#i would also like the return of his gorgeous red snow ball jumper

[meangirlstobin]

if steve can go tits out in a hell dimension then he can wear slutty denim cutoffs during whatever the fuck goes down in s5

[selfwriting-sugarquills]

I have this dead cute idea in my head, not sure how to start it but -George likes you, but you don’t know -you end up going to the Yule ball with someone else cause he’s too shy to ask you -your date ends up kissing someone else at the ball -you’re upset about it, but George ends up telling you how he feels,which you have felt the same way the whole time. -maybe once you complimented him on his “G” jumper, and after the ball he gives it you cause you’re freezing in your dress? I’m not sure 🥺

A/N: I will honest to god never get tired of yule ball centred fics with the twins so I loved this request!!

Warnings: None. 

Word count: 1.490

“Are you going to ask her?” Lee asked as he opened a bag of Bertie Botts’ every flavoured beans, outside the boy’s dormitory the sky was darkening despite it only being half-past three in the afternoon, snow was falling softly onto the windowsills, Fred was lying with his head on the bed, his long legs stretched up against the wall behind his four-poster, his feet hidden beneath the Gryffindor banner suspended in a lopsided manner. George was much less relaxed than his dormmates, he was sitting up straight in his bed, his arms tightly crossed across his chest, his cheeks burning. He’d just told them about his longtime crush on Y/n. He’d been head over heels in her since their second year when she’d complimented his jumper and since then he’d tried to get closer to her, which had worked. They were friends, yes, close enough for him to spend time with her outside of class, however, he’d never spoken to her about his feelings, neither had he spoken to Fred or Lee about it, till now. With the yule ball coming, the discussion had fallen on which girls to ask and George had confessed his crush, 

“I don’t think so,” Said George, “no, no I can’t - what if she says no?” his fingers tightened on his biceps, 

“Mate, she won’t,” Fred said, “if she does she’s mental,” he added, catching the box of sweets Lee threw at him with ease, 

“Yeah, who else is going to take her?” Asked Lee, through chews, “one of those Durmstrang douches or the Beauxbatons boys? I hardly think they’re her type,” He giggled a little at his own words before grimacing as he stuck another bean into his mouth, “Eurgh, Vinegar,” 

Through laughs from Fred and Lee, George sat back with a sigh, 

“Dunno, she could have anyone she wants, she’s gorgeous,” he muttered, his eyes shut in mild agony at the thought of her going with someone else, Fred and Lee shared a look, 

“Christ,” Said Lee, “You’ve really got it bad, huh?” 

“Really,” Answered George plainly, not opening his eyes. 

*** 

“So, have you found a date?” you asked, cutting up your ingredients for potions, George looked up from the textbook, 

“Erh, no - don’t think I’ll go if I’m honest,” he said quickly before returning to finding to the right page in his book, 

“What?” 

“Hm?” 

“George, you’re joking,” 

“Hm - nope, not joking.” 

“Geoorge, you’re going, why on earth aren’t you going?” 

“I just don’t see what all the fuss is about, finding dates and all, it just seems like it’s going to be disappointing either way,” 

You scooted your chair closer to his, his brown eyes caught yours, 

“Is it the date thing?” you asked very quietly as if the topic of finding dates was the most delicate subject in the world, when he didn’t answer but just tilted his head with a sheepish smile, you rested your head on your hand, your elbow placed on the table beside you, 

“It is, isn’t it?” you said in the same tone, “y’ know I could probably help find you a date if you want?” you asked, he shook his head, 

“No thanks, y/n, I’ll be fine hanging out in the common room by myself,” he said, painfully aware of how sad that truly sounded, “might actually get some work done with you gone,” he teased, feeling relieved when you scrunched up your nose at him in a grimace before returning to the ingredients, seemingly letting go of the subject.

“Have you got anyone?” he then heard himself say, he couldn’t help himself, if you didn’t, he might have a chance, “for the ball, I mean?” he put all his concentration into pretending to be interested in the contents of the book, hoping it would hide the way his face was reddening, 

“Erh, yeah, one of the Durmstrang boys asked, I think his name is Dragan?” you said, catching the beetle you were supposed to add as it tried to escape, 

“Sounds like a tough guy,” George said, his face now considerably pale, his mouth felt dry, of course you already had a date, 

“He isn’t really,” you chuckled, “he stuttered so much when he asked me I could barely understand a word of what he said,” you grinned at George who tried to return the smile but found that he for some reason couldn’t, he felt vaguely nauseated. 

*** 

George sat and watched as you danced with your date, he smiled at the way you laughed as you were spun around. He had been dragged along, despite insisting that he wasn’t going, and now that he’d been here for the majority of the evening, which he had spent glancing at you and wishing he could take the place of your date, he decided it was time to leave. What he didn’t see was you noticing him leaving, your eyes not breaking away from him as he turned the corner. 

It was getting late, and George felt too cooped up in the common room, he’d changed out of his robes, leaving his button-up shirt on but slipping on one of his many jumpers, and had sat in front of the fire, trying to work on some ideas he’d discussed with Fred, then he’d tried reading but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He couldn’t stop wondering if your date had kissed you and if he had, had you enjoyed it? Would you reemerge in the common room and tell him about how much you liked him and retell the story of how Dragan had confessed his love for you? was tonight the night he’d have to accept that he was never going to be more than “just George” to you? Shaking his head, George stood up and headed out of the common room, feeling an immense need for fresh air, when he reached the entrance hall to the castle he heard the music blaring from the great hall and grimaced as thoughts about you flooded his mind again. He headed to the courtyard. 

The snowy landscape was indeed very refreshing and also very very cold. George realised now, as he trudged through the snow, his shoes leaving soft crunches as they sunk into the white powder, that maybe he should have brought a coat before storming out of the common room. 

“George?” It took a moment for George to register your voice, before he spun around to see you standing there, looking positively freezing in your dress, “What are you doing out here?” your eyes fell to the ‘G’ on his sweater, “in your jumper?” 

“I left early, figured I’d leave you alone with your date and get some air,” he didn’t mean to sound so cold and he wished instantly that he hadn’t because your face fell from curiosity to concern for a moment, and he almost feared he’d hurt you but when he opened his mouth to make amends you let out a breathy laugh, 

“Oh yeah, no he ended up snogging one of the beauxbatons’ girls,” you said, tears brimming your eyes despite your smile, “and I guess I can’t be mad, with all the talk of ‘international relations’ I can’t blame them,” you laughed a little again, shivering as you did. George didn’t hesitate to take off his jumper and hand it to you, tensing at the cold air seeping through his thin button-up shirt, when you hesitated to take it, he said “Please, you’ll catch a cold.” you put it on whilst mumbling that ‘so would he’, and you looked visibly more relaxed now that the jumper, which was still filled with his warmth enrobed you. It even smelled like George; a slightly sweet and spiced smell, somewhat like a fireplace with a hint of gunpowder. 

“You look adorable,” George said, you crossed your arms, 

“No I don’t, my make-up is probably all messed up by now and let’s be honest, this hairdo looks like a birds’ nest,” you wiped a singular tear, which had escaped your eyes despite your effort not to feel upset over your date, somehow, though it still felt like being stood up, even if you didn’t know him at all, 

“No you absolutely do, you always do y/n that’s why I love you so mu-” He clasped a hand to his mouth as soon as the words had escaped his lips, you were staring at him, and he stood there horrified, feeling like he needed to turn and run. For some reason, he didn’t. 

“You do?” you asked, tears filling your eyes again, this time for a different reason. George noticed how your eyes were glistening in the low lights from the hall, then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, your arms finding their way around him as well. Standing there in silence, snow fell onto George’s fiery red hair and shoulders but he didn’t feel it, all he could feel was the warmth of you against him, your face pressed against his chest. He pressed a kiss onto your hair and whispered to you, 

“‘Course I love you.” 

[kirigaya-art]

Round Robin Ch 5

SIMON

I bite my lip, glancing around the room as I tug on the collar of my jumper-- no. Of Baz's jumper. I'm still wearing his bloody jumper, feeling like the biggest knobhead in the world. Honestly, Baz was right. What kind of mage can't even hold their wand the right way round?

At least now that classes are over for the day and I'm back in my own room, I can grab some fresh clothes that aren't singed, including the jumper I didn't put on this morning. The only problem is I'm still not sure what to do with Baz's.

He said it was okay if I just put it on his bed, right? I wanted to come during lunch, but time got away from me, and Penny was rushing me to our next class together before I could even think about returning the jumper. I ended up wearing it all day.

It was kind of distracting. The smell, I mean. It reminded me of when he and I were curled up so close to each other, after I spelled the room cold… like he was laying on top of me all day, drenching me in his rich earthy smell. Like his arms were still wrapped around me. Like I could still hear his teeth chattering, feel him burrowing his face into my hair. I nearly fell asleep like that in class, resting my head on my arms and breathing in the scent.

But now I'm done with the jumper, and I'm not sure what to do. Just throwing it on his bed seems like something that would actually make him angrier. He'd probably throw a fit over how I'd let it wrinkle, or how I hadn't put it on just the right part of his bed, or any other excuse to start a row with me. (Some days I think he likes fighting with me.) It's enough to make me hesitant and paranoid, and I'm scared to even slip the jumper off until I know where to put it. He usually doesn't come back to our room for a few hours, so I can't ask him either...

"If I were Baz, where would I put my jumpers?" I mumble to myself, lifting a hand to my chin (and subsequently slapping myself with the extra-long sleeve).

I throw open his wardrobe first, squinting around. It looks like he has mostly blazers and shirts in here, but not jumpers. He must not hang them up, which means they're folded in a drawer somewhere. That makes this hunt a little more difficult.

Kneeling between our beds, I pull open the first drawer on his bedside table. I'm surprised to see how neat it is, used to my own drawer full of gum wrappers, crisp packets, and other assorted necessities. His is tidy, with a few things in perfect little rows: a wand case, a small container for hair clips, and a couple of pens in different colors.

Satisfied there are no jumpers, I close the drawer and move on to the next one. This one seems to be designated for school things. There are folders, stacks of paper, and textbooks. I rummage for a bit, checking to make sure there's nothing underneath it all.

I open the third drawer, hoping I won't have to look through the many others in the room. This one is a little less neat than the others, filled with loose sheets of paper and what look like art supplies. Charcoal pencils sit in little tins, and a metal box labelled watercolours is sat on top of some. I suppose Baz is an artist, then. I rummage about, grabbing his artworks to look. It’s mostly unfinished sketches-- I recognise his younger sister from the background of his mobile. (He’s still got it, even though the Mage instated a new rule this year saying we couldn’t have them on campus.) There’s a few coloured drawings, too-- a closeup of a blue eye, a profile shot of someone with just the dirty blonde hair detailed, a study of a mouth with lips bitten pink. He’s not bad, actually.

And then I see it. A hard corner, poking out below the drawings. I push the sheets aside and reveal the true secret of this drawer: a notebook with little hearts and flowers outlined on the cover. The largest heart is in the middle, and written inside it is From NP. His girlfriend, I assume, though I can't seem to remember any girls at Watford with those initials. (A Normal, maybe?) (How scandalous for a Pitch.)

I sit back, peering at the book in my hands. Surely it's filled with romantic poems, or sappy love songs, or otherwise vile expressions of passion, from both him and the unlucky lady. Prime blackmail material.

I try to open the book, eager to see what's written inside, but it won’t budge. It must be spelled shut.

“Open sesame,” I hiss. The book springs open in my hands, and I lean back against Baz’s bed, admittedly proud of my spellwork.

The first page has a date written at the very top, one that's not exactly recent. I have to do some mental math to recognize it as just before our first day of classes at Watford. Intrigued, I start reading.

Being back at Watford is not nearly as cathartic as I had hoped it would be.

I frown. Is cathartic a good thing or a bad thing?

I wish you were here.

'You'? Does that mean the girlfriend?

I miss you. And I don't know if I can stand being here without you. I feel like I'm the only sane person here. You wouldn't believe who the Crucible just paired me with.

So this is from the day when Baz and I became roommates. But who was he writing to? Maybe it was a Normal girlfriend after all-- a tragic story of lovers who couldn't see each other because she wasn't allowed at Watford. I'm just surprised he was dating so early. And if he still has the book, does that mean he still loves her?

I continue.

Simon Snow is the most beautiful idiot I have ever met.

I think that's actually the nicest thing he's ever said about me.

And the Mage is insufferable.

I pout. What does he get out of complaining about the Mage so much? And what girlfriend would want to read his rants?

I skip to a later page.

Today, Snow forgot how to spell demolish when writing me what was supposed to be a threatening note. I couldn't stop laughing.

Flushing, I turn to another section.

Snow fell right on his face when--

Skip.

I can't believe Snow actually--

Skip.

And when Snow was--

Skip.

He was gorgeous.

I freeze, stopping to reread the sentence. Surely that doesn't say what I think it does?

Snow cried last night. He was gorgeous. How does he do that? Even when he’s yelling and sobbing, he still looks like a bloody model. I can't stand it.

I swallow hard, glancing at the top of the page. It's from a few days ago-- the day after the chimera.

It's like he's trying to make me soft. How could I not comfort him? I think I would have died if I'd had to see him so upset any longer.

I know he already told me he comforted me that night. He admitted it when we were stuck in here. But it feels different, reading his perspective directly.

I hate seeing him upset. But I'm usually the reason he's upset. It's all a damn self-destructive cycle that makes me want to

and then there's something frantically scratched out, standing out from his neat handwriting. I wonder what it said, but I'm also not sure I want to know.

I'm in too fucking deep to stop now. But for just one night, I wanted to be there for him, as backwards and asinine as that is. I wanted him to

More scratched out writing.

I just wanted to

Scribbles of ink again.

I hate that I know exactly what he looks like when he cries.

The rest of the page is blank, but that sentence doesn't feel like a proper ending.

He doesn't like seeing me upset? He wants to comfort me all the time? He hates seeing me cry? It doesn't sound like Baz. And I'm getting the feeling this isn't meant for a girlfriend.

I go back a few pages, scanning for something, anything, that might explain all of this. Why he can’t go a paragraph without mentioning my name. Why he’d make me cry when he doesn’t really want to. Why he goes from attacking me to comforting me to pushing me down the stairs to holding me as I fall asleep.

I’m so in love. And I hate it.

In love?

I would do anything if it meant I didn’t have to be in love with

“Snow.”

My head jerks up, and I meet Baz’s gaze.

“What in the World of Mages do you think you’re doing?” He asks. His eyes are cold grey, like impenetrable steel.

“I… uh…” Well, I’m reading his diary, aren’t I?

He stalks towards me, and I can see him starting to lose his grip. His expression is slipping out of its calm disinterest into something dangerous.

“Give that back,” he growls. “It’s not yours.”

For some reason, I hold it tight, like I have a reason to protect it.

“Don’t test me, Snow.” But he doesn’t look like he’s going to bite my head off. His face is all red, but it’s blotchy, and his eyes are shining. I think he’s going to cry. “Just-- just give me the damn book.”

“You love someone?” I ask, like an idiot.

His hand shakes as he grabs the book, trying to tug it out of my grip. “That’s none of your business.”

“Who’s N. P.?” I insist. “Your Normal girlfriend? Is that why you can’t see her?”

He takes a deep breath, expression shifting a few times. I think he’s trying to calm himself down. “N. P. for…” He shakes his head. “For Natasha Pitch.”

My stomach drops to the floor, and my grip on the book loosens enough that he’s able to snatch it away. He clutches it to his stomach like it’s made of glass.

“She was going to give it to me when I started school,” he mumbles. “To celebrate, and so she could be with me all the time, even when she was busy.” He won’t meet my eyes. “Obviously she… she’ll never really read it. But I write to her.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it.

He glares at me with a passion I’ve never seen before. “How much did you read?”

“Not much,” I lie. “The first entry.”

“You asked me if I was in love,” he reminds me. “How much did you read?”

I swallow. “I… didn’t see who.”

He grits his teeth, pulling his wand from his sleeve. He casts a spell I don’t hear, and the book glows for a moment. He shoves it under the artworks and slams the drawer shut. The sound echoes in my mind for a few seconds.

“Give me my damn jumper,” he hisses, and my face flushes as I remember the point of this escapade. I pull it over my head and toss it to him. He throws it onto his bed, still crumpled into a ball, and grunts, “I’m going to take a shower.” I think it’s because of the tears threatening to spill, but I just nod.

He disappears into the restroom with a change of clothes, and I’m left leaning against his bed.

I didn’t see who he’s in love with, that’s true. But my mind is swimming with everything I did see. What he said about wanting to make me happy. How I made him regret everything he did to me. How his causing my misery was a “self-destructive cycle.” And really, there’s only so much that could mean.

I glance to the door of the restroom. I can hear the water start to run.

Carefully, I pull open the drawer again. I pick up the notebook and try again, keeping my voice low. “Open sesame.” It pops open in my hands, and I gently turn. the pages to find my place.

I would do anything if it meant I didn’t have to be in love with Simon Snow.

I’m frozen in place for a moment, gears turning.

I close the book, too panicked to think of a spell to lock it, and shove it into the drawer, closing it quietly. I’m scared he’ll hear how loud my heart is pounding in my ears.

I stand, find one of my own jumpers in my wardrobe, and slip out of the room. I need some time to think.