Weasley Twin Imagines

Smooth Talkin', So Rockin' // G.W.

Warnings: none - fluff, kissing, singing.

Word count: 1.9k

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Kicking off your shoes, you wander further into the dormitory. You shuck off your outer robes, discarding them on an empty bed before shaking your hair out of its ponytail and rubbing your scalp with your nails. You sigh happily at the feel of your loose hair; ponytails were all well and good until three quarters through the day when the headache starts to set in, and your attention begins to drift.

The exam season had started three weeks ago; NEWTs tied in with further career aptitude tests. It's been three weeks of stress tied in with little breaks. Honestly, if you even felt another piece of parchment, it would be too soon in your opinion.

The first taste of fresh air after finishing your final exam this morning had been nothing but sweet. The relief burst through your veins and made its way onto your face in the form of a large smile.

The smile hadn't left your face – not as you sprinted from the exam hall, not as you uttered the password to George's common room, and not as you spy something sitting on the windowsill.

The record player sits on the windowsill in his room; a slight sheen of dust settled over it – it had been some weeks since you had sat and listened to some music. The exam period had soon fallen upon you both; becoming so busy that taking the time to simply listen to some music had you panicking about your grades and how they would be affected should you stop revising for even a minute.

George had tried his best to reassure you; he had even offered to play music whilst you were studying in his room, but you declined the kind offer. You needed silence in order to focus; any music would distract you and your anxiety would fly through the roof.

Studying the record player now, you don't miss the fact that George could have had every opportunity to play music and relax, but at the sight of the dust and the fact that it remains undisturbed tells you that he only really prefers listening to music when you're around.

You bite your lip at the thought; warmth surging through you as you think of George choosing to wait for you both to be done with exams so you could listen and enjoy music completely stress free.

Pulling off your tie and throwing it on his bed, you drag out his collection of records. Thumbing through, you can't help but marvel a little at the span of artists and dates George has hidden away under his bed. He owns genres of all kinds from fifties doo-wop to eighties hair metal to nineties grunge. He has it all; under his bed and ready to play and fit whatever mood he should find himself in.

You tap your finger on your cheek as you make your selections; taking care to place them on his bed before sliding the rest of his collection back under his bed.

Remaining on your knees, you shuffle to his trunk. Out of all his clothing, his Quidditch jersey had to be your favourite. Pulling it out his trunk, you hold it up to your face, inhaling the scent that is so uniquely him – broom oil, honeysuckle and mown grass. You remember smelling it for the first time; getting a whiff of it through your potions lesson as you brewed it with your friend. Your friend, Margot, had teased you relentlessly for your realisation that day – the Hufflepuff crushing on the Gryffindor, but it had paid off.

George approached you later that week; confessing to you what he had smelled in the cauldron before asking you out.

Smiling at the memory, you shrug off you school blouse and replace it with George's jersey, rather liking the way his name is splayed across your back for all to see. You remove your skirt; digging around for a pair of leggings you had left in his trunk after getting caught short on too many occasions. The Hufflepuff common room was such a long walk away from the Gryffindor one; too many times you had had to make that walk minus a random piece of clothing as you had forgotten it or lost it in the heat of the moment.