苏琳

“God blessed me, with youuu,, self indulgent blog :) someone who can’t live a day without reading fanfiction

[wwhiteferrett]

bunny | george weasley

summary: george needs a partner for an upcoming wedding so he doesnt seem ‘lonely.’ his plan to have a fake relationship with you grows into something…more. warnings: none, sfw, fluff, kissing pairing: bestfriend!george x fem!reader - post war wc: 4.2k a/n: based off of a matchup i did <3

You chopped the green cilantro on the wooden chopping board, humming a familiar tune under your breath. The window perched above the kitchen sink let light seep in onto your freshly tanned skin.

The smell of paprika and pepper wafted through the air; you inhaled the delicious scent and smiled in contentment. 

George and Lee had invited themselves over—again.

“To brainstorm,” George had said, with that stupid grin. “Your cooking is simply unavoidable…well- sometimes."

You laughed to yourself at the memory, knowing you smacked him on the arm after the comment. 

You were cooking his favorite food: chicken and lime rice. 

Dropping the cilantro into the sizzling pan with the chicken, you put the cover on it. You checked the time: 6:00. They’d be here at any second—

CRASH.

You jolted up, looking around to see where the commotion came from. Grabbing the kitchen knife, you slowly stepped into the living room.

“Oi! Lee! You alive?”

“Asshole!”

Your shoulders dropped—just a…burnt George and Lee.

“Knife!” George shrieked, pointing his wand at your hand.

“Floo powder? Are you serious?” You sighed, placing the kitchen knife down on a coffee table. “Was the front door not good enough?” 

Lee had bits of coal all over his face, coughing up dust as he got up from the ground. "George said it'd be faster."

"George also thinks birds aren’t real." After taking a good look at your dirty rug, you rubbed your temples. “Is everyone…okay?” 

“Yup–well, Lee, maybe not so okay–ouch!” George jumped back as Lee pinched his arm. “I’m sorry, okay? I thought you’d already arrived!”

“I’m holding this against you forever, mate.”

George ran a hand through his dusty hair. Clearing his throat, he shone a toothy smile at you. “Miss me yet, Y/N?”

“I saw you yesterday, George.”

“Exactly. Who wouldn’t miss my gorgeous face?”

“I wouldn’t.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Grumpy today, huh? Got a lil’ cloud over your head.” His grin faltered after he observed your sternness. “Just kidding with you. How’ve you been?”

You placed a hand on your hip. “...I was doing fine before you ruined my living room.” 

George looked around: your pearly white couch was matted with soot, the side table was knocked over, and a small fire was starting in front of the fireplace.

“Adds some character.” George shrugged. “Needed some color anyway. White’s a depressing color.”

Lee butted in. “Quite the opposite, George.”

“If this isn’t cleaned in the next ten seconds, I’m kicking you both out.” You playfully threatened. 

Immediately, Lee blew out the fire as George waved his wand at the fallen table, fixing it. Lee jumped onto the couch, sending dark dust into the air and off it. 

“All clean! How long was that—seven seconds?” Lee said cheekily. George pinched his lips into a line, suppressing a laugh. 

You rolled your eyes and walked back into the kitchen. “Come and sit down, you troublemakers.”

This dinner would surely be entertaining.

—

“Y’know, you could go pro with this cooking,” Lee munched, rice all over his chin. 

“I second that. How do you cook this amazingly?” George shoved another bite of chicken into his mouth.

“Thank you. I just tried a new recipe,” You smiled, taking a sip of water. “Mrs. Weasley makes great chicken noodle soup; maybe I should ask her for that recipe as well…” You thought aloud. 

Lee nearly choked on his rice.

Eyes wide, you slapped his back in an attempt to help. “LEE!”

George snickered at the sight; Lee’s eyes started to tear up as he waved a hand for you to stop.

“Ouch! Y/N, I’m okay!” Lee assured, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Merlin, I saw your spirit rise from your body.” George joked, taking a sip of water.

“What even happened?” You asked, an eyebrow raised.

Lee exchanged a glance with George. Something… mischievous flickered across the brunette boy’s face.

“Don’t,” George mumbled, eyeing Lee.

Lee grinned. 

“Molly had quite a lot to say to George a few days ago, Y/N-”

“Lee!” George hissed.

“Maybe you could lend a hand, help out one of your best friends-”

“Ignore him, Y/N,” 

“What did Mrs. Weasley say?” You inquired, disregarding George’s feeble shots to shut Lee up.

“Molly thinks it’s time for George to find someone to settle down with.”

You nearly choked as well—this time on air and pure shock.

A beat of silence followed.

George ran a hand down his face as Lee tried not to laugh.

No corny remark or an off-putting joke. Just accepting what Lee said.

“I’m going to kill you, Lee.” The ginger muttered. 

“What’re you getting at? That I need to be George’s girlfriend?” You raised your eyebrows, looking at the two boys.

“Well-“

“Lee.”

“George was saying if you could-“

“Lee, I’ll just tell her, okay?” George sighed loudly, leaning back into the chair and looking at you with unsure eyes. “Mum thinks I’m…busying myself with work too much. Said I need to find someone.” 

“Not just that, Georgie,” Lee teased. “The wedding.”

Your eyes widened. You knew exactly where this was going.

“Right…the wedding. My family’s been invited to a wedding, and I don’t want to seem…” George’s eyes flickered away, his mind shifting to find a proper word.

“Lonely?” You offered quietly.

George nodded—almost hesitantly. “Yeah, you could say that." He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, looking at his hands. “...Mum keeps mentioning this wedding…and…”

“Get on with it, you booger,” Lee huffed in impatience. 

George kicked Lee’s shin under the table. “...It would be incredibly stupid to ask you this…”

“George. Get it out.” You prodded.

“Wouldyoupretendtobemygirlfriend?” George said it so quickly, you couldn’t even make out any words.

“Huh?” You and Lee said at the same time, confused.

“Mate, she’d have to understand you first before she can say yes,” Lee sniggered, taking a sip of his water.

With another deep breath, George asked, “Would you pretend to be…my girlfriend…for one night?”

Your lips parted.

Watching your concerned face, he gave a crooked, reassuring smile. “No pressure, though…If being in a fake relationship wasn’t on your bucket list…I totally get it.” 

Shaking your head, you placed both your hands on the table. “No, I’m game. Whatever I can do to help you.” 

George raised a brow. “No negotiation?”

“Should’ve charged you, actually.”

“Too late.” A sly grin replaced his warm smile. 

A glint in his eyes said more than enough; you would do anything for your best friend.

—

“This dress is too uncomfortable,” You complained, tugging at the hem of the dress. It was a dreamy, flowy dress that complemented your body, which accentuated your curves. The only issue was the lacy rim, which aggravated your fragile skin. 

The lace brushed against the inside of your arms, already making you itch.

You'd spent years learning how to hide the worst of your eczema.

Some days were easier than others. Today? Not so compliant.

George and Lee knew that it was your worst enemy—but they didn’t know how insecure it made you. 

“You look great, Y/N. Spectacular, even.” George comforted. Before you could thank him, he whispered, “Not as good as me, though.”

You flicked his head, scowling. “Incredibly funny, Georgie.”

You were standing in front of the Burrow with the ginger close beside you.

“Are you ready?” George smiled, nudging your side.

You nudged him back. “Of course.”

He opened the wooden door, and you were greeted with the familiar Weasley scent of cinnamon, pumpkin, and coffee beans. 

The warm lighting kissed your skin as you walked further into the home. George softly shut the door behind him, then rubbed your shoulder. “You’re shaking like Ron’s old rat.”

You scoffed. “It’s cold.”

“Want my jacket?”

You looked at him. “That’s for after.”

Laughter erupted from the living room—a few steps away and you would be face to face with Mrs. Weasley.

“Look like we’re in love,” George whispered. Patting down your hair, you followed George into the full living room.

“And then, Ginny decided it would be the perfect time to jump off the platform!”

Mrs. Weasley slapped her knee; everyone roared with laughter again. 

Then, Mrs. Weasley’s eyes flickered to the corner in which you and George awkwardly stood. With wide eyes, she basically screamed.

“Oh my days!” Jumping up from the spot on her couch, she ran over and engulfed both you and George into a tight embrace. “My precious babies! How have you been? Both of you?”

You tried to speak, but your air circulation was compressed.

“Mum-” George choked out.

“Oh- Sorry!” Mrs. Weasley let go, stepping back and looking both of you up and down. 

Once her eyes fell on you, they stayed there. 

Her jaw slackened.

A silence—filled with realization—flowed through the entire room.

“George!” Mrs. Weasley gasped. 

“Mum,” George grinned. “Y/N and I are-”

“Georgie!” Mrs. Weasley swallowed him in a hug again. “I thought the day would never come!”

“Mum, I can’t-” George patted her back weakly. The cheeky woman let go of George’s lanky body and patted his cheek.

Observing you both for a moment, Mrs. Weasley seemed like she was… waiting.

George froze—you did too. 

All eyes were on you two.

You felt a gentle touch on the side of your hand.

“Holding hands now?” You hissed, barely audible.

“I- I don’t know,” George whispered awkwardly.

“You’re supposed to know!”

“You’re the one with relationship experience.”

“A bold, outrageous assumption, George.”

George glanced down at your hand, hesitated, then carefully laced his fingers through yours.

Mrs. Weasley practically melted.

“How adorable! I can’t even process this!” she gushed. “You’ve always been the good-looking boy, Georgie.”

Someone snorted from the couch. Looking past the ginger-haired woman, you saw a giggling Ginny Weasley.

“I always thought he was the ugliest one, Mum,” Ginny quipped.

You smiled at her, then noticed a dressed-up Hermione, Harry, and Ron sitting near her. They fell into silent laughter as Mrs. Weasley shot a glare at her. 

“Be happy your brother even found someone, Gin.” 

“Are we ready to go?” A rough voice called out from the entrance. Peeking, you saw Arthur Weasley in an orange suit. “Time to Apparate!”

“Honey, come here, come here!” Mrs. Weasley hurried to her husband, pulling him into the living room. 

“Your hands are freezing.” You said under your breath.

“You’re the one shaking.” George shot back.

“I’m uneasy.”

“About what exactly?”

“You make me uneasy.”

“That could mean many things.”

You sighed. “Take it as you will, Georgie.”

Suddenly, you were face-to-face with a tired-looking man you knew well. 

“Y/N! George! How nice to…” Mr. Weasley trailed off, taking in the sight. “Is this…wait…Molly!”

“Yes, Arthur! They’re together!”

Mr. Weasley bear-hugged you, careful not to mess up your hair.

“He chose the best of the best, for sure.” Mr. Weasley let go of you, cheekily smiling. You returned a small smile. “And good job, son.” The stubby man lovingly patted his son’s shoulder.

“Are we going now?” Ron complained with a sigh. 

“Let’s go, children!” Mr. Weasley announced, and everyone made their way out of the house. 

You stayed back with George, still awkwardly holding his calloused hand. 

“Still shaking, huh?” He teased. 

You scowled. “I already told you. I’m just…nervous.”

“About what? You never explained to me.”

A tense moment—like a heartbeat or a blink of an eye.

“... Disappointing your family.”

George’s eyes widened. “You? Disappoint? Do you even know who you are?”

“Just…me,” You mumbled, looking at your heels.

George let go of your hand and placed his hands on your shoulders. “Look, if you think my family hates you for being my…girlfriend, they don’t. They’re just in shock.”

“Lovebirds! We’re going!” Bill called out.

George reassuringly wrapped an arm around your shoulder, murmuring, “Just keep being you. They love you for you.”

You both walked out of the Burrow and prepared to Apparate.

—

One word to describe this wedding: overwhelming.

“I didn’t know you had a million aunts and uncles,” you joked, nudging George’s arm. He rolled his eyes. 

You two have been approached about four times in the past five minutes since you arrived. 

“George!” An elderly woman called out from a table. George took a breath, then turned to face her. 

“Hello, Aunt May,” He greeted. 

“Who’s this beauty?” Aunt May wiggled her brows. She was obviously drunk.

You waved. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”

“Have you two kissed yet?” She asked groggily. 

You stilled. 

No one’s asked that before.

“Um-” 

“We’ll see you around, May.” George took your hand and guided you away from the drunken woman. 

“What the hell was that about?” You questioned, weaving through the crowd of people around the refreshment table.

“She’s always like that.” He replied casually. 

“Georgie-kins!” 

George groaned as you stifled a laugh. Turning around, you faced another woman—a lot older, with smile wrinkles and greyish hair.

“Hi, Aunt Junie.” 

“How have you been? I haven’t seen your cute face in years!” The woman grinned, patting his shoulder. Her eyes fell on you; her smile broadened at the sight of you. “Is this your girlfriend?”

“Yup. Y/N L/N. My girlfriend.” George said, almost proudly.

“You two look adorable together—like two fitting puzzle pieces. Perfect.” 

You smiled politely, beaming. “Thank you so much.”

“Very kind of you to say, Aunt Junie.”

“Couples!”

You and George looked back to see a giddy man with a large camera. 

“Huh?”

“Come on! Get closer,” The man beamed.

You moved closer to the ginger boy.

“Closer! You’re cutting out the frame.” 

Another inch. You were basically squished against his arm.

“Come on, do you two even like each other?” The cameraman joked. 

George deeply exhaled, moved behind you, and loosely wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Is this good?” George asked the red-cheeked man. He nodded enthusiastically. 

“Say chili-cheese dog!”

“Chili-cheese- wait, what?”

The flash went off, basically blinding you and George. 

“Ow.” You squeezed your watery eyes shut.

“Take a look!”

The picture was a grainy, black-and-white photo. You could make out both of your confused faces—in general, a not-so-attractive picture.

“Thank you.” You smiled at the man. “Keep it, though. But thank you.” 

George led you away to an open table. Sitting down, you caught your breath. This entire wedding party had been insanely overwhelming, but the most stressful thing was your damn dress.

You discreetly adjusted the cuff again.

“That’s the eighth time you’ve fixed your sleeve,” George mumbled, looking into the distance.

You paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve…noticed?” 

“I always do.” He did a double-take. “Not- not like that. I just sensed you’re uncomfortable…like you got ants in your dress.”

“What if I did?”

“I’d let them eat you.”

Your laughter doubled. “Very evil, you are.”

“Is it…your eczema?” George asked quietly in a more serious manner.

“Is it obvious?”

He shook his head. “Only ‘cause I’ve known you forever.”

You hummed in response, absentmindedly tracing your fingernails over the dry patch of skin.

Another scratch.

It was getting worse by the second.

You scratched it—harder this time. Maybe the itch would go away? 

Suddenly, you felt a cold hand touch yours, pushing it down to your lap.

“Y/N…”

You looked up at George. He was…worried.

“Yeah?”

“You’re…hurting yourself.”

He said it calmly. Not bombarding or judgemental. It was gentle.

The noise from the music blurred like static to your ears. 

“I-I know. It- I just hate it.”

“Hate your skin?”

“Yeah. Basically.”

“I think it makes you unique.” The corners of George’s lips twitched upward. His hand was still placed on top of yours. There was no one to deceive—no need to pretend, yet George still…held on to you.

“Oi! George!” Ron yelled. “Help with the cake, will ya?”

George sighed, standing up and patting your shoulder. “No more scratching, okay? Or Mum’s gonna think I got a cat to attack you.”

You snickered, watching him walk away to a struggling Ron and Harry.

—

“They were children, George,” You laughed, arm linked with his. You were exiting the party, sweaty from the final game they hosted.

“They were opponents, Y/N.” He reprimanded. 

“How do you feel now you’ve made five children cry?”

George shrugged with a grin. “Accomplished.” He patted your back. “You did pretty good for your first time playing that game.”

“I know. Horrifying, but worth it.”

Once the night autumn breeze hit your skin, you shivered involuntarily. 

“Cold?” George asked, slipping off his coat. 

“No, I’m-” Your teeth chattered before you could stop it.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah. I am.”

He put the black coat over your shoulders, and you were consumed with warmth.

“Thank you.” You looked up at him with a small smile.

“Anything to not let you freeze to death,” George responded with a wink.

“George, dear, are you and Y/N coming back to the Burrow?” Mrs. Weasley asked, walking next to her son. 

“I think we’re calling it in early tonight, Mum,” George answered. 

“Oh, well, Y/N should come over for dinner on Sunday! Bill is bringing Fleur, too.” 

You raised your eyebrows. 

George looked just as worried.

“What do you think, Y/N? Think you’ll be able to make it, honey?” Mrs. Weasley prompted. 

You didn’t know what to say; unsure, you looked at George. He gave a look that said go with it.

“Um- yes! I’ll see my schedule. I would love to come, though!” You said with a warm smile. 

“Perfect! I can’t wait to see you again, sweet pea!” Mrs. Weasley gave you another motherly embrace and a kiss on the cheek. “Save Apparating, okay?” She tottered away back to her husband and the others.

“Another day I need to pretend to be your significant other?” You sighed. 

“I’m…sorry. I didn’t know this would be a repeating thing.” George scratched the nape of his neck. 

“It’s no problem. I’m okay with it. As long as your mother is happy with both of us…”

George hummed in agreement. 

“I should go home now.” You said after a second.

“I’ll come with you.”

Both of you Apparated to the front of your home. The moon glistened with a pearly white aura; the wind howled hard.

“Well, I’ll owl you.” You said slowly. You walked to the entrance and unlocked your door, George at your side.

“Yeah. Thanks for…making this wedding fun. Without you, I think I would've died from boredom.”

You giggled. “No problem. The cake was amazing.”

“When you smudged some on my face, sure.”

“Don’t hold a grudge over me.”

“Can’t promise it.”

George held eye contact with you for a few seconds, then dropped it. 

“It’s late. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Sweet dreams to you too, Georgie.” You grinned, opening your door and shutting it behind you.

His soft eyes.

His light touch.

The wrinkles near his eyes when he smiled.

The way he cared.

It made your heart melt, all warm and fluffy inside.

…Was this…

Love…?

—

“How nice to see you again, Y/N!” Mrs. Weasley smiled as she opened the door. “You look so beautiful!” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you again for inviting me for dinner.” You walked into the warm house; you heard a familiar ring of chatter and laughter in the dining room.

“My pleasure, sweetheart! George isn’t here yet, had to get something. Come sit down; the food is nearly ready.” Mrs. Weasley steered you into the packed room and led you to an empty seat.

Two empty seats, one for you and one for George.

You sat down on the wooden chair, Ginny next to you.

“Hi, Y/N. You look really nice.” Ginny greeted you with a small smile.

“Oh! Um- thank you, Ginny. You smell great too!” You replied. “Wait- I mean, you look great.”

Ginny burst into laughter at your mess-up. “I don’t know how George did it. You’re, like, a hundred times funnier than him.” 

“Yeah, I…I try.” You gave her a subtle grin. 

The front door creaked open, letting in the dim sunset light. George walked into the dining room and looked around the room, cluelessly.

“Idiot,” Ginny whispered to you. “Oi! Here, dumbass!” 

George's eyes landed on you, and his lips cracked a smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” George said as he sat down next to you. 

“You don’t call her any nicknames?” Ginny asked. 

Your heart dropped. 

Oh god, please don’t, George, you thought, closing your eyes.

“Nicknames?” George inquired, fear lacing his voice. “Like…what?”

“‘Baby’, ‘love’, y’know, those cute lovey-dovey names,” Ginny informed.

“I do…call her those…sometimes.” George looked at you in panic. Help! he mouthed.

“Um- he does; he doesn’t do those names; he does an actual nickname.” You explained. Shoot! What am I getting at? What type of question is that anyway?

“Aw, like what?” Ginny prodded.

“Bunny.” George blurted.

“What?” Ron suppressed a laugh, looking at us from across the table. 

“Her patronus is a hare. And she's like a bunny. It makes sense, dimwit.” George scowled. 

“I think that’s adorable. George is like a carrot. You two were meant to be.” Ginny tilted her head to the side in admiration. “How cute.”

“Food’s ready!” Mrs. Weasley called out. The food came floating in by magic, then was placed in a sloppy line on the table.

“Gosh, my favorite,” You whispered to George. “Chicken noodle soup.”

“Ask her for the recipe.” 

“I’m too scared.”

“Mum!”

Mrs. Weasley looked at George. “Yes, dear?”

“Y/N’s asking for the recipe for your chicken soup."

Your face went red; you wanted to shrink yourself on the spot.  

“My recipe? Of course, sweetie! I’ll write it up before you leave,” Mrs. Weasley said sweetly.

“Thank you so much.” You said, still quite embarrassed. 

George nudged your arm. “Not that hard. She won’t bite your head off.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve seen her attempt that with you. I’m not taking any chances.”

“So, how did you two start dating?” Mr. Weasley asked.

You almost choked on a noodle. “How we…started-”

“Dating, yes! I’m curious.” 

You looked at George.

 Merlin.

“She hit me,” George started.

“What?” Your eyes widened.

“With a cookbook.”

“I did not!”

The table rose with chuckles. 

“She was teaching me her chicken recipe. Delicious, by the way.” George continued, ignoring your protests. “Fell in love with her after she cooked for me.”

“No way this is true.” Ginny giggled, intently listening.

“She’s just embarrassed.” George nudged your arm.

“You’re impossible.” You put your head in your hands. 

"Well, that's certainly more romantic than how Molly and I met." Mr. Weasley grunted.

“...Dad.” George rolled his eyes.

“What?” 

“How lovely!” Mrs. Weasley said cheekily, interrupting the conversation. “There is no better girl than Y/N, I can tell you that. You truly are one of a kind, missy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I’m honestly glad you raised such a great young man.”

George looked over at you, then brushed his hand against yours from under the table.

You slid your hand into his, squeezing it gently.

—

After dinner, you needed to get home to prepare for work the next day. 

You said goodbye to everyone, then apparated back home with George at your side.

“Y/N…” George stopped you before you could enter your house. 

“Mhm?”

“I think I should tell Mum.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tell her what?”

“About…us.”

“Oh. Right. Forgot about that.”

An awkward silence rose between you two. You looked at your shoes.

“Well, I’ll…I’ll owl you what happens, then.” George weakly smiled. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

As he turned to apparate, you grabbed his hand.

Startled, he looked at you with raised eyebrows.

“George…” You started, but you couldn’t find the words. “I…” 

The ginger boy stood there, patiently waiting, looking at you with caring eyes.

“I don’t want you to tell Molly,” you rushed to explain. “Not that I’m embarrassed…it’s just…” You shifted uncomfortably, racking your mind for something to say. “This didn’t feel fake. This felt so…real.”

George’s lips parted in shock as he stared at you. “It didn’t?”

“No, George, it felt so…genuine to me,” you breathed.

A small laugh escaped his lips—out of relief, you assumed. 

“Merlin," he grinned. "I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that all week."

You blinked at him. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just saying I was feeling something more than just…friendship.” Looking down, he mumbled, “I would’ve missed this…all of this—the family dinners and spending more time with you—” 

You stepped closer to him, closing in the small gap, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

George was frozen at first, but then melted into it; he wrapped his arms around your waist, bringing you closer into him, and deepened the kiss with a smile on his lips.

The years of friendship and silent admiration—and now, you’re against him, under the moonlight, kissing.

A sweet, loving kiss that spoke more about your feelings than words ever could.

After a few heavenly seconds, you let go of his soft lips and looked up at his wide, precious eyes. 

“Then you won’t have to miss it,” you grinned, slinging your arms around his neck. “I’ll still be right here.”

[majesty31]

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Ko-fi

𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒕;)

The first time I learned that humiliation can stick to you like treacle, I was eleven and wearing brand-new black shoes that still pinched at the heel.

It had been my first week at Hogwarts—my first week of pretending I belonged in corridors that moved and staircases that changed their minds halfway up, my first week of learning to sleep with other girls breathing around me and to fold my homesickness into neat little squares and tuck it under the mattress where no one could see.

I had been so careful, then. I’d brushed my hair until it shone, checked my robes twice, practised my name in my head as if saying it correctly might keep the castle from swallowing me whole.

And then I walked into the Gryffindor common room with my chin up and my stomach full of nerves—and Fred and George Weasley turned me into the punchline of a joke I didn’t even understand until everyone was already laughing.

It was a simple thing, in the way that all the worst things are simple. A charm, whispered and flicked like it was nothing. Warmth at my collar. A strange tug behind my ears. A sudden lightness at my scalp, as if my hair had decided it could no longer tolerate gravity.

There was a beat of silence—one sharp, sparkling second where the room registered I was wrong somehow—then the laughter broke out in a wave that felt physical, like being shoved.

I remember reaching up, fingers catching in something that wasn’t hair anymore, something feather-soft and ridiculous. I remember the heat crawling up my neck, my face turning traitor-red before I’d even spoken. I remember trying to laugh too, because at eleven you think laughing along might save you, might make you look clever and unbothered, might keep the world from deciding you’re weak.

But my voice came out thin and odd, and I heard it wobble, and I knew I sounded like a child trying to pretend she wasn’t one.

Fred Weasley had looked delighted, eyes bright, a grin so wide it seemed to split his face. George stood beside him. He laughed too—but when my gaze snapped to his, something in his expression tightened, quick as a blink, as if he’d only just realised I wasn’t in on it. As if he’d only just noticed the way my hands had gone clumsy at my hair, the way my shoulders had pulled in.

That was the thing about the Weasley twins. They didn’t just cause trouble. They made it look like sunlight.

It was hard to hate someone who could make a room feel warmer just by walking into it. Hard, but not impossible. I learned.

I didn’t cry until later, when the common room had thinned out and the fire had burned lower and my dormitory was full of whispering girls who had already found their places in the world. I lay in bed with my face turned into the pillow, gripping the sheets so tightly my fingers ached, and made myself a promise with the kind of grim certainty children are capable of: I would not let them do that to me again. I would not be someone’s joke.

Of course, that promise became a sort of curse.

Because somehow—somehow—their jokes kept finding me.

A levitation charm meant for someone else that sent my stack of books drifting into the air like startled birds. A handful of enchanted dungbombs that rolled under my chair in History of Magic just as Professor Binns glided past, and suddenly it was my desk that smelled like a sewer while Fred and George sat two rows back with faces of perfect innocence. A set of bewitched quills that scribbled I’m a flobberworm in looping, enthusiastic handwriting across a parchment that was most certainly mine.

And always, always, it was me standing in front of a professor with my hands empty and my cheeks burning and the Weasley twins behind me wearing expressions that said wasn’t that brilliant? wasn’t that funny?

I learned the shape of their laughter the way you learn the feel of a bruise you keep bumping. I learned their loudness—how it filled space, how it demanded attention like a firework. I learned how George’s eyes flicked to me when no one else was looking, as if he were measuring the damage.

Detention came to me the way rain comes to a stormcloud: not as a surprise, but as an inevitability.

By third year, Filch knew my name. By fourth, I knew every corridor from the trophy room to the dungeon classrooms by the scent of the stone and the way the torches hissed. By fifth, I could scrape dried potion residue from a cauldron with one hand and write Charms homework in my head with the other.

And somewhere in all that time—somewhere between the late evenings and the dust, between the way we’d sit on opposite ends of a corridor waiting for a professor to stop lecturing us about our moral failings—something inside me shifted.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just… quietly, like a page turning in a book when no one’s watching.

Because Fred was always Fred—bright, careless, brilliant, the sort of boy who could smile after being told off and make you feel as though you’d been the one scolded for not laughing harder.

But George—George had edges that didn’t catch the light unless you looked for them. He’d pass me a rag without a word when my hands were full. He’d make a joke and then, if I didn’t laugh, his eyes would dart to my face, quick and wary, as if checking whether he’d gone too far.

Sometimes, when Fred’s energy ricocheted off walls, George seemed to step aside from it for half a second, and in that half second you could see something like thoughtfulness, like softness, like a person underneath the performance.

It infuriated me, because it made no sense.

It was much easier when they were both simply unbearable. It was much easier when George was just Fred’s twin—an extension of the same trouble, the same grin, the same hands flicking wands in corridors when they were supposed to be hurrying to class.

It was much easier before my eyes started snagging on him like thread catching on a nail.

I told myself it was because of proximity. Because you can’t spend years being dragged into the same detentions as someone without recognising the slope of their handwriting, the way they bite the inside of their cheek when they’re concentrating, the slight tilt of their head when they’re listening. I told myself it was normal, the way you start to notice the creak of a stair you step on every day.

But there are certain thoughts that don’t feel like stair creaks. They feel like lightning—silent until it isn’t.

And the worst part was: the more I tried to stop noticing him, the more my body betrayed me anyway. My mouth would sharpen its words without my permission. My shoulders would square as if bracing for impact when he came too close. My laugh—my real one, the one I didn’t share with just anyone—would get stuck behind my teeth when he said something that, under different circumstances, might have made it out.

It was easier to be difficult. Easier to be prickly. Easier to keep him at a distance where he couldn’t see the thing I didn’t want him to see—couldn’t see that a part of me leaned toward him like a plant turning to the sun, even while the rest of me insisted the light was unbearable.

George, for his part, did something I only realised in hindsight.

He stopped.

Not completely—not in a way Fred would ever have noticed, but in the small, particular ways that mattered. When pranks sparked in the air like static, George began to redirect them around me. When Fred’s eyes lit with a new idea, George would catch his sleeve and murmur something under his breath, and the idea would shift course. When I walked into a room, George’s gaze would flick to me and then away again quickly, as though looking too long might burn.

It should have made things easier.

Instead, it made them worse, because it meant he was paying attention. And if he was paying attention, then he might have seen too much.

The day we ended up in the dungeon again—again—it started in the most ordinary way possible, which is how trouble likes to begin at Hogwarts. Ordinary, and then suddenly you’re in too deep.

I was on my way back from the library, arms wrapped around a stack of books that smelled like dust and old glue, thinking about a Transfiguration essay that refused to arrange itself into proper paragraphs. The corridors were dimmer down there, the stone colder, the air damp and faintly metallic, like the castle was bleeding.

I turned a corner—

—and stepped straight into the middle of something that should not have existed in a school.

A snort of laughter—too quick to be real, too sharply swallowed—leaked from behind a suit of armour, and then the corridor itself seemed to misbehave.

Something bright and peppermint-sweet hit the air first, that unmistakable whiff of Weasley mischief, like a joke you can smell before you hear it. A second later, the flagstones just ahead of me turned slick and glassy, a thin sheet of shimmering green creeping outward as if the castle had decided to grow a pond in the middle of its own hallway. It wasn’t water, not quite—more like enchanted soap, too glossy and alive, catching torchlight in little cruel sparks.

Right in the centre of it, a Prefect’s badge—Percy’s, I’d recognise that pompous shine anywhere—hung in midair, bobbing gently as though it were bait on a fishing line. Each time it dipped, it let out a prim, amplified little cough.

“Ahem.”

The sound echoed off stone, officious and insufferable, and it was so perfectly Percy that for half a heartbeat I forgot to breathe. Then the badge cleared its throat again, louder, the way he did when he wanted an entire room to remember he existed.

“AHEM.”

The badge flashed, and a neat little ribbon of parchment unfurled beneath it like a proclamation, ink appearing on its own in tight, fussy handwriting:

PREFECT PATROL. PRESENT YOURSELF FOR INSPECTION.

My foot slid the instant I tried to stop. My books lurched against my chest, corners biting my arms, and the world tilted in that quick, stupid way it always does right before you lose dignity in public. I windmilled—there’s no elegant way to windmill—caught myself by grabbing the armour’s elbow, and felt cold metal under my palm where I’d expected stone.

The suit of armour shifted, offended, and something inside it clanked.

I hadn’t even finished pulling my hand back when the “puddle” decided it wasn’t finished being clever. The glossy green spread another inch, as if reaching for me, and a line of bubbles rose from it—fat, wobbling things—each one popping with a tiny, rude little sound that almost sounded like laughter.

My books shifted again, and my stomach dropped with the sudden, familiar certainty of what this was.

From behind the suit of armour, Fred and George Weasley appeared—Fred first, of course, as if he’d been fired from a cannon, laughing already; George right after him, a fraction slower, eyes widening the moment he saw me, like the scene had rearranged itself into something he hadn’t planned for.

Fred’s wand was still half-raised, as if he’d been mid-flourish. George’s hand hovered near his brother’s sleeve, that small, instinctive gesture of stop, stop, stop that no one ever seemed to notice unless you were watching for it.

And then—like the punchline delivered by the universe itself—Professor Snape emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor, robes billowing like a stormcloud given human form.

“What is this idiocy,” Snape snarled, his voice slicing through the corridor as his black eyes locked onto the three of us.

Everything in the dungeon seemed to tighten around him. The torchlight looked dimmer in his wake. The air went colder, as if it had been waiting for him to arrive.

Snape’s gaze moved over the scene—the hovering Prefect badge barking out its self-important ahems, the ridiculous inspection notice, the spreading slick of enchanted green—and then landed on me, pinned there with all the warmth of a blade.

“I leave the castle unattended for five minutes,” Snape snapped, “and I return to this.”

The hovering Prefect badge gave one last officious ahem and then went suspiciously quiet, as though even it had learned fear.

“Explain!”

I drew a breath and felt it scrape on the way in. Snape had that effect—made the air feel smaller, like the dungeon itself leaned in to listen. Words crowded the back of my throat, tripping over each other, all of them suddenly aware of how useless they were going to be.

“I was in the library,” I said, because it was true and because truth was all I had. “I just turned the corner and it all just appeared. I swear Professor, I didn’t do any of this.”

My voice didn’t shake, but my fingers tightened around my books until the edges pressed into my arms. I refused to look at the Weasleys. Refused to give Snape the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Fred let out a sound—something between a cough and a snort—far too close to laughter to be wise.

George didn’t make a sound at all.

Snape’s eyes flicked to Fred, slow and deliberate, the way one might examine an insect before deciding how best to squash it. His lip curled, just slightly, as if the expression had been practised.

“How diligently rehearsed,” he murmured. “One might almost believe you had prepared that defence in advance.”

“I didn’t—” I started, and immediately hated myself for how small it sounded.

“Silence.”

The word cracked through the corridor, sharp enough to make the torches gutter. Snape took a step closer, robes whispering over stone.

“I have grown exceptionally weary of this… little constellation of chaos,” he said, gaze sweeping over the three of us as if we were stains on the floor. “Every corridor I patrol, every corner I turn, I find Gryffindor fingerprints smudged across my evening.”

His eyes settled on me again, and I felt that familiar, infuriating sense of being weighed and found wanting.

“And you,” he continued, tone thick with false curiosity, “always seem to be standing conveniently nearby when such… innovations occur.”

“That’s because they drag me into it,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Fred’s eyebrows shot up, impressed. George’s head snapped toward me, a warning flicker in his eyes that said don’t, said please don’t.

Snape’s mouth thinned.

“How refreshing,” he drawled. “An accusation. How very Gryffindor of you. Bold. Loud. Utterly unconvincing.”

“I wasn’t part of it,” I insisted, heat crawling up my neck despite myself. “You can check—my wand—”

“Do not presume to instruct me on my own methods,” Snape cut in smoothly, and there it was—the satisfaction, dark and unmistakable. “Your talent for finding trouble is quite adequate without assistance.”

“Sir, I really wasn’t—” I stopped short at piercing look Snape gave me before he turned his attention to the twins at last, and the temperature in the corridor seemed to drop another degree.

“Weasley,” he said, singular, as if they were one creature with two heads. “Your tireless dedication to idiocy continues to astound me.”

Fred opened his mouth—clearly possessed by a death wish.

George’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve, fingers tightening just enough to warn him. Fred shut his mouth with an audible click, though the grin lingered, defiant and bright.

“One week of detention,” Snape said silkily. “Every evening. You will scrub my classroom from floor to ceiling until every surface reflects your regret back at you.”

His eyes slid to me again, pinning me in place.

“You will join them,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “Consider it a lesson in choosing your associates more wisely.”

“That’s not a lesson,” I said, and this time I couldn’t stop the edge from creeping into my voice. “That’s just convenient.”

For a heartbeat, the corridor went utterly still.

Then Snape smiled.

It was thin. Cold. Triumphant.

“Detention,” he repeated. “Unless you would prefer I deduct points as well. I am certain Gryffindor can spare them.”

I bit down on whatever I’d been about to say so hard I tasted metal.

Snape turned on his heel, robes snapping like a struck nerve, and swept away down the corridor, leaving behind the slowly dissolving puddle, the deflated Prefect badge, and the three of us standing in the aftermath like survivors of a small, personal disaster.

The silence he left behind rang louder than shouting.

I looked at them—at Fred’s grin, already fighting its way back onto his face, at George’s expression tight and pale around the eyes—and something in me snapped cleanly, like a thread pulled too hard.

“You two are unbelievable,” I said, and my voice sounded strangely steady, as if all the shaking had gone inside instead. “Do you guys wake up and decide, today I’ll make someone else’s life difficult, or does it happen naturally?”

Fred’s grin widened, because of course it did. “We don’t have to decide,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a gift.”

I shifted my books higher in my arms to keep my hands from doing something stupid like throwing them at his head. “Well,” I said, “congratulations. Your gift has earned me a week of scrubbing Snape’s cauldrons.”

“It wasn’t meant for you,” George said quickly.

The sound of his voice—lower, more careful—hit me in a place behind my ribs I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I scoffed, because scoffing was safer than listening. “Funny how that keeps happening.”

George’s mouth opened as if he might argue, then closed again. He looked at the floor for half a second, like he could find a solution in the cracks between stones.

“It was for Percy,” Fred said brightly, entirely unhelpful. “Or maybe for someone even more deserving. Percy’s got that face that begs for it, though.”

My lips pressed together so tightly they almost hurt. The name Percy felt like salt in the wound—Percy, it was always his pranks I seemed to take but I’d barely seen him on the receiving end of this stupidity.

I turned before my temper could make me say something that would echo in the walls later. “I’ll see you in detention,” I said, and walked away with my shoulders stiff and my footsteps too fast.

Behind me, Fred’s laughter followed like a thrown pebble.

George’s silence followed like a hand held out and then withdrawn.

~~~

The next evening, the dungeon classroom waited for us with all the warmth of a tomb.

The door creaked when we went in, and the smell hit at once—sharp, sour, medicinal. Potions ingredients clung to everything: to the air, to the stone, to the wooden shelves lined with jars of things that should not be jarred. The torches burned low, their flames struggling against the damp, and shadows gathered in corners like they were listening.

Snape didn’t bother with a speech. He didn’t need one. He simply stood at the front of the room, dark eyes sweeping over us, and dropped a pile of rags and scrub brushes onto the nearest table as if tossing scraps to animals.

“You will begin,” he said, and the words were slick with satisfaction. “And you will not stop until I say so.”

Then he swept into his office and shut the door, leaving us with the silence and the smell and the faint drip of something from somewhere.

Fred, naturally, broke the quiet first.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together as if this were a party. “Quality time.”

I chose the far end of the classroom with the deliberation of someone choosing a battlefield. As much distance as the room allowed. I set my books down carefully—too carefully—and picked up a rag, because if I didn’t start cleaning immediately, I might start doing something else.

The stone under my fingers was cold and slightly tacky with residue. My rag came away stained a sickly green after the first swipe.

Behind me, they talked. They always did. Their voice bounced off the walls and made the dungeon feel smaller.

“Do you think Snape polishes his hair with bat’s blood?” George mused, scrubbing at a table. “Because honestly, it’s got that sheen.”

“Maybe it’s just slime,” I said, without turning around. The words slipped out before I’d decided to give him anything at all.

Fred made an appreciative noise, as if I’d just tossed them a sweet. “See, George?” he said. “Y/N does have humour. Deep down. Buried under a mountain of bitterness.”

Something inside my chest tightened at hearing my own name in their mouths like that. My scrubbing grew faster. The rag squeaked against the tabletop.

“I’ve got plenty of humour,” I said, and my voice sounded too light for the way my throat felt. “Just not for you.”

Fred laughed outright.

George didn’t laugh.

I could hear him moving around the room—quiet footsteps, the scrape of a brush against wood, the soft clink of a jar being lifted and moved. He wasn’t on my side of the room, but sometimes the air shifted as if he’d glanced up, and my skin prickled along my arms in response, unreasonable and sharp.

“You really think we’d set you up?” George asked after a moment, and his tone was careful, almost… gentle, which made it worse, because it made the anger in me feel suddenly too big for the room.

I didn’t look at him. Looking at him was dangerous. Looking at him meant noticing the way his sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with grime, the way his hair fell over his eyes when he bent to scrub. Looking at him meant remembering a hundred detentions, a hundred late evenings, the way he’d once passed me a chocolate frog in the corridor without meeting my gaze.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that you always have a reason. And somehow I always end up standing in the middle of it.”

Fred’s brush paused. “It’s not personal,” he said, sounding faintly offended, as if I’d accused them of something crude. “We don’t even think about you that much.”

The words should have been relief.

Instead they landed like a slap.

I let out a short laugh that didn’t belong to me. “How comforting.”

George’s brush stopped. I felt it more than heard it, the sudden stillness.

“That’s not—” he began, and then he inhaled, as if rearranging his thoughts. “We didn’t mean— I didn’t mean—”

I scrubbed harder, as if friction could erase the past. The rag dragged over a spot of something that looked like old potion spill, and the smell rose sharp and unpleasant. My eyes stung—not from tears, I told myself immediately, furiously, but from fumes. From the damp. From everything.

I kept my gaze on the tabletop.

“You don’t have to explain,” I said. “Honestly. I’ve had five years of explanations. They all sound the same.”

There was a beat of silence. Fred, apparently, couldn’t stand it.

“Well,” he said briskly, “if we’re taking a stroll down memory lane, I’d like to remind everyone that you did hex my eyebrows off in second year.”

“That was self-defence,” I said.

Fred laughed again, delighted. “See? Fire. Passion. You’d be terrifying if you weren’t so—”

“Fred,” George said quietly.

It wasn’t a reprimand exactly, but it was enough. Fred’s grin faltered just a fraction, which on Fred Weasley was practically a moment of solemnity.

I kept scrubbing. The rhythm of it became a sort of anchor. Back and forth. Back and forth. The sound of cloth against wood, the faint rasp of brush, the drip-drip-drip somewhere in the shadows.

After a while, George moved. His footsteps came closer—not all the way, not brazen like Fred would have been, but enough that I felt him without turning. The air seemed to shift around him, warmer where he stood, as if he carried some of the common room fire down here with him.

“I can do that bit,” he said, voice low.

I didn’t look up. “I can do it.”

“I know.” He hesitated, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair, the way he did when he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I just— you’ve been scrubbing the same spot for ages.”

I realised then that my hand had cramped. That my knuckles were pale. That the tabletop under my rag was already clean enough to reflect torchlight.

I forced my fingers to relax, one by one, like prising them off a wand after too long.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“It does,” George replied, and there was something in his voice that made my stomach do a strange, stupid dip, as if I’d missed a step on a staircase.

I hated my own body in moments like that. Hated that a soft tone could undo me, hated that I could stand in a dungeon classroom telling myself I had every right to keep him at arm’s length, and still the sound of him trying—trying—could make something ache in me that I couldn’t name without wanting to throw myself into the Black Lake.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye.

He was holding a rag in his hand like he didn’t quite know what to do with it, shoulders angled toward me, expression carefully blank in the way boys get when they’re pretending nothing matters. But his eyes weren’t blank. His eyes were too bright in the dim torchlight, fixed on me as if waiting for something—approval, permission, forgiveness, any scrap of peace.

For a second, I saw it: the softness. The gentleness he tried to hide beneath jokes and trouble. The way he could look like someone who didn’t want to hurt anyone, even if he kept doing it by accident.

Then I remembered the common room, eleven years old, laughter crashing over me.

And I swallowed the softness back down like a bitter potion.

“Please,” I said, and made my voice as even as I could manage. “Just—leave it. I don’t need you hovering.”

Something shifted in his face so quickly I almost missed it—like a shutter closing.

He nodded once. “Right,” he said lightly, and the lightness was too practised. “Hovering. Terrible habit.”

Fred, on the other side of the room, snorted. “I knew you were a hovering sort, Georgie.”

George’s mouth twisted into a grin that looked like it belonged on someone else. “Shut up.”

I turned back to my work because it was easier to scrub a table than to sit with the weight of what I’d just seen in his eyes.

The rest of detention blurred into a steady, stubborn motion—wipe, scrub, rinse, repeat—broken only by Fred’s running commentary and Snape’s occasional appearance from his office, gliding around the room like a bat checking its prey.

When Snape finally dismissed us, it was with the kind of reluctant displeasure that suggested he’d been hoping we’d never leave.

I gathered my books, fingers still smelling faintly of potion ingredients no matter how much I’d wiped them. My arms felt heavy, as if the dungeon had poured lead into my bones. I didn’t look at the twins as I walked out, because looking meant noticing, and noticing meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling.

But I could feel George’s gaze anyway, a quiet pressure between my shoulder blades, as familiar now as the castle’s draft.

The corridors outside were warmer, the air less sharp, but the dungeon cold clung to me like a memory.

By the time I climbed back into the Gryffindor common room, the fire’s crackle sounded too cheerful, the laughter too easy. Everyone was doing homework or playing Exploding Snap or arguing over Quidditch.

I dropped into an armchair near the edge of the room and opened my book, staring at the words without reading them.

Because somewhere behind my eyes, George’s expression kept replaying—the way his mouth had tried to make a joke out of something that wasn’t funny, the way his eyes had looked as if he’d been bracing for a blow.

And my own thoughts, traitorous and soft in the wrong places, whispered the same unbearable question they always did when it came to him:

What if I’ve been wrong?

I tightened my grip on my quill until my fingers ached, as if pain could pin my mind back down.

Across the room, someone laughed—bright, loud, unmistakably Weasley.

And my heart did that stupid thing it always did, like it didn’t know the difference between trouble and warmth.

~~~

It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it only felt like a Tuesday because everything about it had that grey, inevitable flavour: stone cold under your shoes, torches sputtering like they couldn’t be bothered, the air tasting faintly of damp and old secrets. I was coming from the library again—because of course I was—and I caught a glimpse of them through a crack in a tapestry I shouldn’t have been looking behind.

Fred Weasley’s red hair flashed like a warning flare in the dim corridor. Lee Jordan’s shoulders were hunched the way they got when he was trying not to laugh too loud. And George—George was there too, turned slightly away, as if he were listening harder than the others, as if the sound of their own joke had to pass some private test before he could let it live.

I didn’t mean to stop. My feet just… did. That treacherous pause, the way your body betrays you into curiosity even when your mind is shouting do not, do not, do not. I told myself it was tactical. If you know where the trap is, you can avoid stepping in it. If you know what they’re planning, you can keep your name out of it.

You’d think I’d have learned by now that their plans didn’t require my participation to include me.

“—that’s the best part,” Fred was saying, voice low with glee, the words fizzing like fireworks right before they go off. “He’ll have to. He can’t not. He’s Percy.”

Lee snorted, muffling it with his sleeve. “What if he doesn’t drink it?”

George’s shoulders rose and fell—one slow breath, the kind you take when you’re trying not to laugh at your own idea too early. “He will,” he said. “You leave something labelled Prefect’s Private Reserve on his desk and he’ll drink it out of spite.”

Fred leaned in, conspiratorial. “And he’ll march into breakfast and start telling McGonagall what he really thinks about her tartan.”

They were bent over something small, glassy. A bottle, I realised, the sort Madam Rosmerta served butterbeer in, but this one was cloudy and pale, like watered milk, with a sheen on the surface that made my teeth itch just looking at it. Potion, then. Not the usual bubblegum-smelling nonsense they used for their joke sweets—this looked older, sharper. Real.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I listened long enough to catch the word Lee said next, quieter, like it mattered.

“Where’d you even get this?”

Fred’s grin widened in the dark. “Borrowed it.”

“Stole it,” Lee corrected helpfully.

George’s mouth twisted. “Liberated.”

“From who?” Lee pressed.

“From a very badly supervised cupboard,” Fred said. “And before you ask, yes, George tested it.”

Lee’s gaze snapped to George. “You what?”

George lifted his hands, palms out, as if surrendering to a crime he didn’t particularly regret. “Not on me,” he said. “On a gnome.”

Lee stared. “You brought a gnome into the castle.”

Fred shrugged, utterly shameless. “It didn’t complain.”

“That’s because it can’t speak,” Lee said but leaned closer, suddenly wary. “How long does it last?”

George looked down again. “Depends how much,” he said. “And how concentrated it is. This one’s strong.”

Fred made a pleased sound. “As it should be.”

I should have left then. I told myself I would. I even shifted my weight, the tapestry’s edge rough against my shoulder as I began to step back.

And then Fred held the bottle up to the torchlight like a jewel.

Footstep sounded down the corridor. Not one of theirs. They all froze.

The tapestry shifted as Fred shoved it—too quickly, too carelessly—trying to make it lie flat again. My shoulder caught on it; the fabric tugged; I swore under my breath, already too late.

The bottle, in Fred’s hand, jerked.

It slipped.

My head snapped to the side as I heard someone laughing down the corridor—high, cracked, echoing off the stone like it had teeth. Peeves. I closed my eyes for half a second, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, as if that might keep him from noticing me. It never worked. It never had. The castle liked its little cruelties too much to spare anyone.

I straightened anyway, smoothed my robes with hands that didn’t need smoothing, and muttered something under my breath that sounded like encouragement if you didn’t listen too closely. Just keep walking. Don’t react. Pretend you don’t exist.

Naturally, that was when he swooped into view.

He burst out from behind a suit of armour with all the subtlety of a firework, cap bells jingling, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only comes from ruining someone else’s day. He hovered upside down in front of me, his face inches from mine, breath cold and sour like old dust.

“Well, well, well,” Peeves crooned, spinning lazily in the air. “If it isn’t the detention darling herself. Skulking and skulking and skulking—what’s the matter, hm? Lost your little Weasley shadows?”

I kept my face carefully blank, eyes fixed on the stone just past his shoulder. Engaging Peeves was like feeding a stray dragon: once you started, it never stopped.

“Tut, tut,” he went on, clicking his tongue. “No hello? No smile? That won’t do at all. Peeves doesn’t like being ignored.” He swooped closer, bells chiming right by my ear. “Maybe I should sing! Or shout! Or tell Professor Snivelly that someone’s loitering where they shouldn’t—”

“I’m going to lunch,” I said, evenly, though my fingers had curled into my sleeves, nails digging into fabric. “Same as everyone else.”

Peeves cackled. “Lunch! Boring, boring, boring! You humans are always scurrying somewhere important.” He leaned back in the air, peering at me with exaggerated scrutiny. “You look wound tight as a clockwork toy. Someone steal your laugh?”

I didn’t answer. I took one careful step forward, as if he might be solid enough to bump into, as if I could push through him by sheer will.

For a moment, it looked like he might block me just out of spite.

Then, mercurial as ever, his attention flicked elsewhere—down the corridor, toward the faint murmur of voices and a flash of blonde hair half-hidden by a tapestry. His grin widened, delighted.

“Oho,” Peeves sing-songed. “Secrets and scheming and sneaky little plots. Smells like trouble. Smells like fun.” He winked at me, exaggerated and gleeful. “Don’t worry, darling. I won’t tell. Not yet.”

Before I could stop him—or thank whatever small mercy had intervened—he shot off down the corridor in a whirl of laughter and bells, his voice fading as he turned a corner and vanished into the castle’s endless mischief.

The silence he left behind felt almost startling.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding and leaned back against the cold stone for just a second, letting the chill steady me. Then I pushed off the wall and moved again, softer now, footsteps careful, attention pulled back to the reason I’d stopped in the first place.

Fred’s face was blank.

Lee’s eyes round.

George was froze with his fingers against his lips, and for a second he looked exactly like he did in those rare, unguarded moments—like the joke had stopped being funny and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do without it.

Confused I tried to see what the hell the boys had in their hands but stopped short as the approaching footsteps grew louder.

Fred hissed, suddenly alive again. “George—don’t—”

George swallowed.

His throat bobbed once.

Then he slowly lowered his hand and stared at the bottle like it had bitten him.

“Right,” he said, voice too calm. “That’s… that’s not ideal.”

Lee’s mouth opened and closed. “How much did you—?”

George’s eyes darted, quick, panicked, as if searching the corridor for an answer that wasn’t there. “Not much,” he said immediately. The words came out before his mind could stop them. “Enough.”

Fred grabbed the bottle, jammed the cork back in with more force than necessary. “We can fix it,” he said rapidly, the way he talked when something had gone wrong and he wanted to outrun it. “We can— we can water it down— get you something—”

Lee leaned in, voice dropping. “Is there an antidote?”

George blinked. “No,” he said at once, and the bleak certainty in the word made Fred’s hand tighten around the bottle. George looked like he hadn’t meant to say it so quickly, like his own mouth had betrayed him. He swallowed again. “Not… not a proper one.”

The footsteps turned the corner.

Percy appeared, of course he did—Prefect badge gleaming, hair perfectly combed, a stack of papers under his arm like they were an extension of his personality.

He saw them.

He saw the bottle.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

Fred opened his mouth, ready to lie with the ease of breathing.

George beat him to it.

“We were going to spike your tea,” George said, clear as daylight.

The corridor went silent so abruptly it felt like someone had jammed cotton in my ears.

Percy stared. Lee made a choking sound. Fred’s head snapped toward George so fast it was almost violent, as if he were trying to physically drag the words back into his brother’s mouth.

George’s eyes widened in horror at what he’d just said, like he was watching himself from outside his body. He clapped a hand over his mouth, too late.

Percy’s face drained of colour.

“You were going to—” Percy sputtered, voice rising. “You were going to poison me?”

“It’s not poison,” George said immediately, hand still half-covering his mouth, the words slipping out around his fingers like water through a crack. “It’s a potion. And you’re insufferable.”

Fred made a strangled noise that might have been laughter if it weren’t so close to panic. “George,” he warned, sharp.

Lee leaned close to George’s ear. “Stop talking,” he whispered desperately. “Stop—”

George stared straight ahead, as if focusing hard might keep his mouth shut. It didn’t help.

“And you’re always telling Mum on us,” George added, helplessly honest. “And you’d deserve it.”

Percy’s face went purple. “I will be reporting this to Professor McGonagall!”

“You do that,” George said, and then, with a sudden flinch, as if realising what he was about to do, he clamped his lips together so hard his jaw trembled.

Fred grabbed George by the elbow and steered him away, fast, hauling Lee with them.

I stepped back from the tapestry, heart hammering, the corridor suddenly too full of air. What the hell was that all about? Must’ve been some stupid prank I didn’t get, but still I watched as they vanished around the corner in a rush of robes and panic, Percy’s outraged voice echoing after them like a siren.

I stood there for a beat longer than I should have, staring at the place George had been, the way his eyes had looked. Surely a prank. I shook myself, forced my feet to move, and told myself—very firmly—that whatever trouble the Weasley twins had brewed this time, it was not my business.

It didn’t matter what I told myself.

It never did.

By the next day, George was still acting strangely. It started small, the way all catastrophes do. Little slips that made people blink.

George answering Professor Flitwick’s question without the usual joking deflection, bluntly, correctly, then looking faintly horrified at how pleased Flitwick looked. George telling Seamus Finnigan that his hair looked like a startled puffskein and then clapping a hand over his own mouth like he’d been slapped.

At lunch, Angelina Johnson leaned over from the opposite side of the table—Quidditch captain’s posture, eyes sharp and amused. “George,” she said, as if tasting the strangeness, “are you feeling all right?”

George stared at his plate like it might answer for him. He opened his mouth.

Fred kicked him under the table.

George flinched. “Ow,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, voice tight, “I’m fine. I’m just… cursed.”

Angelina’s eyebrows lifted. “Cursed?”

Fred laughed too loud, too fast. “He means tired, Angie,” he said breezily. “Exhausted. Poor lad. Quidditch training’s ruined him.”

George’s gaze flicked up—quick, sharp—and his eyes met mine across the table for half a second.

It was like being noticed by sunlight you didn’t ask for.

I looked away immediately, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

Because for three days—three long, strange days—George Weasley stopped being background noise.

He stopped being that constant, maddening presence in the corridors who always had a quip on his tongue and a prank in his pocket. He became instead a boy moving very carefully through the castle, shoulders drawn in, eyes scanning like he was looking for landmines.

And whenever I appeared—whenever I turned a corner or walked into the Great Hall or stepped into the dungeon for detention—he went very still, as if my existence tightened something around his ribs.

Fred and Lee stayed close to him like bodyguards.

Fred Weasley, who normally couldn’t go ten seconds without making some dramatic commentary about the universe, developed a kind of forced sobriety that made him look like a poorly disguised imposter. He kept his mouth shut so hard you could see the strain in his cheeks, and every so often he’d glance at George with a look that was half amusement, half this is going to ruin us.

Lee Jordan—who usually fed their chaos like oxygen—hovered with the air of someone trying to hold a lid on a boiling cauldron.

And me?

I did what I always did when something didn’t make sense: I pretended it wasn’t happening.

I told myself I enjoyed the quiet. I told myself it was a relief not to have my name dragged into their jokes, not to have Fred’s laugh bouncing off stone like a thrown spell, not to have George’s eyes flicking to me like he couldn’t help it.

But the castle doesn’t like quiet. It fills it with echo. It makes your own thoughts louder.

So every evening, when I walked down to Snape’s classroom for detention, my steps seemed to sound sharper than they should have. The torches hissed. The stone sweated cold. And on the far side of the room, George Weasley scrubbed in silence with his jaw clenched, and I found myself watching him anyway—watching the way he held himself like someone bracing against a storm that lived inside his own mouth.

On the second last day, it finally snapped.

Snape set us to work with his usual black-eyed glare, then disappeared into his office as though he couldn’t bear to share air with us longer than necessary. The classroom settled into that strained hush—brushes scraping, rags squeaking, cauldrons clinking faintly when moved.

Fred, after ten minutes of wrestling with a mop that looked like it had been cursed in the Middle Ages, muttered something under his breath and left to fetch another.

The door shut behind him.

And suddenly it was just me and George, with the dungeon’s damp pressing in and the silence so thick it felt like my lungs had to push through it.

George stayed at the far table, scrubbing methodically, eyes fixed on the wood as if looking up might be fatal.

I scrubbed too, but my mind kept snagging—on the strangeness, on the unnatural quiet, on the way he was behaving like a boy trying not to make a sound in a room full of sleeping dragons.

Without Fred’s noise, it was unbearable.

I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to give him anything.

But the words rose anyway, dry as dust.

“So,” I said, not looking up, keeping my tone casual in the way you keep a wound covered with a neat bandage. “Did you lose the ability to talk, or are you saving it for someone important?”

George’s brush paused. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t answer. For a beat, only the drip-drip somewhere in the dungeon spoke.

I scrubbed harder, because my hands needed something to do.

“Right,” I muttered, more to myself than him. “Fine. Ignore me.”

George’s shoulders shifted. A breath. His fingers tightened on the brush handle, whitening at the knuckles.

Then the door opened again and Fred strode in, triumphantly holding a mop like a trophy.

Lee Jordan followed him, slipping through the doorway with the careful look of someone arriving at a crime scene.

George’s head snapped up at once.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, and his voice sounded almost too loud in the silence, like it had been stored up. “Lee—Snape’ll—”

Lee held up his hands. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’m just… checking.”

“Checking what?” George shot back.

“Whether you’ve exploded yet,” Lee murmured.

Fred’s grin twitched. “He hasn’t,” he said. “Not properly.” I turned slowly, rag hanging from my fingers, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” I said softly. “So you can talk.”

George’s gaze flicked to me, panicked, and then away again as if my face was a lit match. He opened his mouth—and whatever was inside him slipped out before he could catch it.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” George said quickly. “I was trying not to say anything stupid to you.”

The words hit the dungeon air like a dropped glass. For a heartbeat, my mind simply… stopped.

Fred made a strangled noise. Lee muttered something that sounded very much like, “Oh, for—”

My chest tightened, sharp, and my first instinct—always, always—was to defend myself. Was he really mocking me after days of pretending I don’t exist? The nerve.

“Stupid?” I repeated, voice very steady. Too steady. “Is that what you call it? Because it sounds like you’re trying to be clever.”

George’s head jerked toward me, eyes widening again, the panic returning full force. “No—” he said, and then his mouth betrayed him again. “I mean—sometimes you look at me like you want to hex me, and I can’t decide if that’s fair or—”

Lee stepped forward fast, like he was throwing himself between a curse and its target. “Right!” he said loudly, clapping his hands once. “Mop delivery. Brilliant. Fred, mate, you’ve saved the day. Come on, Weasley, we’ve got to— er— check the corridor, make sure Snape isn’t—”

“I am capable of checking a corridor,” George snapped, and then immediately went rigid because he’d said it like he meant it.

Fred’s eyes danced with the urge to laugh and the knowledge that he shouldn’t. He swallowed it with visible effort, cheeks twitching.

My fingers tightened on the rag. The sting in my chest sharpened into something that wanted somewhere to go.

“What was that supposed to mean?” I demanded. “What the bloody hell has gotten into you recently? First you ignore me than you mock me?”

George stared at the floor like it might open and take him.

Lee, apparently deciding survival required distraction, turned to me with a grin too wide to be innocent. “Fancy a bet?” he asked rapidly. “On whether Snape’s shampoo is actually bat blood?”

I blinked at him.

“What?”

Lee beamed. “Bat blood. Or maybe… eel slime. Fred thinks eel slime.”

Fred’s mouth twitched. “It’s a strong contender.”

“Why are you talking about Snape’s hair?” I said, because it was absurd and because my mind was still snagged on George’s words like a sleeve caught on a nail.

Lee leaned closer, voice dropping dramatically. “Because,” he whispered, “if you don’t stop looking like you’re about to bite George’s head off, he’s going to say something catastrophic, and then we’ll all be scrubbing these shelves until we die.”

That earned a laugh from somewhere in the room—small, involuntary, sharp enough to surprise me. It startled out of me before I could stop it, like a sneeze.

George flinched as if he’d heard it.

I hated that.

I focused on the practical instead: Lee’s presence.

“Get out,” I hissed, turning my attention on him because it was safer than turning it on George. “Lee, you’re going to get us into even more trouble. Snape will have you mounted on the wall like a trophy.”

Lee lifted his hands again, mock-innocent. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” He backed toward the door, still grinning. “Try not to be too terrifying while I’m gone, yeah?”

I glared at him until he slipped out and shut the door. The room settled again into that thick, dungeon quiet.

Fred went back to scrubbing, eyes bright with suppressed laughter, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek to keep it contained.

George moved to the far corner of the classroom as if distance could save him. He scrubbed with vicious concentration, shoulders tight, gaze fixed anywhere but me.

I scrubbed too, but the tabletop under my rag blurred. George’s words kept replaying, not in the way a joke replays, but in the way an insult does—sharp, lodged.

Why had he avoided me for days? Why had he looked like he was bracing for impact every time I entered the room? Why was Fred Weasley—who never shut up for anyone—suddenly behaving like he’d taken a vow of silence?

The thought tugged at me, infuriatingly persistent, the way a loose thread keeps catching on your fingers.

Detention ended. Snape dismissed us with the same sour satisfaction. I left the dungeon with my books pressed to my chest like a shield.

At dinner, I sat with Angelina, Katie, and Alice. Angelina’s laughter cut bright through the Great Hall noise. Katie was talking with her hands, animated, cheeks flushed from the warmth and the chatter. Alice—steady, observant—kept glancing at me like she could tell I was somewhere else.

Fred and George and Lee sat nearby, close enough that I could hear Fred’s laugh when he let it loose, close enough that I could see George’s profile if I lifted my eyes.

I didn’t lift my eyes.

I told myself that was pride.

Across the table, Angelina leaned slightly toward Lee, calling, “Oi, Jordan—tell Fred he still owes me for that Bludger incident last term.”

Lee’s grin flashed. “He says it built character.”

“It built bruises,” Angelina shot back, laughing.

“I don’t know,” I said, voice carrying just enough. “Fred’s idea of character-building usually involves property damage.”

Fred’s laugh burst out, bright and immediate—relief in it, like he’d been starving for permission to be himself again.

And George—

George, who had been keeping his eyes firmly on his plate as if it were the only safe thing in the world—reacted without thinking.

“You always do that when you’re nervous,” George said too quickly. “Get sharp. It’s… predictable.”

The words hung in the air for a fraction of a second too long.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Angelina blinked, eyebrows lifting, amusement sharpening. Katie’s eyes flicked between me and George with quick curiosity.

Fred made a noise that sounded like he’d swallowed a laugh and a groan at the same time.

Lee coughed loudly—far too loudly—and said, “George isn’t feeling well,” with the exaggerated sincerity of someone delivering a lie to a teacher. “Probably ate something dodgy.”

George’s chair scraped back sharply. He stood so fast it looked like the bench tried to keep him.

“I’m going,” he said, voice tight. “Before I ruin everything.”

Fred sprang up after him, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “That’s my brother,” he called, as if it were meant to sound normal. “Dramatic as ever!”

Lee hurried after them, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed.

The girls at my table stared after the three of them.

Angelina’s mouth curved, interested. “Well,” she said lightly. “That was… new.”

Katie leaned forward, eyes bright. “What was that about?”

Alice looked at me, quiet and unblinking, as if she could see the exact place in my chest where the words had landed.

I set my fork down carefully, because my fingers had gone strange—too tight, too cold.

Get sharp. It’s… predictable.

It sounded like a joke someone else might make. Except George hadn’t laughed. And he’d run like he’d been burned.

I pushed back from the table and stood, so abruptly my bench squealed.

Angelina’s eyes followed me. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, because I didn’t want to give the truth a name. I didn’t want to say after him. I didn’t want to say why does he keep doing this.

I gathered my things and walked out of the Great Hall with my spine straight and my steps controlled.

Because whatever game George Weasley had decided to play—whatever strange, quiet, cutting thing he’d turned into this week—I wasn’t going to sit there and let him throw words at me like stones and then run before I could throw them back.

And if he thought I wouldn’t follow the thread until I found what it was attached to—

He didn’t know me at all.

~~~

The common room was the same as it always was—firelight licking at the edges of everything, red-and-gold warmth pooling on threadbare armchairs, voices rising and falling like waves—yet something in it felt… misaligned. Like a portrait hung slightly crooked.

I was tucked into the corner with my back against the arm of a chair that had seen better decades, my book opened on my lap purely for the comfort of having something to stare at. The words didn’t go in. They sat on the page in tidy little lines, politely waiting while my mind kept wandering to places it had no business going.

Across the room, Fred and George and Lee drifted in like they owned the air. Fred’s laugh usually arrived before he did; Lee’s voice followed, loud and warm and relentless; and George—George was the quieter current underneath it.

Tonight, the current didn’t touch me.

They passed near my chair as if I were a piece of furniture. Fred’s eyes skimmed right over my head. Lee didn’t even flicker in my direction. George kept his gaze fixed somewhere above the mantle, like he’d decided that if he didn’t look at me, I didn’t exist.

It is so unnatural I felt it in my teeth.

They didn’t so much as breathe in my direction. They didn’t toss a single irritating comment over their shoulders. No little quip meant to hook into my sleeve and drag me into their orbit. Nothing.

Just… absence, placed carefully around me.

A laugh bubbled up behind my ribs, sharp and incredulous. It didn’t make it out. My throat was suddenly too tight for any sound that wasn’t meant for war.

George’s words from dinner keep replaying, vivid as if he was still standing there with candlelight on his face and disaster in his mouth.

You always do that when you’re nervous. Get sharp. It’s… predictable.

As if I were a trick he learned. As if he had been watching me long enough to map out my reactions and file them away like notes for later.

And then he’d sat there with that expression—tight, wrong—like he’d bitten down on something hot. Like he’d hated himself for saying it. And then he ran.

Now he wouldn’t even look at me.

The audacity of it settled in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Round. Unignorable.

They moved toward the stairs to the boys’ dormitories, still talking among themselves in low voices that didn’t carry the way they usually did. Fred’s shoulders were tense in a way I’d never seen on him—he kept glancing sideways at George as if waiting for a fuse to spark. Lee walked close, murmuring something, the way you might murmur to a skittish horse.

George kept his head down.

Like if he didn’t just get upstairs fast enough, he could outrun whatever it was that kept making him act like this.

My book slipped a fraction on my lap. I didn’t notice until it thudded softly against my knee.

They were already up the stairs when something in me finally moved —like a latch giving way.

I closed my book with a slow, deliberate snap.

My feet carried me up before I’d fully decided to move.

I walked through the common room with the kind of calm that only arrived when you were past the point of reason. The fire crackled. Someone laughed. A first-year darted past me. I hardly registered any of it. My hand slid to my wand.

The staircase to the boys’ dorms was technically off-limits. There was no spell to stop me—nothing like the one that turned the girls’ stairs into a slide—but rules had never been my strongest restraint when my blood started to sing.

I took the steps two at a time.

The boys’ corridor smelt like soap and old wood and Quidditch gear left to dry badly. The door to their dorm room was ajar, light spilling out in a warm stripe onto the floorboards.

I didn’t knock. I pushed it open so hard it banged against the wall.

Three heads whipped toward me.

Fred looked like he’d been caught mid-conspiracy, hair sticking up. Lee’s eyes widened, then narrowed, as his brain caught up to the problem in front of him. George was sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched, hands clenched so tightly together his knuckles look pale.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. It was, bizarrely, the quietest I’d ever heard three Gryffindor boys.

Then Fred recovered.

“Blimey,” he said, voice bright with forced normality. “If it isn’t—”

“Don’t,” I’d cut in, and the word landed like a door slamming. My wand was already in my hand, not raised—yet—but present enough to make the air feel pointed.

Lee straightened, taking a step forward, his palms were out in the universal sign for let’s not make this worse. “All right, all right,” he said, attempting charm. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake. That’s how I knew i was in too deep. “I just did.”

Fred’s grin faltered into something more careful. “This is the boys’ dorm,” he pointed out, as if the concept of boys’ dorm was a warding charm.

“Yes,” I said, gaze flicking to George for a split second—and catching nothing because his eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. Didn’t even a glance. Didn’t even a flinch. “I noticed.”

George’s jaw flexed.

Lee cleared his throat. “Look,” he began, lowering his voice, “whatever’s going on, you don’t want to be up here when someone sees you—”

“Oh, spare me,” I said, and the sarcasm came out sharp. “I’ve been blamed for half the crimes committed in this castle and I’m still walking around. I think I’ll survive being seen standing in a room.”

Fred’s eyes flickered to George again, quick and warning.

George stayed silent, staring at his hands like he could physically hold his mouth shut.

My gaze returned to Fred and Lee, and something cold and clear settled into place.

“I saw you,” I said, softly enough that they had to listen. “Earlier this week. With a bottle. A potion.”

The air changed. It was immediate—like someone pulled a thread and the whole room tightened.

Fred’s expression got just a shade too blank. Lee’s mouth opened, then closed, like he was recalculating the situation.

George’s head snapped up for the first time, eyes wide—right at Fred, right at Lee—with a kind of naked fear that made my stomach dip unpleasantly.

And then he looked at me.

Just once.

It wasn’t a warm look. It wasn’t even an angry one. It was a look like a person watching a trapp door open beneath them.

“What was it?” I asked.

No one answered .

“Was it something you brewed?” I pressed, stepping farther into the room. The wooden floor creaked under my shoes. “Something you stole? Something you were stupid enough to put in Percy’s drink and then—what—missed?”

Still nothing.

George’s lips pressed together so tightly they got white.

My grip tightened on my wand. I was aware, distantly, of how ridiculous it was—me standing in a boys’ dormitory at night with my wand out like i was about to duel someone. But my pride had teeth, and right now it was the only thing keeping my chest from splitting open with the sheer wrongness of being ignored by someone who never shut up.

“Right,” I said, and my voice got flatter, dangerous in its calm. “You’re all going to sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Fred tried for light again, because it was his instinct. “Well, when you say it like that, it makes us sound terribly suspicious—”

“Get out,” I said.

Fred blinked. Lee stopped breathing.

“What?” Lee said.

“You,” I repeated, pointing my wand at the door, then at them—enough to make it very clear I was not playing. “Out. Both of you.”

Fred’s brows lifted. “Now hold on—”

I took one step closer. The tip of my wand steady without effort.

“I’ve spent five years taking the fall for your rubbish,” I said, and I didn’t raise my voice, which somehow made it worse. “If you think I won’t hex you out of this room, you’ve severely misjudged how attached I am to your continued wellbeing.”

Lee’s eyes flicked to Fred. Fred’s eyes flicked to George.

George’s face had gone tight, his hands gripped the edge of his mattress like he was anchoring himself to the earth.

“Don’t,” George said, and the word scraped out of him like it hurt. He looked at them—pleading, raw. “Don’t leave.”

Fred’s expression shifted—something real underneath the mischief. “Mate…”

George shook his head once, sharp, like he was trying to dislodge the whole moment. “Please,” he said, and his voice cracked on it, almost imperceptibly.

Lee swore under his breath, a quick, helpless sound. “This is bad,” he muttered.

Fred looked at me, then at George, and there was a beat where he’d weighed it—the way Fred weighed things: not with caution, exactly, but with a sense of timing, of damage control, of what made the best story and what might make the worst one.

Then he sighed, long and dramatic, like a man being marched to execution.

“All right,” Fred said lightly, because he couldn’t not. “If you die, I’ll tell Mum you died handsome.”

“Out,” I said again, unwavering.

Lee stepped toward the door first, shoulders tight. Fred followed, pausing just long enough to clap George once on the shoulder—harder than necessary, the way boys do when they don’t know how to be gentle without making it obvious.

“Better now than later,” Fred murmured, voice low. “Yeah?”

George’s eyes flashed. He shook his head again, fierce. “No.”

Fred didn’t argue. He just let out a small breath through his nose, as if laughter was trapped there and he was forcing it back, and then he was gone.

Lee slipped out behind him. At the threshold, he glanced back at me with a look that said good luck and you’ve doomed us all in the same expression. Then the door clicked shut.

The room felt too quiet without them. Like you could hear the castle breathing.

I turned back to George.

He was still on his bed, shoulders rigid, hands folded together so tightly it looked painful. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were down again.

As if looking at me was the most dangerous thing in the world.

I folded my arms across my chest, wand still in my hand, and leant back against the door.

“Well?” I said.

George didn’t move.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t the comfortable kind. It was the kind that filled your ears until you couldn’t tell if you were hearing your own heartbeat or the room’s.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked, and the words came out sharper now, because the quiet was scraping the inside of me raw. “You spend all week acting like you’ve been possessed. You say—” my throat tightened around the memory and I pushed through it anyway, “you say things at dinner like you’ve been watching me through a telescope, and then you can’t even be bothered to look at me afterwards.”

George’s fingers twitched. His eyes flicked up for a split second—toward my wand, not my face—and then away again.

That did something to me that I hated. I pushed off the door and took a step closer.

“Talk,” I said. “Or I swear—”

George’s head snapped up at last. His eyes locked onto mine, wide and bright and wrong, like there was too much inside him and nowhere for it to go.

“Put your wand down,” he said quickly.

“Give me a reason.”

His mouth opened.

And then whatever it was that seemed to be torturing him this whole week jerked him by the throat and dragged itself out.

“I always thought it was—” he started, and then his eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to stop the sentence with sheer will. He failed. “I always thought it was—” he swallowed hard, “hot when you get like this.”

I didn’t move.

I didn’t breathe.

It hit me the way a Bludger hit—sudden, solid, stupidly physical. My body reacted before my brain could arrange meaning. I flinched back half a step as if the air between us has snapped.

“What?” I said, and it came out small, because I didn’t have anything else ready.

George made a sound that was half groan, half curse. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild. My heart was doing something frantic and humiliating in my chest, like it was trying to climb out.

“What did you just say?” I demanded, and the words shook at the edges no matter how hard I tried to iron them flat. “Are you—are you mocking me?”

George shook his head violently, hand still over his mouth. It was almost comical, how desperate he looked, like a boy trying to wrestle his own face into silence.

I stared at him, heat rising in my cheeks for reasons I refused to examine.

“This is—” I said, and my voice wanted to splinter. I forced it steadier. “This is a new one, I’ll give you that. Insult me and then pretend you can’t speak. Very creative.”

George dragged his hand down his face, as if wiping away the disaster. His eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like panic.

“I’m not—” he started.

He clamped his mouth shut again, but it was useless. The words kept pressing at his teeth like they were alive.

I lifted my wand a fraction. Not to hex him—no matter what my pride was pretending, I wasn’t actually going to hex him—but to kept myself feeling like I had control of the room.

George’s gaze dropped to the wand and he lifted both hands, palms out, surrendering.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay—don’t—just—put it down, yeah? Please.”

There it was again.

Please.

It landed strangely. Not like Fred’s theatrical pleas, all grin and performance. George’s plea had weight to it, like it cost him something to say.

I lowered my wand—only a little—because I wasn’t a fool.

George exhaled, and then the truth, relentless as gravity, finally won.

“I can’t—” he said, and the admission came out in a rush, raw with humiliation. “I can’t stop it. I’ve been trying all week and I can’t. I didn’t want—” his voice caught, and he swallowed it down harshly, “I didn’t want you to hear me say stupid things.”

My throat went tight again. “Stupid things,” I echoed confused.

George’s laugh came out sharp and miserable. “Yes,” he said. “Because every time I open my mouth around you it’s like—” he jerked his head, frustrated, “it’s like the truth has been sitting there waiting and now it thinks it’s got permission.”

I stared at him.

He looked back at me for the first time without dodging—really looked—eyes bright with something like dread.

I couldn’t tell if he looked terrified of me or of himself.

“You’re on something,” I said, and it wasn’t a question anymore. Pieces clicked in my head, one by one: the strange bluntness in the corridor, the slips at dinner, the way Fred had been strangling his own laughter, the way George had been moving through the castle like he was afraid of speaking within earshot of anyone.

George’s shoulders sagged as if the fight had finally left him. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“What?”

He flinched, as though the word itself hurt. Then, because he had to: “Truth potion.”

I blinked. The room swam faintly at the edges, not because of magic but because my brain was trying to hold too many things at once.

“You—” I started, and stopped. I tried again. “You drank a truth potion.”

George closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you’ve been avoiding me because—”

His eyes opened.

And then it all split out in one catastrophic, unstoppable flood, like he tried to dam a river with his hands and now the water had found every crack.

“Because I like you,” George said, words tumbling too fast, too honest, too vivid. “Because I’ve liked you for ages, and it’s pathetic, and I don’t know how to stop it, and I keep telling myself you hate me and you probably do because I’ve given you every reason to, and every time you glare at me it feels like—like you’re about to hex me and I deserve it, but—” he dragged in a breath, eyes fixed on my face like he couldn’t help it now, “but it’s also—Merlin, it’s also the only time you look at me properly.”

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

My hands had gone cold around my wand. George’s voice kept coming, helpless against the potion’s pull.

“I notice everything,” he said, and the words should sounded arrogant, but they didn’t—they sounded like confession, like a boy caught with something stolen in his pocket. “The way you set your jaw when you’re pretending you’re fine. The way you get sharper when you’re… when you’re not sure what to do. The way you act like you don’t care and then you care so much it leaks out anyway, and you hate that about yourself—” he broke off with a strangled laugh, like he knew he was stepping into dangerous territory, “and I shouldn’t know any of it, because you don’t give it to anyone on purpose, but I’ve been… watching. I can’t not. It’s like my eyes do it without asking me.”

My pulse was loud in my ears. My face felt too hot. My feet were rooted in place as if the floorboards had taken sides.

He swallowed, voice going lower, rougher.

“And you’re—” he shook his head, like the word was too big, “you’re… beautiful when you’re furious.”

I inhaled sharply, and it was the first real breath I’d managed since he started.

“No,” I said, because my brain was scrabbling for a rung to hold onto and that was the only one it found. “No. This—this is—”

He flinched immediately, like the refusal was a physical strike.

“I’m not joking,” George said, voice suddenly fierce, and it was so unlike the George I knew—so stripped bare—that it jolted something in me. “I would never— I would never joke about you. Not like that. Not—” his voice cracked, and the crack was worse than any loudness, “not about this.”

I stared at him, searching his face for the familiar shape of a prank—waiting for the grin, the wink, the bright cruelty of got you.

There was none.

Just George, sitting on the edge of his bed like he was waiting to be punished, hands clenched, eyes too bright.

And the worst part was: the more he spoke, the more my stomach twisted—not with humiliation, not with rage, but with something treacherously soft that made my chest hurt.

My wand dipped, forgotten.

“You’re expecting me to believe,” I said, and my voice was thin now despite myself, “that this is real.”

George let out a breath that sounded like laughter turned into pain. “I don’t have a choice,” he said. “I can’t lie.”

I shook my head. “Prove it.”

His eyes flickered up, startled. “What?”

“If you can’t lie,” I said, and the words scraped out of me like a dare I didn’t mean to make, “prove it. George’s mouth opened, and then he shut it, as if he could feel himself being dragged forward again.

“I—” he started, then winced. “I don’t know how to—”

I stepped closer, and the space between us felt suddenly too small, too charged. His gaze flickered to my face, then to my wand, then back again, like he couldn’t decide what scared him more.

“You’ve avoided me,” I said, quieter now, and the quiet was more dangerous. “All week. You looked right through me in the common room. You wouldn’t even look at me.”

George’s throat bobbed. “Because if I looked at you,” he said, and the truth came out as if it had been trapped behind his teeth for years, “I’d say things I can’t afford to say.”

My breath caught. I hated that it did. I hated the way my body betrayed me with small, involuntary tells.

George’s eyes flickered as if he noticed.

I lifted my chin—stubborn, defensive, Gryffindor to the bone.

“Fine,” I said, voice tight. “Prove. It,”

George stared at me for a long, unbearable moment. The room was so still I could hear the distant crackle of the common room fire below, muffled through floors and years.

Then he spoke again, because he couldn’t help it.

He said my name—just my name—like it tasted different in his mouth than it did in anyone else’s.

And that, somehow, was the most terrifying thing yet.

He pushed himself up from the bed slowly, like his body was arguing with his mind and winning. The mattress creaked behind him, a soft sound, and suddenly he was standing—really standing—close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

My gaze caught on his chest first, the way his jumper hung slightly loose on him, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms dusted faintly with freckles and scars that looked earned. I registered the height of him without meaning to—the way he blocked the lamplight, the way his shadow folded over me like it belonged there. I was aware, absurdly, of how warm he smelt—soap and smoke and something sharp underneath, like adrenaline.

George noticed.

Of course he did.

His breath stuttered—just enough to tell me he lost whatever fragile control he thought he had left.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

I looked up. His eyes were dark, fixed on my face like he was memorising it against his will.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he added, and the words came out strained, like they’d been dragged through his teeth. “If you don’t stop, I’ll—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

I lifted my chin a fraction. It wasn’t defiance exactly. It was instinct. It was the same thing that always made me step closer instead of back.

“You’ll what George?”

The silence that followed wasnt empty. It was crowded—packed tight with things neither of us had said out loud before now.

George’s laugh was breathless and disbelieving, like the sound had surprised him on the way out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

“Show me how,”

That’s all it took.

He leaned down and kissed me like he’d been waiting years and suddenly there was no one left to stop him.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t polite.

It was the kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and left you dizzy in its place—his mouth warm and sure against mine, like he already knew exactly how this was meant to feel. My hands moved without consulting me, fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders, pulling him closer because distance had become unbearable.

His hands found my waist as if they’d always known where it was, steady and grounding and impossibly gentle for how much force there was behind the way he pressed me back against the door. I made a sound—small, involuntary—and he stilled for half a heartbeat, like he was listening for it again.

Then he kissed me deeper, slower now, as if he learned something and intended to keep it.

My head tilted without thinking, chasing the angle, and the world narrowed to heat and pressure and the way his thumb pressed into my side like he was anchoring himself. I was lightheaded—too aware of my own pulse, of the way my body seemed to lean into him like it’d been waiting for permission.

He made a sound—low, startled, almost a laugh—and then his hands shifted with sudden certainty. One moment I was standing there with the door cold at my back, and the next the floor dropped away.

I gasped as he lifted me, the movement smooth and instinctive, as if he’d done this in some other life and his body remembered even if his head didn’t. My fingers clutched at his shoulders, fabric wrinkling under my grip, and he carried me the short distance to his bed like he was afraid of setting me down too gently.

The mattress dipped beneath me. The lamplight swung. He followed, bracing himself over me, close enough that the air felt crowded, his weight a steady presence I didn’t want to escape.

My hips shifted up without thinking—seeking, answering—and the sound he made in response was rough and unguarded, torn from him like a confession. His hand tightened at my waist, fingers biting in just enough that it made my breath stutter, the other slid up to cradle my neck with a care that didnt match the hunger in his mouth.

“Merlin,” he muttered, and it wasn’t a joke.

His lips left mine and trailed along my jaw, unhurried now, as if he was mapping something he intended to keep. The sensation pulled a sound from me before I could stop it—soft, traitorous—and he caught it instantly, kissing me again to quiet it, a smile pressed into the corner of my mouth like he was pleased he found it.

He swore under his breath, the word lost to fabric and skin, and dipped to my neck. The warmth there was unbearable, dizzying; I tipped my head back without meaning to, fingers tightening in his hair as the world blurred at the edges. For a heartbeat, everything else—rules, pride, years of irritation held like armour—fell away, leaving only this: the way he held me like I were something precious and dangerous at the same time.

The door banged open.

“Right,” Fred’s voice announced, breathless and dramatic. “I had a bad feeling and—”

George froze.

I froze.

Fred took in the scene in one sweeping glance—and then he bursted out laughing, loud and delighted, like he’d just won a bet no one else knew he placed.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” he wheezed. “Absolutely brilliant. I go to rescue my brother and instead I—”

“Wow, mate,” George said dryly, not lifting his head, voice rough with laughter he was trying not to let loose. “Impeccable timing.”

Fred wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “Never would’ve guessed,” he added, ignoring what George just said as he glanced between us. “Honestly thought she’d hex you before she ever kissed you.”

George finally looked up, one hand still steady at my waist, eyes bright and unapologetic. “Out,” he says.

Fred snorted. “Touchy.”

“Fred.”

“All right, all right.” He backed toward the door, laughter trailing behind him like sparks. “Carry on, then. I’ll just—” he paused, smirked, “—pretend I saw none of that.”

The door shut.

The quiet that followed was different—softer, warmer, humming with something that hadn’t settled yet.

George looked back at me, thumb brushing my jaw like he was checking if I were real.

Still close. Still here.

And for once, neither of us was in a hurry to move.

[rezijellyfish]

👀

[rezijellyfish]

Dadjo

[dostoevskya]

📺. — DO YOU ME STILL LOVE?

MASTERPOST | MULTICHAPTER FIC status: 3/5 — ongoing ! updates every week ⤷ the next chapter (04) will be out on JULY 20, 2026

꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader synopsis: it’s been ten months since that night in june, four since you’ve last heard about him in december. now, it’s april—april 1st, and you find yourself hammered at a bar party thrown for a friend’s birthday, utterly intoxicated out of your mind and inhibitions. as the night swells and draws longer by the hour, it grows considerably harder to keep convincing yourself that you don’t miss him. but a slip of the hand is a slip of the heart; and a drunk text sent might just give those walls you’ve spent nearly a year building a reason to come crashing right down again. -> second person pov; angst; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut

౨ৎ . MASTERLIST chapter 01 — ain't missing you tonight chapter 02 — but i wonder if i ever cross your mind chapter 03 — we don't talk anymore chapter 04 — can't decide if it's a choice (asking you to stay) chapter 05 — like i'm someone you've never met

TAGLIST: @whoatemycheezeits, @1ix1n, @timesskip, @tuquoque, @writerisahazbin, @tontawinnie, @plushance, @6esiree, @safination, @so-x1, @m4r3tu-f4nn, @mysoulforkyo, @apateissotuff, @0det4ri-f4n

stay tuned! — tags are open ♡

© dostoevskya 2026. all rights reserved. please do not copy, edit, or repost any of my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[thesoftquietdreamerdiary]

Can we please talk about how Evangeline was always so upset about Jacks leaving her? She’d get hurt, angry, confused every time he walked away. And there were so many moments. So many times where he disappeared or pushed her away and we, just like her, were left wondering why. And then we understand that the reason he keeps leaving isn’t because he doesn’t care. It’s because he does. Too much. He’s trying to put distance between them because he knows—he knows—that if he lets himself get close, if he lets that wall crumble for even a second, there’s no going back. He’s already falling. AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE HOLLOW.The mirth stone removes fear. Fear. And what happens? The day he spends with Evangeline becomes the best day of his entire life. He was happy. Actually, truly happy. And the next morning? He’s shy around her. Sweet. Like a boy completely undone by how good love can feel when it doesn’t hurt. (We don’t talk about what happens after. My heart can't handle it.) And in the end of ACFTL, Jacks himself says to Evangeline that he's never going to let her out of his sight. Cause now there’s nothing left to be scared of.Because the fear is gone. The fear of hurting or killing her is gone. Because she broke his curse,and now he can love her the way he always wanted to.

[ouabhs]

jacks never had a bad track. “Glad to know you’re thinking about me when you kiss your husband.” BANGER. “But for tonight, let me pretend you’re mine.” ICONIC. “I’d probably kill another man if I found him with you like this” LIFE CHANGING. “There is nothing of equal value to me”. UNMATCHED.

[arsombre]

I scroll thru tumblr more than socialize with my classmates I’m so cooked

[romanticandhornyy]

computah show me men stroking themselves or fucking a fleshlight with lots of wet sounds and moaning

[plushance]

ʙᴜʟʟꜱᴇʏᴇ

human!jax x reader, human!au (everyone works in a real circus), reader is gender-neutral, fluff with suggestive ending, no beta we die like caine

word count: 3175

synopsis: the audience loves the flirting. caine loves the ticket sales. jax loves being an unbearable menace to society.

you, unfortunately, might love him too.

The first time Jax threw a knife at you, it missed your head by less than half an inch.

The audience went absolutely insane.

You did too, actually, though your screams had significantly more profanity in them.

“What is actually wrong with you?” you hissed through a strained smile, your microphone picking up every word.

Across the ring, Jax looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Relax, sweetheart,” he drawled, twirling another knife lazily between his fingers. Completely unfazed. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste a good opening act on it.”

The crowd burst into laughter.

And somewhere high above the ring, Caine realized he’d struck gold.

That had been eight months ago. Which, apparently, was all it took.

One near-death experience and a couple improvised insults later, the audience had apparently decided that the knife thrower and the circus darling had weirdly good chemistry together. Suddenly, the act everybody expected to fail became the most popular performance in the entire show.

Honestly, you blamed Caine.

The man saw audience reactions the way starving people saw food. The second the crowd started eating up the banter, the ringmaster had practically lost his mind. Ticket sales exploded almost immediately after. People started showing up specifically for performances with Jax, which was especially irritating considering you’d already been doing perfectly fine before all this.

You had your own act. Your own audience. You’d spent years building a reputation at the circus completely separate from him. Back before this “disaster duo” nonsense, your name regularly floated near the top of audience popularity rankings alongside Pomni and Kinger.

Then Jax happened.

Or more specifically, Jax’s previous partners kept quitting.

Apparently, getting knives thrown at your face by a man who treated workplace safety like a personal insult created a pretty brutal turnover rate. The last assistant had lasted exactly nine days before threatening to unionize against him personally.

Caine had cornered you after rehearsal one night with the desperate expression of a man moments away from financial collapse. You would come to remember this moment as a personal betrayal.

“PLEASE,” your ringmaster had begged dramatically. “Just until we find someone permanent!”

Unfortunately, nobody else wanted the job.

Unfortunately for you, you and Jax worked disgustingly well together.

Now, months later, he sat comfortably at number one in the circus popularity rankings while you’d dropped to third, right beneath Pomni.

Jax had been absolutely unbearable about it.

“Damn,” he’d sighed after seeing the newest poll results taped outside the dressing rooms. “Third place? That’s rough, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms. “You realize people only like you because I make you tolerable, right?”

To your immense satisfaction, he actually froze for a second.

His grin faltered slightly before recovering. “Whoa, alright. Somebody’s gettin’ jealous.” He pointed at you accusingly. “Not my fault the public loves me. I’m very marketable.”

“You throw knives at me professionally.”

“Yeah, professionally. There’s a difference.”

The worst part was that Jax wasn’t even trying to flirt half the time. He just existed like that naturally, all lazy smirks and smug little comments tossed over his shoulder like he couldn’t help himself. It got under people’s skin almost instantly. Yours included.

Especially yours.

“Careful, doll,” he’d murmur while adjusting your positioning before a trick. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and people’re gonna start talkin’.”

And because you were unfortunately capable of speaking back to him:

“Trust me, nobody’s fantasizing about the guy who nearly got banned from rehearsal for ‘creative knife usage.’”

That one had actually made him choke on his drink.

What was truly infuriating about Jax was that he could dish out teases endlessly without shame, but the second you turned it back on him, he completely short-circuited. Not obviously…that would require emotional maturity. Instead, he got defensive and vaguely rude in a way that only made it funnier.

Once, after nearly an hour of him relentlessly flirting with you backstage, you’d reached up to fix the collar of his costume jacket and casually remarked,

“You clean up nice.”

Jax had stared at you for a solid three seconds like you’d just shot him.

Then, he pulled away so fast it was almost embarrassing.

“…Wow. Okay. Don’t do that again.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Ugh. Don’t do that weird sincere thing.” He grabbed another knife off the table entirely too fast. “It’s freakin’ me out.”

Another time, after he spent an entire rehearsal calling you dollface every five seconds, you finally sighed and said,

“You know, for somebody this cocky, you get flustered pretty easily.”

He nearly dropped a knife directly onto his foot.

You’d never recovered emotionally from it.

The audience, meanwhile, became obsessed.

It had started with clips online: little backstage moments caught on camera, audience recordings of your banter during performances. Then came the edits, compilations, and entire comment sections debating whether the flirting was scripted or if the two of you were genuinely together.

Caine encouraged all of it shamelessly.

“THE TENSION!” he’d shouted excitedly after one particularly chaotic performance. “The chemistry! The yearning! The ticket sales!”

You’d nearly walked directly into traffic.

Now, months later, the two of you were basically inseparable in the audience’s eyes. If Jax showed up somewhere backstage, people immediately expected you nearby. Fan compilations online had titles like five straight minutes of jax looking at his partner like he’s insane and sexual tension or workplace hostility? scientists still unsure.

Jax, naturally, thought this was the funniest thing in the world.

“You know,” he’d said one afternoon while scrolling through clips of your performances on his phone, “I think this one’s my favorite.”

You glanced over from your spot stretched across one of the rehearsal mats. The video playing was from the previous week’s finale, zoomed in dramatically on the exact moment you’d rolled your eyes at him after he pinned a knife between your fingers.

The comments beneath it were significantly worse:

THEY ARE ABSOLUTELY DATING the tension is making me physically ill this is either foreplay or attempted murder

You groaned immediately. “Give me that.”

Jax held the phone out of reach before you could grab it, grinning lazily. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be shy. The public’s invested in our beautiful relationship.”

“We are not in a relationship.”

“Mm.” He tilted the phone toward himself again. “You say that, but this person thinks we’ve secretly been together for six months.”

“That person is delusional.”

“Yeah, but they made a pretty convincing slideshow.”

You threw a roll of athletic tape at his head.

Unfortunately, he caught it without even looking.

Tonight’s show was completely sold out. Again.

You could hear the crowd before you even reached the curtain, the noise vibrating through the canvas walls while performers rushed around backstage in various stages of panic. Kaufmo sprinted past you, carrying juggling pins. Ragatha was trying to calm Pomni down over a costume mishap. Zooble was sprinting past you, loudly threatening violence over missing props.

Normal circus chaos.

Jax, meanwhile, sat sprawled across one of the equipment crates, effortlessly spinning a knife between his fingers while stage makeup glittered faintly beneath the dressing room lights.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I literally am not.”

“Sure.” He caught the knife cleanly. “That sounded believable.”

You adjusted one of the straps on your costume in the nearby mirror. Compared to the elaborate outfits you wore for your solo performances, the knife-act costumes were simpler, with easier movement. Less fabric for Jax to accidentally pin to a wall…again.

Though, to be fair, he had apologized for that one. Sort of.

“You know,” he mused casually, clipping his microphone pack onto the back of his belt, “if you die tonight, I’m gonna get sooo much bad press.”

“That’s your concern?”

“Well, yeah. Do you know how annoying paperwork is?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Jax looked up immediately.

That expression flickered across his face, the one you’d started noticing recently whenever you laughed around him. Softer somehow, less guarded.

It vanished beneath another grin.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re lookin’ at me like you wanna kiss me.”

“Maybe I just enjoy bad decisions.”

The second the words left your mouth, Jax visibly froze.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Then he looked away too fast, jaw tightening.

“…wow,” he muttered. “You really just say stuff now, huh?”

The victory you felt was immediate and immense.

Before you could enjoy it further, a stagehand shoved aside the curtain. “You two are up!”

The crowd erupted the moment you stepped into the spotlight.

Jax came alive instantly beneath stage lights. Every lazy grin sharpened into something magnetic as applause thundered around the tent. He moved like he belonged under attention.

Honestly, he probably did.

“Evenin’, folks,” he called into the microphone curled against his cheek. “Who’s ready to watch me make terrible life choices professionally?”

The crowd cheered.

Beside him, you sighed into your own mic. “That’s actually the title of his autobiography.”

Laughter rippled through the audience instantly.

“Wow.” Jax placed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Public humiliation in front of my fans.”

“Your fans are mostly here for me.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” He pointed toward the crowd. “C’mon, let’s not lie to people we care about.”

The act began smoothly after that. Knives flashed silver beneath golden circus lights, embedding themselves around your body with terrifying precision. A few inches away from your shoulder, others surrounding your waist.

Jax never missed.

That was the thing most people didn’t understand about him. Beneath all the jokes and recklessness and smug little comments, he was frighteningly attentive during performances. His eyes tracked every movement you made before you even made it.

He trusted himself completely.

And somehow, unbelievably, you trusted him too.

The finale approached quickly. You stepped against the spinning target board as the music swelled louder through the tent. Across the stage, Jax rolled another knife across his knuckles.

“Any last words?” he asked into the mic.

“Yeah,” you replied dryly. “You should genuinely be institutionalized.”

The crowd burst into laughter again.

The board began spinning, slowly at first, then faster.

Knives struck around you in rapid succession, each one landing with deadly precision. One beside your head, another near your thigh. Another between your fingers.

The final blade slammed into the wood inches from your throat.

Silence.

Then thunderous applause.

Jax crossed the stage toward you slowly as the audience screamed around him. Usually, this was where he’d grab your hand and you’d bow together beneath the spotlight before the curtains closed.

Tonight, though, he stopped too close.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him beneath the stage lights.

The audience noticed immediately.

Jax extended his hand toward you slowly.

You took it.

Instead of immediately bowing, his fingers tightened briefly around yours. His gaze flicked toward your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Y’look nervous, sweetheart,” he murmured through the microphone.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah?” His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles. “Then why’re you holdin’ onto me like that?”

Heat rushed violently into your face.

Because unfortunately, your other hand had curled instinctively into the front of his jacket.

The audience LOST IT.

Jax broke out into a cheshire grin at your expression, but for once, the smugness looked thinner than usual. Almost uncertain.

The two of you bowed together beneath the screaming crowd.

Neither of you chose to be the first one to let go.

Backstage after performances always felt strange. The adrenaline lingered in the air long after the applause faded, leaving everything hazy around the edges. Performers rushed through the narrow corridors in various stages of costume removal while stagehands hauled props toward storage.

You pushed through the stage door and began your trek to your dressing room, barely making it halfway through the deserted hall before Jax caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

You turned.

For once, he wasn’t grinning. Not fully, anyway.

“You changed the finale tonight,” you murmured quietly.

Jax scoffed, though the sound came out strained. “What, now you’re against artistic expression?”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked away first. That felt important somehow.

“Crowd liked it,” he muttered.

“We both know I’m not talking about the crowd.”

He didn’t have an answer to that.

Jax leaned his back against the wall beside the prop room entrance, arms folded tightly across his chest. Defensive.

You stepped closer.

“Jax.”

“What?”

“You almost kissed me out there.”

He barked out a laugh immediately. Too fast.

“Oh my god.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You say that like it’s some kinda tragedy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

His jaw tightened briefly. “Yeah, well this kinda destroys my whole thing, doesn’t it?”

“…your reputation?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely. “My whole thing.”

“You mean being emotionally repressed?”

“See, this is what I’m talking about. You’re mean to me.”

You laughed softly.

Jax’s expression faltered immediately at the sound.

There it was again: that tiny crack in the armor every time you looked at him too gently.

Before he could recover, you stepped closer again, close enough now that his back brushed the wall behind him.

For the first time all night, Jax looked genuinely nervous.

“…you’re standin’ weirdly close right now,” he muttered.

“Are you going to do something about it?”

“...don’t tempt me.” But his voice had gone quieter. Softer.

Your hand slid against the front of his costume jacket slowly, fingers curling lightly into the fabric. Jax inhaled sharply.

“This feels psychologically targeted.”

You laughed again.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“You know,” you murmured, “you can’t be all bark and no bite.”

“Yeah, alright.” He swallowed hard. “Can you not say things like that while lookin’ at me like—”

“Like what?”

Jax stared at you for half a second too long.

Then suddenly he was kissing you.

Months of tension crashed into you all at once as he chased your lips, his hands grabbing your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him, flipping your position. Your back slammed against the wall, and Jax laughed breathlessly against your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“There,” he murmured, pausing to let you breathe. “Happy now?”

“Extremely.”

“Yeah?” Another kiss, slower this time. His forehead dropped against yours as he sighed, “that’s embarrassing for you.”

You broke the kiss long enough to glare at him.

It worked for approximately three seconds.

Then Jax was on you again.

Messier this time. One of his hands slid up your side before tangling itself into the fabric against your waist, as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or steady himself. His other hand stayed planted firmly beside your head, keeping you pinned against the wall while the adrenaline from the performance still crackled between both of you.

You could feel him smiling against your mouth.

Which, honestly, felt a little unfair.

“You are unbelievably smug for somebody who panicked just thirty seconds ago,” you murmured breathlessly.

Jax pulled back just enough to look at you, hair slightly disheveled from your hands dragging through it. “I wasn’t panicking.”

“You looked moments away from cardiac arrest.”

“Yeah, well…I’m naturally very charismatic under pressure.”

You laughed softly at that.

This time, he didn’t bother joking his way out of it.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your waist, eyes flicking over your face with an unfamiliar sort of hesitation. Like he still hadn’t fully processed that this was real.

“You know,” you murmured, “the audience is gonna lose their minds when they find out.”

That snapped him back instantly.

“Oh, absolutely not.” Jax pointed at you accusingly. “We are not becoming one of those couples.”

You blinked. “One of those couples?”

“Yeah, y’know.” He gestured vaguely. “Gross, happy, annoying.”

“We literally just made out after months of unresolved tension.”

“Yeah, but we did it with dignity, dollface.”

You stared at him for a moment before laughing hard enough that he groaned dramatically and dropped his forehead against your shoulder.

“This is terrible,” he muttered. “You’re gonna get way worse now.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He looked back up at you with a grin that finally looked genuine instead of defensive. “You’ve been doin’ weird psychological damage to me for months.”

“You started it!”

“Yeah, well.” His ears flushed faintly pink again. “Didn’t think it’d become, like… a whole thing.”

Something warm tugged unexpectedly at your chest.

Jax noticed immediately, because of course he did.

“…don’t look at me like that either,” he warned.

“Like what?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “I can throw a knife from here, y’know.”

You only rolled your eyes.

He kissed you before you could answer, like that somehow solved the problem. It didn’t, obviously, but judging by the way he lingered afterward, maybe neither of you really minded anymore.

You stayed like that for what felt like eternity, locked in each other’s embrace, before Jax pulled away, panting. He stayed close, one hand firm at your waist while both of you caught your breath in the quiet stretch of the hallway. The adrenaline from the performance still buzzed beneath your skin, sharp and electric.

His grip remained tight at your waist as he locked eyes with you, pupils blown wide.

“You have any idea,” he murmured, voice rougher than before, “how hard it’s been not to do that?”

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“You flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah.” His mouth brushed yours again briefly. “But you’re the only one makin’ me lose my mind a little.”

His hand slid slowly from your waist up along your side before settling against the back of your neck, fingers tangling lightly into your hair as he kissed you again, slower now, but somehow even more dangerous than before.

Your fingers fisted into the front of his jacket, and Jax groaned softly against your mouth before pulling you flush against him again.

“See?” he murmured breathlessly between kisses. “This is exactly why we can’t become one of those gross couples.”

“You are literally making out with me in a hallway.”

“Yeah, but, like…” Another kiss interrupted him briefly. “In a cool way.”

You laughed into his mouth, and Jax groaned dramatically before kissing you harder for it, one hand pressing against the wall beside your head while the other stayed firm at your waist. He still wasn’t fully convinced you were real.

“…quit lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered weakly against your lips.

His fingers tightened at your waist again. “Like I’m worth keepin’ around.”

The warmth in your chest nearly hurt.

Jax made a quiet sound against your mouth, something halfway between surprise and relief, before kissing you harder again. One hand slipped beneath your thigh, hooking firmly around it as he pulled you flush against him like he was trying to eliminate whatever space still existed between you.

“…yeah, alright,” Jax breathed against your mouth, already pulling you away from the wall. “This hallway’s suddenly feelin’ real inconvenient.”

His hand tightened beneath your thigh when you laughed.

“Dressing room,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again. “Now.”

a/n: gosh i love this annoying little specimen, but BOY is he harder to write compared to caine... hope everyone enjoyed, lmk if you would like to see more jax in the future!! P.S. my prompts are very lonely right now and very empty....pls fill them up

[yourdadmadcute]

ARGH I LOVE THE BANTER

[2886beaconstreet]

ao3 asking if i want to see mature content. do i want to see birds in the sky. do i want to feel the wind in my hair and the grass under my feet

[mintmatcha]

sexpollen but both of you HATEEE what's happening and just cant stop your bodies

[mintmatcha]

"you're disgusting," as you wrap your legs around his ass. "stop cumming in me-- oh, my god--"

"Stop cumming on my cock!" he's ramming into you as hard as he can, slamming the headboard into the wall with every stroke. "cant pull out when you're dr-dripping down my balls and... god, fuck, when your body does that-"

his head dips down to suck your tits into his mouth and the sensation makes your body twitch and kick-

warmth pulses inside you

"I can feel it, that's so gross," you whine. "i hate you-"

"I hate you more-" he grunts.

[dilly-dahlia]

x. Who Do You Think You Are?

pairing: Gene x Reader

content: pdh, drill team!reader, opposites attract, sunshine/grumpy, heavy topics discussed (murder, gang violence, suicidal thoughts, teenage pregnancy), drink spiking, depictions of intoxication, angst, miscommunication, I might've missed something but I tried to get everything

summary: Problems--big ones--arise in yours and Gene's relationship when you spot your sister at a party she said she wasn't going to.

word count: 9.8k

masterlist

The Problem With Popularity masterlist

previous part

Your nail nearly caught on the zipper of your backpack when you closed it. You really needed to cut them soon. You shouldered the bag, softly groaning under its heavy weight.

You spotted Gene across the parking lot. He had been watching you, and when your gazes finally met he let a clever smile cross his lips before starting to cross to where you were. Your own slowly spread until he was standing in front of you.

“Creep,” you teased. “Why’re you watching me like a weirdo?”

“Just waiting until I get the chance to say bye and good luck.” He leaned against the bus, crossing his arms and giving you a once over. He raised a brow at your glittery uniform and shimmering skin. “You have to ride the bus in that?”

You groaned. “Yes. I don’t even know why, something with the timing of when we get there? That’s why I proposed we just meet at school early and then go but no, no one wanted to get up early.” You rolled your eyes, letting out a sigh. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

Gene smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes. When you asked what he was looking at, he just shook his head. “You’re just cute.”

You rolled your eyes despite the jump in your chest. “Who knew that Gene Accardi would ever find anything cute?”

“Y/n!” You turned your head. Standing by the bus’s doorway was Coach Geter, who waved you over. “Let’s go! We’ll be late if we leave any later.”

You nodded and grabbed Gene’s hand to pull him along with you. Coach Geter hopped onto the bus, standing at the front of the aisle and counting heads to make sure everyone was there. When you made it to the bus door, you turned to Gene and squeezed his hand.

“I’ll see you later,” you said, voice low so no one on the bus could hear. Not that they had any particular interest in what was going on outside the bus. “I should be back towards the end of eighth period, so I’ll meet you after school, ‘kay?”

“Okay, bunny.” Gene’s voice had a playful lilt to it, and a clever smile spread across his face when you gave his hand a squeeze. He watched you board the bus before Coach Geter could tell you off again.

You settled yourself in a seat towards the front. Not only was it one of the last available seats, but it had been picked beforehand and as the Silver Starlet captain, there was an unspoken expectation that you sat at the front.

You sat next to Molly, one of the lieutenants that had helped you with the booth at the beginning of the year. Already she had made herself comfortable in the seat, knees pulled up to her chest as she scrolled on her phone. When you sat down she lifted her gaze, turning off her phone and letting it fall into her lap.

“So,” she started, and by the tone alone you guessed what she would ask about, “new boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I didn’t expect that. Are you guys, like, actually dating?” Stephanie asked you from across the aisle. She picked at her cuticles, only half listening.

“Me and Gene?” Molly nodded, and you were quick to shake your head. “No, not at all. We’re just talking.”

“Talking today, probably undressing by tonight.” Behind you, Vanessa poked her head through the gap in bus seats. “You’re going to Ophelia’s party, right?”

“Yeah, but Ophelia’s parties aren’t, like, frat parties or something.”

“Maybe not at the party, but definitely after.” Vanessa readjusted, fixing herself so she was more securely peering through the gap. “You know how Gene is.”

What was that supposed to mean? You knew about the reputation he held with all the blackmailing and class skipping and vandalizing he did, but you didn’t take him as someone to pursue people solely because of their bodies.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“Like . . .” Vanessa vaguely motioned. “You know.”

You shared a glance with Molly, which she only returned with her doe-eyed stare, before propping yourself up and meeting Vanessa’s gaze again. “No, I don’t. What’s he supposed to be like?”

Stephanie piped up from across the aisle again. “I mean, guys like him are bound to have tons of experience. He’s got the perfect personality for it; delinquent, condescending, insanely hot—”

“Oh, my Irene.” You covered your face, shrinking into your seat. “No, he-he’s not like that. We aren’t worried about that.”

“Oh, there’s a we now?” Vanessa wiggled her eyebrows. Coach Geter had begun calling role to ensure everyone was present, and the only pause in their teasing was the brief second it took them to reaffirm they were on the bus.

“But they’re not dating,” Molly added, then scrunched her nose. “Ew, are you in a situationship now?”

“No . . .” You didn’t sound too sure of that. You weren’t a fan of situationships—why beat around the bush when you could just date and then break up if needed?—but you guess that whatever was going on with you and Gene didn’t really have another name. You sighed. “I don’t know. We’re just kind of taking it slow. I mean, he hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend yet.”

Not that you necessarily wanted him to. Girlfriend/boyfriend was definitely moving too fast. And think, people would point and say, Look, that’s Gene Accardi’s girlfriend. Yup, the Gene Accardi that blackmails people. Yeah, that one. No thanks.

“Why wait for him to ask you? You could just ask him and bam—dating.” You didn’t respond to Molly’s statement, and after a moment her eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t want to date him.”

“No!” Your response was almost too quick. “No, it’s not that. There’s just some . . . stuff we both need to work out before taking that step.”

Vanessa hummed from behind you. “Right. Well, don’t take too long. Guys like Gene get bored easy and he’ll move on before anything even happens.”

“Or maybe he’ll just drop you,” Stephanie added as Vanessa corrected herself in her seat. “Like, after he gets what he wants.”

“Don’t listen to them. I’m sure Gene is perfectly fine waiting. I mean, he’s gotta have tons of patience when he, uhm, blackmails others?” Molly tried reassuringly with a soft smile. You returned it, your own much more tight-lipped and tense than hers. She didn’t exactly bring up a good point.

It seemed that was all the conversation needed. Stephanie had started scrolling on her phone, Molly adjusted a pillow beneath her head and closed her eyes, and who knew what Vanessa was doing behind you. With a soft exhale through your nose, you lifted your pair of headphones over your ears and drifted off.

Something stayed nudging at your heart. The whole point of going slow was to see if you and Gene were really compatible. You thought you were, but what if Gene was just really good at masking? He must have been, considering all the people he had fooled before. The only reason no one really bothered to get to know him was because of his reputation and . . .

Irene, had you been stupid enough to fall into his trap?

—

The first thing Gene did when walking onto the high school campus was look for Balto. If he found Balto, then he’d likely find Julie.

Unfortunately, Balto was not an easily found person. While Gene had nearly every single student hanging from a string, Balto was one of the few he had never cared enough to learn much about. Some healthy rivalry was good, and Gene couldn’t be the only one on top of the high school clique food chain in terms of knowledge. He might not be the most liked, but he was someone people didn’t want to tick off in fear of whatever life-ending rumor might spread in retaliation.

In fact, Gene had never really cared what Balto did. They were in entirely different groups. Balto took care of the werewolves, Gene took care of the humans, and someone else who Gene didn’t care to recall the name of served as a peacekeeper for the meif’wa. Balto and Gene had no reason to interact.

He found Balto in one of the never-used music rooms. This was the only that had been unofficially designated for vaping, smoking weed, and whatever other raunchy activities students got up to. Gene, of course, never utilized it. It reeked of something horrendous and almost always let out a cloud of musk when the door opened. Even now, Gene cringed stepping inside.

“Balto,” Gene said upon meeting the werewolf’s gaze. He was alone, lounging across three chairs that had been pushed together to form an area to lay.

“Gene.” Balto’s lips curled lazily. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gene’s gaze flicked around the room. He was catching notes of something that didn’t belong to the tangy scent—something sweet. “Don’t you have a class to get to?”

“First period reserved.” Balto clicked his tongue. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like, huh?”

“I’m surprised you could even get a reserved, considering your grades.” Gene knew he struck a chord when Balto’s lips curled down. 

The brunett lifted his head. “What do you want? I doubt you came to get a joint.”

“As tempting as that is, no.” Gene leaned back against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and surveyed the room once more. The only thing he noticed was a closet in which the bottom of the door had gotten caught on a beaded charm Gene would be an idiot to not recognize. “Where’s Julie?”

The flash of panic barely lasted a second. “Who?”

“Julie L/n,” Gene repeated. He could feel that the air had gotten thicker. “Y/n’s sister.”

“Oh, the goody two-shoes freshman.” Balto clicked his tongue again. “No clue. Why? That Aphmau chick didn’t work out so you’re looking for another toy?”

“Rumor has it that Julie’s been hanging around the wrong kind of people.” Gene pushed himself off the doorway and slowly began crossing the room, closer and closer to the closet. Balto’s eyes tracked him, and while his expression didn’t reveal anything, Gene noticed his entire body tensing.

“Just like her sister, then.” The jab was sharp, punctuated by a piercing glare. “How’s that working out for you? The Dancing Queen and the sly fox—a nice bedtime story, isn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Julie, would you?” There was no way in hell Gene was about to entertain a conversation about you with Balto of all people. “Heard she’s been hanging out with some no-good seniors.” Gene paused in front of the closed closet, tilting his head at Balto. “Any idea what they’d want from a little freshman?”

To his credit, Balto didn’t squirm like a trapped mouse. He played it cool when he shrugged and kept his voice smooth when he spoke. “No idea.”

“Right . . .” Gene leaned back again, resting his weight against the closet door. He strained to listen for anything behind it, but heard nothing. “Well, her sister’s real worried about her. Y’know how she is—always concerned with the well being of others.”

“You’d know all about your little girlfriend, wouldn’t you?” Gene didn’t say anything to negate him, and Balto let a wide grin spread across his face. “She’s such a pretty thing. You got real lucky she even looked twice at you. Though, she’s always been one to look past bullshit, hasn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sure he did. Balto was referencing the fact that you had chosen to give Gene the second chance no one else did; to really know him outside of his scummy reputation and ruthless actions. Whether it was stupidity or true caring from your side, Gene wasn’t sure. He regretted ever thinking you were just some ditzy drill girl, though, and hoped with all his heart that it was the latter—that it was a conscious effort.

At Gene’s unsure tone, Balto lifted a brow and pushed himself to his feet. He stepped forward until he stood face to face with Gene. They were the same height, save for the added length of Balto’s pointed ears.

“Word’s goin’ around that she’s using you for clout.”

“She’s using me?” Gene scoffed. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Balto shrugged. “There’s a fair share about you, too. But she is what’s interesting. People think you’re a little project for her. That she’s trying to make herself out to be a savior that turned the resident delinquent around.” He tilted his head, his wolfish grin vaguely reminding Gene of the same tactics he used to intimidate. “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger and you don’t even realize.”

Gene scoffed. “I don’t get played, Balto. Unlike you, I don’t let people beneath me have power.”

That struck a nerve. Balto’s grin faltered until his lips tightened into a scowl. “You think she’s beneath you?”

Gene didn’t reply. He didn’t want to say anything and give Balto more material to twist around to his story, even if Gene did want to bite back. Gene would have spit at his feet if it wouldn’t have made a mess.

“Don’t let another human overpower you,” Gene said simply, stepping around the werewolf. “It doesn’t do any good for your whole . . . look.”

For once, Balto didn’t say anything or move, not even to track Gene as he stepped out of the room. The door clicked behind him, and Gene continued without an added problem.

At least now he had confirmation it was Balto that Julie had been getting involved with. Lacy had been saying that—and it wasn’t that Gene didn’t believe her, he just knew that overwhelmed freshmen tended to fill gaps with whatever they wanted. Still, Gene didn’t know what Balto wanted with Julie or why he had chosen her to mess with to begin with.

Maybe, Gene thought, Julie’s an easy target. Like Aphmau had been to him. Something easy and quick he could mess around with and drop without a second thought. Gene needed to find out quick—who knew what Balto had already made Julie do? Or what he would continue to make her do.

He’d ask Zenix to snoop around. He was good at that. Zenix was often loud and brash but he was quiet as a mouse and invisible when it mattered. More often than not it was because of him that Gene knew so much. Maybe with Zenix’s help, he could try and see what was really going on with you as well . . .

Gene tried not to let it bother him. He knew you—everything about you was genuine and you were afraid of even being perceived. 

Still, there was substance to Balto’s point, and that substance took root in the back of Gene’s mind.

—

“Get out.”

Julie scrambled out of the closet, pushing the door hard against her beaded charm so it could open. Her face was hot, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the heat of the enclosed space or the prospect that she had been so close to being caught. Or if it was just a conditioned reaction to Balto’s tone. He sounded pissed.

She wasn’t expecting him to be directly in front of the closet door, and she nearly fell into him with a gasp when the door opened. He put a hand on her shoulder and helped her back to her feet, though his grip remained tight. Not quite bruising, but if he pressed into her skin any harder then there would be another mark for her to cover.

He smiled at her—kindly, she thought, but there was something forced about it. “Sorry ‘bout that, Jules. Didn’t mean to shove you in there, but y’know Gene can be real nosy. We don’t want him catching too much about us or else this whole thing’ll blow up in our faces.”

His tone was strained, like he was trying beyond his care level to be sweet to her, but Julie recognized the irritation in his eyes. Clearly, the interaction had done more than just tick Balto off about this situation. Something more personal had been poked, but Julie didn’t know what.

Balto let go of Julie so she could properly shoulder her bag. “I wonder how he picked up a connection between us,” Balto mused, stepping back to give Julie a little space to breathe. It wasn’t enough. She still felt suffocated in the thick atmosphere of the room and by Balto’s unwavering gaze. “You haven’t said anything, have you?” There was something vaguely threatening about the way he said it, so Julie was quick to shake her head. “Not even to your sister?”

“I barely even talk to Y/n anymore,” Julie replied. As bad as she felt about it, it was true. Julie had been interacting with you less and less since this whole thing started. The morning after your date with Gene had been an outlier—Balto hadn’t come to school by then so she took the few precious minutes she had to hang out with you. She just hoped that you hadn’t noticed the distance slowly growing between the two of you. “She has the day off anyway. The drill team has a presentation or something downtown.”

Balto hummed. It sounded absent, like he was thinking through something. After a moment, he reached forward and tucked a lock of Julie’s hair behind her ear. “You’re comin’ with me to Ophelia’s party tonight, right?”

“Ophelia Mishra? Isn’t she on the drill team, too?”

“Well, yes.” Balto paused, thinking through his words carefully. He gave Julie a dashing smile. “It’s important for us to make appearances at things like this, you know? It lets people know we’re still out and about doing what we do. You were able to get everything, right?”

Julie nodded, absentmindedly reaching behind her to touch the bottom of her bag where Ziploc bags wrapped in a blanket sat. “Yeah, but won’t Y/n see if I’m there? I told you I didn’t want her knowing about this.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll make sure she doesn’t see you.” When Balto reached for Julie again, she flinched back. His gaze lowered and his lip turned back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Julie let Balto take her hand. It was a more gentle touch than normal, and the foreignness of it made a chill run up her spine. Balto had never been this . . . calm. She was scared he’d blow up any second.

He lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Julie nodded, and Balto let her hand drop. She stayed frozen as he picked his bag up from the other side of the room. When he left he spared a glance back at her, shooting her a dangerous grin before dipping out of the room. Julie hadn’t even realized her body had been tense until she suddenly relaxed when the door clicked shut behind him.

She had to wait a second before leaving. That was fine with her—her heart was about to pound out of her chest and she could practically feel that her blood pressure was through the roof anyway. She just needed to take this second to calm down and gather her bearings.

This really was a disgusting room. Julie hadn’t even known air could hold onto smoke and moisture like this until she stepped foot in here. She didn’t mean to be dramatic, but she really did think the air would come apart if she took a knife to it. A really sharp, really jagged knife.

She didn’t even notice tears were falling from her eyes until she felt one slide down her neck. It scared her, and she was quick to wipe it up to alleviate the tingling feeling it left behind.

When she finally did leave the room, it was with her head lowered and her shoulders hunched. When she sat with Lacy in homeroom she hardly said a word and only listened as her best friend rambled about whatever TV show she was watching. The rest of the day carried on that way, and it’s not like she was avoiding Balto, but any time he was around she turned the other way.

She dreaded what would come later. When you had gone to Ophelia’s Halloween party last year, Julie had wanted to go as well. She ended up getting sick, so you had promised to take her this year. With everything that’s been happening, though, she had come up with some lie she didn’t even remember about why she couldn’t go. But now, Balto was making her.

She’d just have to avoid you, then. Yeah. Yeah, she could do that.

— 

Maria gasped, adjusting her glasses as she took the phone from Gene’s outstretched hand. Her gold bangles jingled together, the noise echoing through the kitchen like bells as Gene leaned toward the mirror in front of him. His mom zoomed into the picture, focusing on your smiling face and glittering skin.

“Oh, Gene. She’s beautiful.”

He couldn’t help but bite back a smile as Maria continued to scroll through the post, carefully considering each picture of you. His own face reflected that in the mirror, and Gene had the fleeting thought that he had never seen himself look so . . . Content? Happy? He wasn’t sure—there was something fuzzy and lighthearted about getting approval from your mother, especially about someone you were seeing. That had never really been a common thing for him.

“When can I meet her?”

Right. Gene should’ve expected that question, but he was so taken aback by it that he nearly ran his pencil liner into his eye. He didn’t respond for a moment, which his mom must have taken as deep thought because she just kept scrolling through your profile before lifting her gaze back to her son and raising her brows expectantly.

“We aren’t really . . .” Gene made a vague motion, making Maria roll her eyes.

“Ay, no me digas tonterías. Se nota por tu cara que le gusta mas que . . . What was his name? Your orange-haired friend. What ever happened to him?”

Gene made a sound in protest, not wanting Maria to reach too far into that particular phase of his life.

“Mamá, no es tan serio,” he settled on, lifting his hands in surrender. “We’re just kind of trying it out. It hasn’t advanced too far yet.”

“Oh, yet?” Maria wiggled her eyebrows. Gene scoffed and turned back to the mirror. “Plan on making a move soon?”

“No, no.” Well . . . “I mean, we’re going on dates and obviously the goal is to actually date, but . . .”

Gene trailed off. But what? He understood wanting to take it slow and keeping it on the down low, but you could do that while actively dating, couldn’t you? He could keep a secret better than anyone he knew. Besides, it wasn’t like dozens of people didn’t already know about your budding relationship. Trying to keep it secret was probably planting seeds for more rumors than you wanted. 

Gene shook his head. “We’re just taking our time.”

Maria clicked her tongue, setting Gene’s phone back on the counter and pushing herself off the kitchen island. “You new generation and relationships. You can’t ever just date anyone, there’s a hundred different stages now.” She rolled her shoulders, pulling her blue hair off her neck. “What you really need is to just talk it out. I’m sure she’d love to date mi Ginito. You’re already doing matching costumes.”

There was a question at the end of her statement. She had seen both Mean Girls and Diary of a Wimpy Kid and knew for a fact that Regina George and Rodrick Heffley were not from the same franchise. She wasn’t entirely sure what the relation was, but that’s what Gene said the matching costume was.

Gene didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him agreed—he thought you and him should be dating. You’d gone on dates. You’d kissed. You flirted pretty often. So why weren’t you? The other part agreed with and understood your side—the wanting to move about this quietly. He didn’t mind that, really. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, that bothered him about you wanting to keep it silent.

He didn’t respond to his mother. He could tell Maria wanted to say more, but she held her tongue. Silence passed between them, which only broke after Gene rubbed his eyes to smudge his eyeliner and stood up. He grabbed his phone and keys from where they sat on the table.

“I’m gonna head out,” he told Maria, stepping around the table to give her a side hug and chastely kiss her temple. “I told Y/n I’d pick her up thirty minutes before and she lives on the other side of town.”

Maria hummed, letting her son break away from her and step towards the door. “Okay. Dante’s not going, too, right?”

“I don’t think so.” Gene had no fucking clue. “If he’s there I’ll bring him home.”

“Have fun, mijo!” Maria called after him. Gene shut the front door behind him shortly after, unlocking his phone to queue up whatever music he thought appropriate for the drive to your house. It seemed to get shorter every time he made the cross-town trip. Maybe it was the building anticipation of actually getting to see you outside of school hours.

He never thought he’d be that kind of boyfriend. The one willing to use more gas than necessary to pick you up and drop you off without a second thought. The one that actually looked forward to spending time with you. He felt bad for his last girlfriend—Gene hadn’t treated her nearly as well as he’d been treating you.

It was ironic, wasn’t it? Treat the girlfriend like shit but the next situationship like a princess. It didn’t matter that Gene had been younger and more rooted into fitting the “bad boy” stereotype, girlfriend ranked higher than situation. He should’ve done better.

Was he trying too hard for your favor? What he told his mom was true—he did want you to be his girlfriend—but did you want him to be your boyfriend? There hadn’t exactly been a clear sign of that and . . . Irene, was Gene really just a fix-it project for you?

Gene lowly whistled when you approached his car. He could tell the action at least flustered you because you looked down in a sad attempt to hide your smile. Your shoes clicked against the concrete until you stopped in front of him, finally lifting your eyes to meet his.

His gaze travelled your figure. You wore black kitten heels with a faux black leather skirt. Your shirt said A little bit dramatic in true Regina George fashion and the pink cardigan adorning your shoulders looked soft to the touch. The real cherry on top was the wig—a heat fried-looking hair piece that was more yellow than soft blonde. 

He chuckled. “Where’d you find the shirt?”

“Hot Topic.” You looked down at it. “I was surprised they had it considering how old this movie is.”

Gene stepped aside to open the passenger door for you. “And the wig?”

“Julie already had it, for some reason.” After closing the door, Gene was quick to cross  to the other side of his car. “She’s not home right now, so I just went to her room and grabbed it from her mannequin.”

Gene’s brows furrowed as he shifted gears. “What do you mean grabbed it from her mannequin?”

“She has a mannequin in her room. Her name is Sally.”

Gene let the silence between songs fill the car for a moment. “Why?”

“‘Cause she has no arms?” You shrugged. Gene blinked at you. You bit back a smile and motioned to the road. “Are you gonna start driving, or . . . ?”

Gene scoffed, but he did start driving. “You and your sister are weirdos.”

“Well, you’re going out with one of them, so.” You smiled brightly at him, leaning your weight against the center console and batting your lashes. “Clearly you think something about me is attractive.”

Gene shot you a dazzling smile that mirrored your own, glancing at you briefly before returning his gaze straight ahead. “There are lots of things about you that I think are attractive.”

“Yeah?” you mused, to which Gene hummed in affirmation. You didn’t say anything else, only absorbed one of the many quiet moments between you and Gene.

This one felt different, though. Something in your gut twisted, and you felt as though he was hiding something. There was no real indicator of that, only your vague feeling, but it was hard to push away. Especially when you noticed his hands shift to toggle the AC, making it colder. You noticed a slight sheen to his skin after, which made your brows slightly furrow.

Was he nervous?

No, that was ridiculous. Why would he be nervous? Nothing was wrong, not anything you had noticed anyway.

Irene, had you done something? Accidentally said something or . . . Well, you had unintentionally ghosted him the other day, but you had good reason! You had yet to add Gene’s contact to your favorites and put your phone into focus mode to complete homework, after which you hadn’t even checked your phone before slipping between your sheets. And besides, you responded the next morning, so surely it wasn’t that.

Something just felt off. You weren’t sure what, and you weren’t sure you wanted to figure out what. You just hoped he’d tell you soon—and that it wasn’t too devastating. That would be nice.

—

“Oh, my Irene. You two are so cute!”

Ophelia had shaped her afro into a star and wore a sparkly black dress with silver paper stars cut and taped to it. Her skin shimmered with glitter and she held her son, who was dressed as an astronaut, against her hip.

You smiled widely, both at her and little Lalo. “Thanks for letting me bring Gene along,” you said, waving when Lalo pointed at your yellow hair.

“Of course. If you trust him, then I will, too.” Ophelia smiled at you, and some part of you folded under the weight of knowing that your opinion on someone could influence that of others. “Besides, I’m sure you already told him this is a substance-free zone, right?”

“First thing she said,” Gene replied. His hand hovered over the small of your back, not quite enough to claim you as his girlfriend, but enough to let others know you were at least together. “I’ve been leaning away from that stuff anyway.”

“Really?” Ophelia drew out the word, shifting her gaze to you. She raised her eyebrows to insinuate something, and you were sure that if Gene weren’t around she’d make a joking comment about how you had him on a leash. “Well that’s good to hear.”

Lalo fussed in her arms, but when Ophelia set him down he held onto her skirt to stay standing. “Anyway, you two have fun, okay? There’s more people than there were last year, so hopefully it has a little more of a party vibe.”

You nodded, and watched Ophelia shuffle away and maneuver around Lalo. Finally, Gene let his hand rest fully on your back.

“So what do you people do? Based on the hostess’s . . . situation I assume there are no corner-of-the-room makeouts or secret deals, right?”

You huffed a laugh. “Not really. There are drinking games, technically, but the loser drinks whatever sludge is concocted beforehand. Last year it was orange juice, toothpaste, and hot sauce.”

Gene scrunched his nose, disgusted. “That sounds like a nightmare. Don’t try dragging me into one of those, bunny.”

“She also has karaoke going somewhere.” Gene hummed. “I think in the living room she has Mario Kart going?” He seemed more interested in that. “And in the backyard she has other games like cornhole and horseshoe toss.”

“Seems very family-reunion-y.”

“Well she has to make it friendly for her kid,” you reasoned. “Her parents don’t like watching him.”

“Understandable,” he said, and you wondered if he meant Ophelia or her parents. After a moment, he exhaled. “Well, bunny, why don’t we go get a drink and then find something to do?”

You rolled your eyes, but let him lead you to the kitchen where various liters of soda and lemonade were scattered around the counter. You each grabbed a plastic cup and served yourself. From the other side of the counter, you snuck three cookies and multiple cheese cubes onto a napkin.

Gene raised an eyebrow at your assortment, but he didn’t say a word. When you asked what he was looking at, he just shook his head and grabbed one of your cookies.

“You dick,” you teased, lightly smacking his arm. “That was for me.”

“There’s more.” He motioned to the cookie tray behind him, where there was, indeed, more.

“I wanted that one.”

“So did I.” He ruffled your yellow wig, making it shift back on your head, as he shoved the cookie in his mouth. “Tough luck, bunny.”

You stared at him, mouth agape. The cookie was bigger than most store bought ones, likely hand-baked by Ophelia, and you could do nothing but watch as Gene practically unhinged his jaw to fit it whole in his mouth.

“That’s disgusting. You’re like a snake. How did you even do that?”

Gene shrugged, wiping crumbs from his hand onto his black jeans. “Practice?”

“Practice doing what?” A thought—a very much unwelcome one that would’ve had Katelyn mortified if you'd told her—flashed through your mind. “Actually, don’t tell me.”

He raised a brow, confused, before the pieces clicked together in his mind. Then, he laughed. “Do you ever think about anything wholesome, Y/n?”

You liked when he said your name. He called you bunny so often that hearing your actual name fall from his lips felt like a breath of fresh air. There was something about the way he said it, too, like it was sacred just because it belonged to you.

“I think plenty of wholesome things.” You tried to keep your voice from wavering and reflecting the way your heartbeat sped up. The sound of your name was a stupid thing to get so flustered over. “Like . . . Going to the movies.”

Gene raised a brow. It was almost like you could see the thoughts forming in his mind, twisting around your words into different images. “Right.”

“You’re the dirty minded one if you see anything wrong with going to the movies.” Maybe. Dark room, everyone’s full attention forward on the screen, complete silence aside from whatever film was playing. Yeah, definitely not the place for deviant activity.

Gene practically watched the image form in your mind’s eye. He smirked, and you knew immediately that he knew where your thoughts had continued to lead you.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, turning away. Across the way, you spotted Stephanie and Molly playing Twister, as well as someone else you didn’t recognize. 

“C’mon,” you told Gene. “Let’s go play a round with them.”

“I think you’re underestimating how tight these pants are. I bend over and they’re tearing apart. It’s over for me. My reputation will turn for the worse and not in a good way.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe you should’ve grabbed something that fits better. Or a pair of jeans that isn’t low-rise.”

“Alas, I didn’t think I’d be playing Twister at a Halloween party.”

You dragged him along anyway, your cup balanced against your torso in the crook of your arm and your napkin of snacks slightly rumpled in your free palm. While you  joined the game of Twister, Gene became the new spinner and directed where everyone was going. After about the third time of falling face first into the ground, you moved on.

You ended up in a secluded corner with Gene. As secluded as it could get, anyway, considering Ophelia’s house was very open plan and there were at least two people staring in your direction. You and Gene weren’t necessarily standing close, but it was close enough that whoever looked hard enough fuel to start a rumor if they really wanted to. Not to mention that it was loud. You and Gene could barely hear each other without either yelling or leaning in.

Right now, you were leaning in. Gene was asking about Ophelia and Lalo, so you didn’t want to air out her business too loudly. Honestly, you were shocked he didn’t know. Not that it was super hot gossip or anything, but one big news story had made its way around the city a few years ago. You just figured he had dug deeper and connected the dots naturally.

“Remember when the Jaquez family was murdered?” Gene nodded, but you could tell he was confused about how that fit into the picture. An unsolved family annihilator case that had been drawn back to gang violence relating to sweet Ophelia Mishra and her kid? “Sammy was Lalo’s dad.”

Slowly, Gene nodded in understanding. He knew Ophelia and Sammy had been dating before then, but when Ophelia finally came out and said she was pregnant months later everyone (including Gene) assumed she had just moved on quickly. His fault, he supposed, for assuming that. He thought it was weird that she’d move along so quickly after the numerous breakdowns she had after her boyfriend’s death.

“I see it now.” Ophelia and Lalo were across the room. Gene wouldn’t say his memory was photographic, but he remembered what Sammy looked like pretty well—especially his eyes. They were pale jade, nearly transparent, and were striking against his thick lashes and tawny skin. Lalo had his same eyes, right down to the density of his father’s lashes. Gene was sure he’d grow into more features as he got older. “I guess I’ve never seen Lalo, so I never put much thought into who Ophelia slept with.”

You nodded absentmindedly, gaze resting on Ophelia. “She found out a week before Sammy died. She was already stressed about it and then . . . Irene, she wanted to kill herself.”

“Anyone would.” Gene definitely would have. He was sure there was more to the story, but you had gone quiet, and he didn’t want to force you down a mental pit. He pushed himself away from the mall and gently pried the plastic cup from your hand. “I’ll go get us more. Then, maybe we can go outside and take a gander at the games.”

You cracked a smile. “Sure. We can take a gander.”

When Gene rolled his eyes, you laughed, and watched him step into the kitchen. You could only keep your eyes on him long enough for Balto to sidle up beside him before your attention was drawn away by a loud giggle.

It wouldn’t have normally bothered you, but 1) it was very loud and 2) you recognized it. Except there was no way you could have recognized it because the person it belonged to stayed home.

Right?

Your eyes scanned the room, looking and looking for familiar brown hair with sage green streaks. Maybe even bottle blonde hair with lilac streaks, because wherever one was there was almost always the other. Maybe Lacy had convinced her to come out after all?

Gene’s finger brushed your shoulder, knocking you back into yourself. He raised a brow despite seeming mildly perturbed himself and held out your cup. “What’s up?”

You shook your head, taking the drink from his hand. He lifted his own to his lips as you lied and said, “Nothing. I just thought I heard someone call my name.”

He hummed, the sound reverberating through the plastic of his cup. No doubt he had some clever quip on the tip of his tongue, but his brows furrowed and he quickly pulled the drink away, looking at it like it had personally offended him.

You went to drink yours (it was already in your hand, so it was practically instinct), about to give some kind motion to ask what was wrong, but Gene was quick to put a hand over the opening of the cup before you could tip any of its contents into your mouth.

“Don’t drink that,” he said, sternly. He lifted his own again, took a whiff, and then another small sip. Then, he took yours back. “That’s spiked.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m getting something different. Something closed, preferably.”

Gene took the cup back from your hands, but this time when he returned to the kitchen you followed close behind, twisting and turning around bodies to keep up. “What do you mean it’s spiked?”

“Do I really have to explain to you what spiked means?” No, but— “Someone put alcohol in there. Tastes like vodka.”

“How do you know what vodka tastes like?”

Gene deadpanned at you from over the trashcan. That was your next question?

You realized how dumb and airheaded it sounded. “Nevermind. Who do you think spiked it?”

He certainly had an idea. “No clue. Go dump it before someone else gets a drink.”

You weren’t a fan of the way he was ordering you around, but that was an insignificant problem compared to the fact that someone had spiked the big bowl of punch. So you turned, and when someone asked why you were pouring the pink liquid down the sink, you plainly told them why. Ophelia was by your side no less than two seconds later.

“What do you mean it’s spiked?” You shrugged. “Most people got searched before they came in.”

True. You had to open your purse at the door and Gene had to pull out his pockets to prove there was nothing nefarious. “Maybe it came in after that or someone just slipped by.”

Ophelia cursed under her breath, eyes scanning around. “I don’t know who it could be. I know everyone here and none of them are the kind of person to do this, but . . .”

She trailed off, but when you glanced over your shoulder you were able to guess who she was looking at and why she stopped talking.

Gene. She didn’t know him—not the real him and not like she knew everyone else. She knew the picture, the tyrannical ruler that sat upon a throne of popularity and held all the cards, who was willing to do what it took to make someone else stumble.

You quickly shook your head. “Gene wouldn’t do that.”

“I didn’t say he would.”

“Then why— Never mind.” You pulled the freshly rinsed bowl out of the sink and set it on the counter. “Find someone else to blame because it wasn’t him.”

Ophelia’s lips pursed, but she dropped the topic and continued to scan the room.

“I thought you said Julie stayed home?” she said.

“She did.”

“Then why is she here?”

You finally turned around, following Ophelia’s line of sight to where your sister was standing, laughing with Balto and a small group you didn’t recognize. You opened your mouth to say something, but found that your tongue had frozen. What was there to say?

Instead, you watched her—lips fallen open, brows furrowed. Confusion riddled your spine, turning to alarm and making the hair on your neck stand when you saw Julie lean into Balto’s touch. And it wasn’t just a friendly touch. No, she was definitely leaning against him and looking up at him with sparkling eyes like he’d hung the moon just for her.

And then you noticed she wasn’t entirely balanced, and it was difficult to see from this distance, but her corneas looked red. Pink?

Oh, fuck no.

You left Ophelia high and dry, spiked punch completely disregarded in your mind, and began stalking across the room. Your heels clicked against the tile floor with purpose, but when you entered Julie’s earshot and tried calling her name, you were—quite literally—whisked away.

Gene passed in front of you, placing a hand on your waist to turn and guide you in the opposite direction. You tried planting your feet, but they kept slipping along to keep up with Gene. You turned your head back, briefly making eye contact with Julie before Gene pushed you out of the house and you lost her completely.

You found the energy to speed up and get ahead of him, firmly anchoring yourself and facing him head on.

“What the hell are you doing?” You weren’t sure where the words came from, exactly. They sounded mean to your ears, and your tone definitely wasn’t helping. “Didn’t you see Julie?”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m dragging you away.” Gene reached for your wrist, but you were quick to step back and pull it from his grasp. “Y/n.”

“No, don’t Y/n me like I’m an idiot. That’s my sister in there and she looks high!” The sun was setting, so the street was practically void of passing cars and any day-joggers, but a few people still inside the house turned to look at you at your raised voice. “We can’t just leave her. She’s fourteen hanging out with a group of seniors—that’s weird!”

“She’s old enough to make her own decisions, Y/n. Who she chooses to hang out with is one of them.” Even if her choice is objectively stupid and entirely incorrect.

You scoffed. “Why are you so calm about this? Gene, that’s Balto. BALTO! Am I supposed to just be normal about this and not try to get her away?”

For once, Gene didn’t know what to say. After a moment, you thought it safe enough to shove past him and head back into the house to retrieve Julie and take her home without your parents noticing her intoxication. You’d drag her out by the hair if your had to. Getting home was one thing—you weren’t a big fan of Gene at the moment, but he was your ride here. And getting her into her room without alerting your parents was another matter entirely—

“What– Hey! Put me down, Gene. Gene!”

As childish as it was, you flailed your legs and hit Gene’s arms with your hand, trying and failing to wrestle yourself out of his hold. In your struggle, one of your shoes flew off and landed somewhere in the yard, which really did not help the whole “bratty bitch” thing you probably had going for you right about now.

You were so upset that you didn’t even think to conjure up some impure image about the way Gene manhandled you over his shoulder like a fucking sack of potatoes. You felt pathetic and useless, honestly, because how was it that he could push you around so fucking easily? He didn’t even look that strong!

“If you don’t put me down I’m gonna scream,” you said.

“Scream all you’d like, bunny, I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not leaving without Julie!”

“Julie’s being taken care of.” 

“What do you mean she’s being taken care of? Gene?” Gene opened the back door to his car and plopped you into the seat, closing the door and shutting it before you could even gather your bearings and push yourself out. “Gene!” You tried to open it, only to be reminded that Gene kept the child-lock in constant use because Zenix and Sasha (mostly Zenix) liked to open his doors while driving to push his buttons. You groaned, hitting the window and watching as he walked around to the driver’s seat. You attempted to climb over the center console and into the passenger seat, but the space was too cramped and you very quickly found out that you weren’t that flexible. 

“You look like an idiot.” Okay, now he sounded mean, which, in retrospect, was probably deserved. Looking back you’d realize that you were being somewhat unreasonable, but what are you supposed to do?

“Let me out of your car, Gene.” Your words fell on deaf ears because he did the exact opposite and moved the gear-shift to drive. You considered, for a moment, rolling down the window and climbing out, but your judgement wasn’t so clouded that you thought you’d be able to make it out of the car at all, let alone unscathed. You’d probably end up with a concussion.

“Julie’s gonna be fine. I told you that she’s being taken care of, and I can verify that the person keeping an eye on her is trustworthy.”

“You mean you knew that she’s . . . whatever?” you shouted. You scooted onto the edge of the seat, fitting your upper body between the seats and keeping your balance with the headrests. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

“I was waiting for the right time—”

“The right time? What right time is there to tell me that my freshman sister is hanging around someone notorious for dealing?” You were probably being a distraction, but you didn’t really care. If you were truly bothering Gene, he would just pull to the side of the road and lock his car. “There’s not a right time for something like that!”

Unless, of course, he was purposefully withholding that information from you. The reason why was absolutely unfathomable to you, seeing as you two had grown so close and—

That. That couldn’t be coincidence. When you first really started interacting with Gene he kept referring to you as part of the Shadow Knights—an honorary member. He had encouraged you joining a couple times at the start, but when he eventually dropped it you assumed he’d crossed you off the list and realized he liked you the way you had begun liking him.

But if getting you to join the Shadow Knights was his goal all along, then . . . It would make sense that he’d drop it to further lure you in. With how against it you were, he did it to lull you into a false sense of security while he dug up some secret to hold over your head so—

“Oh, my Irene! You were hiding this so you could blackmail me, weren’t you?”

“What?” He seemed alarmed. “No, I—”

“Irene, I’m so fucking stupid.” You hit the passenger headrest and Gene said your name in warning. “Everything between us has been a lie, hasn’t it? Every time we’ve flirted, our date, when we kissed. Was any of it real? Or was it all just a ploy to get me to join your stupid gang?”

He would’ve said something, but you were too fired up. “This is what everyone was talking about when they said you’re a bad person. You’re nothing but a liar and a manipulator, Gene, and I can’t believe I fell for your tactics.”

Unsuccessfully, you tried the door again. “Let me out.”

“I’m not letting you out. We’re two blocks from your house and I’m not letting you leave this conversation thinking—”

“I said let me out.”

It was childish, really, the way you were yelling at him. You never would’ve thought you had this in you. It wasn’t how the Y/n from last year would’ve reacted to this situation, but you didn’t know anything.

Gene relented. He pulled over on the street and slammed his door when he left. He came around to open yours. You tried bolting, but he held onto your shoulder. Down one shoe and so pissed off you were shaking, you were at a disadvantage.

“Look at me,” Gene demanded, turning you so there was no choice but to meet his piercing stare. “I am not trying to blackmail you, Y/n. I’m not trying to hold Julie over your head or—”

“I’m not going to—”

“Let me finish!”

Your mouth snapped shut. Obviously Gene yelled. That was nearly a given. Obviously he got mad, but you never would’ve expected it to be targeted toward you. Then again, you never expected that he’d blackmail you with the relationship that had been blooming. Or that you’d ever blow up at him. Or that Julie would do drugs.

Wasn’t today just full of surprises?

Gene took a second to make sure you didn’t say anything else before taking a deep breath and at least trying to get himself back together. “Stop pushing my buttons. Stop assuming the worst because I didn’t tell you one thing—”

“One thing that’s objectively very important!”

“—and stop interrupting me.” You huffed. “I’m trying to resolve this without getting you so roped into it you distract yourself and fail your classes again. I have the means to end this, I just need to play my cards right.”

“I could have helped you!” you shouted, completely uncaring that the sun had dipped below the horizon and you were on a residential street. No doubt the people inside the houses could hear you, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at that moment. “I’m closer to Julie. I could’ve—”

“So close that you couldn’t realize something was off? She’s been like this for weeks, Y/n.” He had a point. You hadn’t noticed her lately, too caught up in your own school stuff and relationships. You had practically shoved one of the most important ones under the rug in favor of . . . this.

And where was this now? A screaming match on the middle of the sidewalk. Was that all it was ever gonna amount to?

After a moment, Gene clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He let go of your shoulder so you were free to leave, but something left you rooted in that spot. Your feet felt heavy with lead, and if you left now you knew this conversation would be left without any closure, even if it only ended with a smidge.

“So what do you want me to do, Gene?” you retaliated, because acknowledging that you hadn’t been the best sibling lately wasn’t something you wanted to do. “What do I need to do so you don’t blow this out of proportion like you do with everyone else you blackmail?”

“I don’t want you to do anything—”

“Do you want me to join the Shadow Knights? Roll a joint and smoke it? Have sex with you? Date you?” Despite yourself, your voice cracked. You felt a burn at your waterline, but willed yourself to blink it away. “I would’ve done that if you’d just pretended a little longer.”

Gene scoffed. “Pretended? I find hundreds of excuses—pathetic ones—to bring you up and make a conversation about you with anyone I talk to and I’m the one pretending? Y/n, you haven’t even admitted that you like me!”

That made the breath in your lungs go out. Surely you have. You could recall it if you really tried—the words I like you slipping from your lips in a late night conversation or as a quiet confession in the school halls.

Now that you thought about it, you hadn’t. Not to him anyway, but the only people coming to mind that you had actually confirmed your feelings for Gene were Katelyn, Sasha, and maybe Lucinda. Everyone else assumed, given the date you had gone on, and although they could guess at how you truly felt, it was different than straight up telling the man of your affections.

“You know what you are? You’re selfish, Y/n, and you care too much about what others think. Any word I’ve gotten from others about how you feel about me always point to you wondering if you even want to date me. You deflect when I’m brought up because you don’t want a dark mark on your picture perfect reputation.”

“That is not true.” Gene had barely finished talking before the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t have minded that as long as you’d be able to tone it down. I’m just a project for you to fix because you’re bored, is that it?”

“No!”

“You’re telling me that dozens of people told you not to get involved with me—that I’mnothing but a manipulative asshole you shouldn’t even entertain the idea of—and you still chose to willingly look past that?” When Gene stepped closer to you, you took one back. “Everyone told you I was bad. That I’m always two steps ahead and you can’t trick me, but you just had to see for yourself if it was true, didn’t you?

“You know why you’re selfish, Y/n? Because you don’t listen to anyone else until it might involve you. All of your friends have had issues with me, all of them. No doubt they’ve told you, but because you weren’t involved, you didn’t care. But look at how quick you were to turn around and accuse me of using you as soon as the thought even entered your head.”

He noticed you stepping back for every movement forward he made, and he stopped. His eyeliner was smudged, which was intentional but while wearing it the color had slowly begun feathering out into nothing. His cheeks had a pinkish hue, though you knew it wasn’t from being romantic or embarrassed because Gene Accardi didn’t blush. You’d never seen him worked up, but now you knew blood rushed to his face when he was.

You tried to think of a response, but between your own heartbeat amplified in your ears and the tears blurring your vision, your tongue was dead in your mouth. 

After a moment of silence (which you desperately wanted to fill to defend yourself), Gene laughed. It wasn’t genuine or even one of the fake ones he gave to entertain a conversation, it sounded disbelieving.

“Y’know what?” he started, stepping backwards to his car. “I don’t give a fuck. See if I care about you making it home.”

Your eyes widened as he opened the driver door of his car. “What?” you stepped after him. “You can’t be serious. You-You’re just gonna leave it there?”

He hummed in confirmation, shutting the door behind him without another word. He reached for his key in the ignition and turned, starting up the car again. You knelt to take off your remaining shoe to even the field without limping against a heel.

“Gene,” you called, hoping he’d at least roll down the window. He barely spared you a glance as he switched the car into drive. “Gene! Oh- Fuck you!”

You didn’t mean it, but those were the only words your mouth was willing to form as he drove off. You groaned, wanting to scream at the top of your lungs and break something against the sidewalk. But it was dark, and you were in front of homes. You didn’t want to be an even bigger disturbance than you already had been.

Barefoot and defeated, you walk the final block and a half home. As you did, you let the tears go all fall and smear your makeup across your cheeks. There were no cars in the driveway, meaning both your parents were out doing Irene knows what.

Good. That meant you could cry as loud as you wanted and that Julie would get home unnoticed. You had to put it in the hands of the Divine now, seeing as you couldn’t exactly walk all the way back to Ophelia’s house.

You just hoped she was okay. That she would be okay.

sorry for the late update guys, I was busy getting my diploma and recovering from burnout but anyway!

i sincerely hope this chapter was worth the wait. I think I chose this one specifically to go on an unplanned hiatus for because it's where the plot gets thick, so there would at least be a reason for waiting ykwim? but anyway let me know your thoughts :)

side note: i think the site i use for the smau got complaints??? idk but don’t mind the watermark, i’m still trying to find a good platform to do media on

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[bearakero]

its been a while huh. Sorry ive been busy with school, moving out, and comms. reference pic below

i love it ...... i knew i just had to draw thirteen in it. and it was nice to draw something for myself for once

[willowas519]

STOP PUTTING YOUR OC UNDER “X READER”!!!!! I DONT WANT TO READ YOUR STINKY LOVE STORY, *I* WANT TO BE THE LOVE STORY!!!!

[arsombre]

man I wanna write an edgeworth fanfic

[babiigirly]

You didn’t mean to startle him.

Honestly, you didn’t think anything could startle Lucifer.

He was the Avatar of Pride, after all. The very picture of self-control. Unshakable. Regal. Terrifying, to some. That man could face Diavolo’s unplanned chaos, Mammon’s debts, and The Anti-Lucifer League's pranks all before noon without even blinking.

But apparently… he wasn’t prepared for this.

“Love, can you hand me that quill?”

Silence.

Lucifer—who’d been reviewing a contract across the room—froze. Not visibly, not to most people. But you caught the subtle twitch of his fingers, the way his breath paused just a moment too long.

You glanced up. “What?”

His eyes flicked to you. “What did you just call me?”

You blinked innocently. “Love. The quill?”

He stared at you. Then, without a word, he walked over—slow, deliberate—and handed you the quill.

But the moment it left his fingers, he leaned closer, just enough that you could feel his breath near your ear.

“…Say it again,” he murmured.

You turned your head, confused. “Say what?”

“That name.”

You smiled, amused. “You mean love?”

There it was.

The slight, unmistakable pink at the tips of his ears.

Lucifer cleared his throat and straightened instantly, posture snapping back into place like nothing happened. “Be mindful of how you speak. Such terms… are informal.”

“Hmm.” You tapped the quill against your lip. “So… darling is off the table?”

His eye twitched. “That’s even worse.”

“Honey?”

“No.”

“Baby?”

“Absolutely not.”

You giggled. “Alright, alright. I’ll stick with love, then.”

“I didn’t say that was acceptable either—”

“But your ears turned red when I said it,” you teased.

Lucifer gave you a look that could make lesser demons tremble. “They most certainly did not.”

“They did.”

“…You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, love. You’re adorable when you get flustered.”

His mouth parted like he had a thousand dignified responses ready—and then shut again, lips pressing together in a thin line.

You grinned and reached up, tugging him down by the collar just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“There. You’ve earned it.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Have I?”

You tilted your head sweetly. “You did bring me the quill, love.”

This time, the flush crept down his neck.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned, though his voice had gone lower. Warmer. Almost amused.

You beamed at him. “So you like it.”

He said nothing.

But later, when he passed by your seat and rested a gloved hand on your shoulder, he leaned down and whispered by your ear:

“…Be careful, darling. I may just get used to it.”

And judging by the smirk he wore the rest of the evening, you were certain he already had.

—

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