolutely nothing else. Talking too loud, grinning like she owned the building.

And right behind her, Azzi.

Hair still damp from practice. White t-shirt, no sleeves, headphones hanging around her neck like they belonged there more than she did.

Azzi saw them. Saw her. And didn’t even blink.

She looked away like Paige was just... scenery.

Lexi, on the other hand, lit up like someone had just rolled out a red carpet.

“Well well well,” she said, zeroing in on their table. “This looks exclusive.”

Paige tried not to wince. “It’s soup.”

It was, in fact, tomato basil. And it had gone cold.

Lexi slid into the booth before anyone had a chance to stop her.

Paige had maybe spoken five words to her before today—most of them at post-game mixers or passing in the hallway, and at least one of them had been “huh?”—but apparently that was enough to get promoted to group lunch status.

Kathryn smiled like this was completely normal. “You guys want to sit?”

No. Not really.

Azzi hesitated for half a second, then slid into the spot next to Lexi without a word. Paige’s stomach did something deeply unhelpful.

She forced her eyes back to her tray. Soup. Salad. Not the girl who used to kiss her like it meant something and was now sharing a bench with the human version of an Instagram caption that said “it’s giving chaos.”

She pushed a crouton around her plate. “Wait—do you guys know each other?”

Kathryn looked up, casual but a little too measured.

“Kind of. She used to hang out with… some of the girls on my team.”

There it was. That slight pause. Just long enough to mean something.

“Oh,” Paige said, trying to keep her voice level. “Right…”

Kathryn nodded slowly, like she was editing the sentence in real time. “Yeah. The soccer and softball teams are kind of… close.”

Close.

Paige didn’t miss the pause.

Or the way Lexi smirked just a little into her straw.

She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to.

And Paige didn’t press, even though a dozen questions sprang to mind immediately—like who, and when, and why Lexi. But she just nodded, like this didn’t bother her. Like she wasn’t suddenly remembering Azzi at Ted’s, laughing too hard at something Lexi said and leaning in like her body forgot who it used to belong to.

Lexi took a loud sip from her straw and kicked her feet up onto the seat rung under the table. Paige tried not to roll her eyes so hard they got stuck.

It was fine. Everything was fine. They were just four people having lunch. In a sitcom. Written by Satan.

She was in the middle of composing a mental monologue about how maybe the world was, in fact, conspiring against her—complete with a soundtrack and opening credits—when Lexi cut through it with her mouth half-full of cookie.

“So. How’s the knee?”

Paige blinked. “Still attached.”

“Good start.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Or to Lexi in general, honestly. The girl had the energy of a cracked open soda can—bubbly, unpredictable, maybe about to explode.

“You doing pool workouts yet?”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “Twice a week.”

Lexi leaned back, satisfied. “So you’re mobile. Which means you can bowl.”

There it was. The curveball.

Before Paige could say anything, Kathryn chimed in, bright and interested. “Wait—what bowling?”

“There’s some school thing tonight,” Lexi said, licking cookie crumbs off her thumb. “Look—” she tapped the laminated sign propped up in the middle of the table, like it had been there the whole time. “Free games, bad pizza, excellent people-watching. Theme’s glow-in-the-dark or something. There’s a cartoon bowling pin wearing sunglasses, so you know it’s legit.

Kathryn perked up. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

And Paige could feel it happening, like a slow-motion car crash—Kathryn looking at her with that easy, open smile, Lexi already half-inviting herself again, and Azzi just sitting there. Not saying anything. Not even looking at her.

Lexi grinned. “You should come. Show off those rehab reflexes.”

It was a joke, kind of. But also a challenge.

Before Paige could answer, Azzi spoke for the first time in a while—voice low, dry, just a little sharp around the edges. “I don’t know if bowling counts as PT-approved.”

It wasn’t rude. But it wasn’t nothing either.

And Paige, who had been doing a decent job of keeping it together, suddenly felt like she couldn’t remember how to hold a spoon.

Kathryn nudged her knee under the table. “It could be fun. We should all go.”

And just like that, Paige was cornered.

All of her instincts screamed no. But Kathryn was still smiling, hopeful, unaware. Lexi was waiting. And Azzi—Azzi was now staring directly at her, expression unreadable, like this was a test Paige didn’t study for.

She swallowed. “Sure. That could be... chill.”

“Sweet,” Lexi said, finishing her cookie like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “Athlete bonding, plus weird shoes. What more could you want?”

Azzi reached for her water. Didn’t speak. But her jaw tightened just enough to make Paige want to crawl under the table.

She stirred her soup. It still hadn’t gotten any warmer.

****

Paige’s second frame went only slightly better than the first. One pin. It wobbled dramatically, as if weighing its options, then decided to stay standing just to humiliate her. 

Kathryn clapped in support. Azzi didn’t even pretend to look.

And Lexi?

Lexi stepped up to the lane like she’d just been personally invited to save bowling as a sport. Her socks didn’t match. Her wind-up was dramatic. Her throw was perfect.

Strike.

Because of course it was.

She turned around like she expected a standing ovation. “It’s a gift,” she said, as if she’d just cured world hunger with her thumb and middle finger placement.

Paige stared at the pins and thought about crying. Or leaving. Or maybe starting a petition to outlaw bowling altogether.

Instead, she muttered, “It’s a fluke.”

Lexi beamed. “You wish.”

When it came back around to her turn, Paige adjusted her grip on her neon green ball, which now felt like it weighed twelve hundred pounds and also possibly hated her.

“Try aiming at the pins this time,” Lexi called out, grinning.

Kathryn giggled. Azzi said nothing.

Paige smiled without turning around. “You know what’s wild? I don’t remember asking for commentary.”

“Sorry,” Lexi said, absolutely not sorry. “I just assumed the brace was cutting off circulation to your strategy.”

Paige rolled.

One pin. 

That’s it. 

Lexi laughed so hard she leaned into Azzi for support. Azzi didn’t even flinch.

It wasn’t the laughter that got to her—it was the leaning. Like it was casual. Like that kind of closeness came easy now. Like Paige hadn’t spent months trying to forget what Azzi’s shoulder felt like under her hand.

She walked back to the table, trying not to make a face. Her competitive side—usually fun, usually harmless—was starting to melt into something else entirely. Something messier. Something that looked a lot like losing control.

Kathryn handed her a water bottle with a sweet, encouraging look that made Paige want to scream. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m doing something,” Paige said, too brightly, twisting the cap open like it had personally wronged her.

Lexi slid into the seat next to her, looking like the human embodiment of the words so what if I’m the villain. She stretched her arms overhead, popped her knuckles, and smiled.

“You know,” she said, voice lazy and a little too smug, ““All that hype and you can’t land a strike?”

Paige stared at her. “I will literally pour this water on you.”

Lexi grinned wider. “Bet you miss.”

And the worst part—the actual worst part—was that Paige could hear herself in Lexi. The sarcasm, the smugness, the let-me-poke-you-until-you-break tone. It was like talking to a funhouse mirror version of herself, one with better hair and a lot less shame.

It was infuriating.

And Azzi wasn’t just sitting there anymore—she was leaning in now, elbow on the table, eyes locked on Lexi like whatever she was saying was actually interesting. Her smile was soft. Lazy. The kind that unfolded slowly. The kind Paige knew better than anyone.

Lexi said something dumb—Paige could just tell by the way she gestured—and Azzi laughed. For real. Head tilted, chin tucked, laugh lighting up her whole face.

Then Lexi nudged her knee under the table, and Azzi didn’t even flinch.

She smiled wider.

Paige felt something low in her stomach twist.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. This wasn’t anything. It wasn’t like Azzi was doing it to her. But still. She sat there, watching the two of them flirt like it was effortless, like Paige hadn’t ever mattered. Like she hadn’t ever been the one Azzi smiled at like that.

And suddenly the room felt smaller. Too warm. Too loud.

Like she couldn’t breathe in it anymore.

Lexi bowled again. Another strike.

Because apparently God was off duty tonight.

Paige clapped, slow and sarcastic. “Wow. So impressive.”

“You’re jealous,” Lexi said, tossing her hair like this was a shampoo commercial.

“I’m disturbed,” Paige shot back. “There’s a difference.”

Kathryn snorted into her drink. Azzi didn’t look up, but Paige caught the subtle curve of her mouth—like she was smiling, but didn’t want anyone to see. 

Kathryn went next. She bowled with the exact same energy she did everything else—with effort, but no real strategy. She sort of lobbed the ball like it was a casual suggestion to the pins. A few fell. She fist-pumped like she’d won gold.

“You’re consistent,” Lexi called. “Mediocre, but consistent.”

Kathryn flipped her off with two fingers and a grin. Azzi actually laughed at that—out loud. It was quiet, but it felt like thunder in Paige’s ears. She leaned into Paige’s shoulder. “You’re up, Az.”

Azzi stood, quiet, unreadable. Her expression didn’t change, but Paige swore she could feel something tighten in the air. Azzi stepped into the lane, smooth and unfazed, and launched the ball with a clean snap of her wrist. Seven pins dropped like it was nothing.

“Okay, calm down, showoff,” Lexi said, grinning. “Trying to make us all look bad?”

Azzi didn’t even hesitate. “You’re just mad I look better doing it.”

Lexi leaned back, slow and deliberate, eyes trailing over Azzi like she was sizing her up—or unwrapping a present. “I mean… if you’re trying to distract me, it’s working.”

Paige blinked like she was trying to reset the entire simulation.

Azzi just smiled—small, but real. Dangerous.

Then she sat back down like she hadn’t just casually lit Paige’s entire nervous system on fire.

Paige stared straight ahead, pretending to care deeply about the bowling scoreboard, which at this point felt more like a list of personal failures than a fun team activity.

She told herself it wasn’t a big deal. That Lexi flirted with everyone. That Azzi probably didn’t even realize what she was doing. That none of it mattered.

Which was all true, technically. And yet, she was gripping her drink so hard it creaked.

It wasn’t the flirting. Not really. It was the ease of it. The fact that Azzi never used to do that with anyone else. That Paige had spent months thinking she was the only girl Azzi looked at like that.

And now it was Lexi. With her shiny hair and stupid jokes and smug little grin.

When it was her turn again, Paige stood without saying a word. She breathed in, squared her shoulders, and tried—desperately—to remember what it felt like to not care.

Spoiler: she couldn’t.

She bowled.

The ball veered left at the last second—like it had a personal vendetta—and clipped one lonely pin.

One.

Again.

The sound it made wasn’t even satisfying. Just a sad little thunk, like the bowling alley itself was tired of her.

Paige stared at the lane like it had betrayed her. Like maybe the problem wasn’t her form, but the floor. Or the laws of physics. Or whoever decided they should go bowling in the first place.

She wanted to scream. Or throw the ball through the neon scoreboard. Or teleport to a different planet where no one had ever heard of Lexi Reyes and Azzi Fudd didn’t smile at other girls like that.

Instead, she turned around, smile tight, hands clenched, pretending she was still a normal person and not one bad frame away from emotionally combusting in front of everyone she was trying not to care about.

Lexi was already grinning. “I mean… it’s giving consistency.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “It’s giving shut up.”

Azzi laughed. Not a small one, either. It was full and easy and bright in a way that made Paige’s chest feel tight. Like she was watching something she used to be part of from the other side of the glass.

There was no biting the inside of her cheek. No holding it in. Just Azzi, laughing like she didn’t owe anyone anything. Like this night wasn’t tangled up in anything else.

Paige looked away. Too late.

Because the sound of it had already sunk in.

And something in her just snapped.

The words came out cold and too loud, sharper than she meant, but not sharp enough to stop herself:

“At least I’m not trying to sleep my way through the athletic department.”

Silence.

Real silence. The kind that sucks the air out of your lungs and makes the room feel ten degrees colder.

It landed like a slap. Like glass breaking on tile. Fast. Final. Shattering.

Lexi blinked, frozen mid-step like someone had hit pause on her whole personality.

Azzi straightened, slow. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… still. And staring.

Kathryn looked like she’d just swallowed her own tongue. Her hand curled around her cup too tightly, eyes wide and searching Paige’s face like she was trying to figure out if this was a joke. If any of it was.

Paige couldn’t move. Her hand was still hanging in the air, like maybe if she stood still enough, time would give her a do-over. A minute back. A second. Anything.

But no one laughed.

Not even Lexi.

Paige stood there, every inch of her burning, and—because she couldn’t help herself—added,

“Yeah, I caught the whole softball-soccer comment earlier. I get it.”

Eventually, she tilted her head and said, “Wow. Okay.”

No venom. No sass. Just three syllables that cracked Paige’s stomach open.

Azzi didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her eyes were like ice.

Kathryn started fixing a napkin that didn’t need fixing. Tearing the edge. Smoothing it. Tearing it again.

And Paige—still frozen, still burning—felt the regret crawl under her skin like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for this exact moment to move in.

No one said anything. No one looked at her.

And somehow, that was worse than yelling. Worse than judgment. The silence felt like someone had turned her inside out and left her there, blinking under fluorescent lights.

She didn’t sit back down.

Didn’t say a word.

Just grabbed her soda can with a shaky hand and muttered something about needing air—though she wasn’t sure anyone heard it, or believed her.

No one followed her. Not right away.

She left her rented shoes half-laced under the table. Left her pride somewhere between the lane and the moment her mouth opened. Left whatever this night was supposed to be in a heap at her feet.

The music kept playing. The pins kept falling. But Paige was already out the door.

The door thudded shut behind her, and Paige didn’t stop walking until she hit the edge of the parking lot—just far enough that she couldn’t hear the music anymore. Just far enough that she could pretend the night hadn’t happened.

Her breath came out too fast. Too sharp. Her heart was still in lane seven, thrashing around like it wanted to climb out of her chest.

She leaned against a lamppost and stared up at the sky like it could give her an answer. It didn’t. It was just black and cold and uncaring, like the rest of the world.

Her palms were clammy. Her throat was tight. And all she could hear—over and over—was her own voice saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.

At least I’m not trying to sleep my way through the athletic department.

God. She hated herself a little bit.

Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and hesitant.

“Paige.”

She closed her eyes. Pretended she hadn’t heard.

For a second, she'd let herself hope it was Azzi. The sound of footsteps behind her, the way her name came soft and unsure—her brain reached for Azzi before it even made sense to. But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

Kathryn’s voice came again, softer now. “Are you okay?”

Paige let out a breath that wanted to be a laugh. “Totally. Peak mental health. Five stars.”

She didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Because if she did, she’d have to acknowledge the part of her that actually cared about Kathryn’s answer.

Kathryn stopped a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. “What was that back there?”

Paige shrugged, arms crossed tight across her chest. “What was what?”

Kathryn raised her eyebrows, like—Really? “You basically called Lexi a—what? A player? A slut? I don’t even know. It didn’t feel like a joke.”

“It was a joke,” Paige said, biting off the words.

“It didn’t sound like one.”

Paige looked off toward the road, toward anywhere but Kathryn’s face. “Maybe she should learn how to take one.”

Kathryn stepped closer, her voice rising a little. “Seriously? That’s your defense?”

Paige could feel the heat rising again. In her cheeks. Her chest. Her fists. She was embarrassed and cornered and mad about both.

“Why are you even mad at me right now? It’s not like I said it about you.”

Kathryn blinked like she couldn’t believe she had to explain this. “I’m not mad. I’m just... confused. It came out of nowhere.”

It didn’t come out of nowhere.

It came from Ted’s. From Lexi’s arm around Azzi. From the way Azzi laughed like Paige hadn’t existed first.

It came from watching them all night and feeling like the floor was tilting underneath her. From pretending it didn’t bother her. 

But Paige didn’t say any of that.

Instead, she shrugged again, like it didn’t matter. “Lexi bugs me.”

Kathryn frowned. “Because she flirts with people?”

“Because she flirts with everyone.”

“So?”

“It’s annoying,” Paige muttered.

“To you,” Kathryn said again, more firmly now. “But she’s never been anything but nice to me. She’s actually funny. And smart. And, I don’t know—fun? I don’t get it.”

Paige clenched her jaw. “She’s just one of those people who needs to be liked by everyone.”

Kathryn tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “You don’t?”

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it again. She was spinning now—circling the truth like a drain but refusing to fall in.

I can’t stand the way she looks at Azzi. I hate that she’s effortless and charming and takes up space like she belongs in every room. I hate that Azzi let her in.

But she swallowed all of it. Let it burn her tongue instead of the air.

“She just rubs me the wrong way, okay?”

Kathryn studied her for a second, arms still crossed. Her expression softened, just a little. “Is this... like, a best friend thing?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Kathryn said, shrugging one shoulder. “You and Azzi are close. Maybe you’re just... protective of her?”

She said it gently. Not accusing. Like she was trying to give Paige an out. An explanation that made everything make sense.

Paige could’ve said yes. Could’ve laughed and leaned into it. Could’ve said, Yeah, totally. Azzi’s like my little sister. I just don’t want her getting caught up with someone who’s gonna break her heart.

But her throat felt tight.

And all that came out was: “Maybe.”

Kathryn nodded slowly, but something behind her eyes flickered. Like she didn’t quite buy it—but didn’t want to press. Didn’t want to turn this moment into something Paige wasn’t ready for.

And Paige? She let the silence stretch between them, arms still folded, heart still hammering.

Because if she said any more, she knew exactly what would come out. And it wouldn’t be maybe.

Azzi

She didn’t see it coming. Not like that.

Sure, Paige had been weird all night. Tense in that way only she could pull off—smiling too much, talking too fast, pretending bowling was fun instead of some slow-motion torture chamber of feelings no one wanted to talk about.

But still. She hadn’t expected that.

At least I’m not trying to sleep my way through the athletic department.

It landed like a brick dropped in the middle of the lane. Loud. Off-topic. Weirdly theatrical.

Azzi didn’t flinch. She didn’t feel hurt, exactly. She felt... confused.

She sat back in her chair, blinking like she’d just walked into the middle of a conversation she wasn’t invited to.

It wasn’t about her. She knew that much.

It was about Lexi. And Lexi hadn’t done anything Paige hadn’t done herself a hundred times—teasing, showing off, working a room like it owed her something.

Honestly, the more Azzi thought about it, the more obvious it seemed:

Paige probably just didn’t like Lexi because they were kind of the same. Loud. Confident. A little extra. People who said too much and felt even more and made it everyone’s problem.

Azzi could understand that. She could even laugh at it.

Because if Paige’s outburst had been something else—if it had been jealousy, if it meant Paige still cared—well, that would’ve changed everything. That would’ve cracked something open Azzi wasn’t sure she was strong enough to hold.

But she didn’t let herself go there.

Because Paige was happy now. With Kathryn. With sweet texts and forehead kisses and that obnoxious “babe” that she said without thinking.

Because Paige had set boundaries. She’d closed the door—gently, but clearly. During that talk, in that dim hallway, with that look that said don’t wait for me.

Because Paige never said anything about the birthday gift. Never even acknowledged it.

Azzi had spent too long imagining how she might. A glance. A smile. A thanks whispered during warmups.

But nothing ever came. Just silence. Just space.

And Azzi respected it. She had to.

So no, she wasn’t going to read too much into tonight. She wasn’t going to assign meaning to a moment that might’ve just been Paige being dramatic and cracked around the edges.

She wasn’t going to hope.

And anyway, she hadn’t even wanted to come.

Bowling hadn’t sounded appealing—neon lights, themed pizza, four-person awkwardness. But Paige had said yes. Paige had nodded when Kathryn looked at her like she wanted this night to be cute, and easy, and couple-coded. And Azzi had seen that. The way Paige agreed like she didn’t really want to—but wanted Kathryn to want her to.

So Azzi said yes too. Because showing up felt like the right thing to do. Because if Paige could be cool about it, then so could she.

Lexi let out a breath beside her—half-laugh, half sigh. “Okay then.”

Kathryn said nothing. Just stared at her lap like maybe it held the answers.

And Azzi just... sat there.

Her ball was still on the return rack. The pins still standing. The game still going.

But she didn’t feel like playing anymore.

She rested her elbows on her knees and stared at the floor.

And even though she didn’t say it out loud, she could feel it deep in her chest—tight and quiet and real:

Whatever that was... it didn’t feel over.

[theaawalker]

Steps to Write a Strong Female Character

follow for more tips 💋 || request writing tips 💌

1. Establish the Foundation

Define Her Core Values: Is she driven by justice, survival, loyalty, ambition, or personal growth? Her strength should come from her beliefs, not just her abilities. Avoid One-Dimensional Labels: Don’t just make her “strong” by making her physically tough or emotionally closed-off. Strength can be kindness, intellect, resilience, or self-awareness. Give Her Agency: Let her make decisions that shape the story. She should do things, not just react to them.

2. Shape Her Role in the Story

Decide Her Impact: Is she the protagonist, a vital supporting character, or a narrative disruptor? Ensure her presence changes something in the world or in others. Don’t Make Her Exceptional Because She’s a Woman: Her value isn’t in outperforming men. Let her be exceptional because of who she is—not as a token or exception. Avoid “Smurfette Principial”: Please, for the love of womanhood, don’t make her the only girl in the group without giving her depth. Ensure she has personality, purpose, and individuality.

3. Build Her Character Development

Let Her Struggle: Strength comes from overcoming. Let her fail, grieve, doubt, and grow. Avoid Perfection: She doesn’t have to be likable at all times. She can be flawed, angry, soft, or conflicted—and still strong. Give Her Inner Conflict: What does she fear? What moral line does she walk? What identity does she wrestle with?

4. Define Her Strengths and Weaknesses

Balance Power With Humanity: Whether she’s skilled in combat, strategy, magic, or intellect, give her moments of vulnerability. Make Her Good at Something Specific: Give her talents that reflect her background or personality—not just generic “badass” skills. Let Her Have Limits: A strong character doesn’t mean an unstoppable one. Let her fail or need help without weakening her core.

5. Create Meaningful Relationships

Develop Non-Romantic Bonds: Friendships, mentors, family ties, rivals—these all add dimension. Don’t revolve her development solely around love. Avoid the “Not Like Other Girls” Trope: She can be unique without putting down other women. Show her supporting or learning from other women, too. Let Her Influence Others: Show how her presence shapes her allies, enemies, or the world. She shouldn’t exist in a vacuum.

6. Develop a Satisfying Arc

Let Her Evolve: Her story should reflect personal change—whether it’s becoming braver, wiser, freer, or more self-assured. Give Her a Legacy: Whether she lives or dies, wins or loses, her actions should leave a lasting impact. Avoid Symbolic Endings: Don’t make her story a metaphor or sacrifice unless it respects her agency and value. Her end shouldn’t serve someone else’s arc unless it aligns with her own journey.

Examples of Strong Female Characters

1. Film/TV Examples:

Nanette Cole (Black Mirror: The USS Callistor): Grows from terrified employee to determined captain, driven by freedom, protection, and survival.

Zuko-era Katara (Avatar: The Last Airbender): Empathic, powerful, assertive, she navigates grief, anger, and leadership without losing herself.

Fleabag (Fleabag): Raw, flawed, brilliant, her strength lies in honesty and vulnerability.

2. Literature Examples:

Jo March (Little Women): Ambitious, temperamental, and emotionally complex, she defies gender norms without rejecting emotion or family.

Sabaa Tahir’s Laia (An Ember in the Ashes): Starts timid and afraid, evolves into a fierce rebel without losing her compassion.

Claire Warden (The Guardians of Camoria series): Cynical, chaotic, and clairvoyant, she struggles with violence, abandonment, and self-doubt, yet holds unmatched emotional endurance and tactical brilliance.

Follow || Like || Comment || Repost || My Novel

thank you, i am farkle :)