#As good as dead fanfic

[smallsinger5901]

A little snippet of the As Good As Dead fanfic I’m currently writing! It’ll be a fairly short multi-part fic, taking place just after Pip escapes from her abduction. (Edit 16/6/24: that ‘fairly short’ fic is now the longest agggtm series fic on all of ao3) What if Pip decided to make Hawkins believe her another way? Pip sees Jason Bell’s car pull into the driveway and decides to keep running. She stays in hiding, leaving clues for Ravi to solve the mystery of her disappearance and ‘murder’- but can Ravi ever make the police believe him?

[ineedhjalp]

*cradles fictional character’s face in my hands* *gently kisses their forehead* i’m going to make you wish you were never born

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Daryl was surprised to see you standing on the other side of his door. He'd limped himself over from the couch, expecting Carol to be dropping off yet another strange casserole concoction, and he'd debated about answering at all, unsure if he could stomach another baked tray of decade expired sardines and random foraged ingredients. "Oh—hey," he said, his stomach jumping into his chest at the mere sight of you.

"Aren't you supposed to be horizontal?" you asked him, glancing at the swelling and deep bruising on his ankle. It was so swollen he couldn't even get a sock or shoe on it comfortably.

"Uhh—yer the one who knocked on my door," he retorted.

"Yeah, well, I tried to let myself in—" you brushed past him and his eyes followed you, "—but it was locked."

"Expecting someone you don't want to see?" you asked, turning to glance at him with an eyebrow cocked up.

"Mostly Carol's idea of apocalypse cookin'," he said, shutting the door and hobbling a few steps toward you. Your brow creased as you watched his careful steps.

You sighed, frowning softly. "Get back on the couch and off that ankle," you demanded.

"Did ya need somethin'?" he asked, curious why you were even there in the first place. "From you? In that condition? Absolutely not. Now go get off that damn ankle!"

Daryl obeyed this time. There were sharp pains shooting up his shin.

"Well, why didya come? Just to boss me around?"

You smiled at him, just a little one, but it touched the corners of your eyes and Daryl's heart started to race, as it always did.

"Well, despite what the others think, I happen to know your secret, Daryl," you said.

His heart, which had just been rushing, now seemed to still for a moment. "W—what?" You knew? How did you know? Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. You'd figured out that he was completely, 100%, head-over-heels for you. He didn't know how you'd put it together, what little thing he'd done, but you knew. And you were here to—what? Confront him? You set your bag down and brushed your hair out of your eyes, preoccupied while he stood completely still like an idiot, gaping at you. Wait—what had you said? 'Despite what the others think...' "My secret?" he somehow managed thickly, his tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth, as if he'd downed half a bottle of whiskey. "Yeah," you said, your smile growing into a wide grin. "Your secret. Everyone else says you want to be left alone, but I'm pretty sure you secretly enjoy being taken care of. And that's why I'm here."

He heaved a sigh of... relief? "Oh," he drawled, throwing in a low laugh, though it sounded somewhat unnatural to his ears. He ran a hand back through his wavy hair nervously, ruffling it.

"You need to stay off your feet. You can't be walking on that ankle or it will never heal. And anything you need, I'll be here."

"Anythin'?" he drawled, his face flushing subconsciously. "Might be a bit too generous."

You grinned back at him. "I don't think so."

Prompt: "Despite what the others think, I happen to know your secret." A/N: Having a great time in Switzerland! It's such a stunning country <3 Hope you appreciate this awkward Daryl as much as I do!

[tragedy-machine]

Something something Crystal gets kidnapped by a demon and Edwin concludes that the best course of action would be to go visit the demon (somewhere incredibly dangerous, not hell, but with a big chance of him perishing if something goes wrong, and only Edwin can access that place bcs of his connection to hell)

He's friends with Crystal now, so he's willing to risk it, so he tells Charles to wait for him and goes to mirror hop, but Charles stops him with a desperate grab.

And Edwin is trying to comfort him like

"Charles, if anything happens to me, you can just peacefully pass on after a few years with Crystal, it's fine."

Charles's entire demeanor goes cold. There's no flaming fury in him, he just turns more serious than Edwin has ever seen him, so beyond mad that he appears calm.

"No." And when Edwin wants to argue, he hardens further. "I said no! Not up for a discussion. For now we've got to focus on finding another way to save Crystal, but later, we'll talk about this." And he firmly pulls a speechless, and frankly nervous, Edwin away.

Of course they save Crystal without Edwin needing to risk his entire existence, and when it's all over, Charles grabs his hand, intertwines their fingers and drags a very reluctant Edwin up to the roof.

Charles doesn't give Edwin a chance to even open his mouth.

"Edwin, I told you you're the most important person in the world to me, didn't I? What about that don't you understand? I really care about Crystal, but I would never allow you to risk your existence for her, me, or anyone else for that matter. There's no "I'll just pass on." There's no afterlife for me without you. I don't want it! Having you ripped away from me would break me. Edwin, I need you. I need you the most. I love you the most."

[danaris112]

Every day that passes in the Marauders fandom I become more and more of a multishipper

[darylssunshine]

A Little Bit Dangerous, But, Baby, That's How I Want It

warnings: stockholm syndrome, f in v, swearing, TWD violence

genre: smut

era: reapers

word count: 2.1k

a/n: no I don't condone actual stockholm syndrome obviously, but I am deranged and have Fantasies.

~~~

The tightness of the ropes was harsh against your wrists, the skin growing red and raw. Your ankles were bound as well, to the legs of a metal folding chair, with your hands behind your back and a rag fastened over your mouth. You moved your hands around again, trying to find a loose spot, but it was to no avail. Those ropes held you, and held you down good.

—

The Reapers had found you in the forest, scavenging for food with Maggie and Gabriel. You had gotten separated from your companions to avoid a herd of walkers, finding an abandoned cabin in the process. Musty and ever so slowly falling apart, but it had four walls, a roof, and it hid you from the dead, so you were sold. 

The herd was almost past your cabin when you saw a couple of masked figures dressed in all black stride towards your cabin, knives in hand. You quickly ducked behind a tattered recliner in the corner of the room. The sound of knives plunging into rotted flesh sounded off before one of the masked figures opened the creaky door of the cabin and entered, with the other following suit. They padded their way through the cabin, making stealthy footsteps and slamming open every door to check for scavengers.

Just as the two of them were concluding that there was no food or supplies left in the cabin, one of the mysterious figures caught your reflection in a nearby window and dashed to your so-called “hiding spot.” You realized your mistake a second too late, and suddenly the base of a pistol came in rapid contact with the back of your head, feeling yourself fall forward and the world go dark.

—

Your wrists were getting more and more irritated by the second, so you stopped the pointless struggle and looked around to get your bearings. There was a window on the right wall with blinds that were shut, providing not a lot of light, but enough to see what was around you. Though, there wasn't a lot to see. It was a gray, brick room. It was presumably built for the torture of others, considering how empty it was, and that there was a window next to the wooden entrance door so that people on the outside of the room could see whatever sick and depraved things were happening on the inside. 

As soon as you were about to try to get the leg restraints loose, you heard heavy boot steps just outside of the door and the click of the lock being unlocked. Your breath hitched beneath the cloth that binded your mouth. You stopped whatever movement you were doing to stare at the door, waiting for the masked people to come and kill you slowly and painfully.

What came through that door wasn't a menacing looking masked figure, however. It was a tall, broad shouldered, brunette older looking man. He was dressed in a long sleeve button up black shirt, black jeans, a black leather vest, and dark brown combat boots. He had a hunting knife sheathed on his belt. His face was rugged and wounded, the most noticeable being a red and jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the rest of the scar being about an inch from his eye. It was the face of a man that has seen, and done, a lot of things. 

You were taken out of your thoughts when you heard the stomping of his combat boots come towards you. Before he even stops walking, you spit on the ground in front of him and mumble, “I’m not telling you anything, you sack of shit.”

“So tha’s how ‘s gonna be, huh?” He questioned, one eyebrow raised. 

He began slowly walking around the metal chair, reading you, drinking you in.

“Wrists hurt?” He asked rhetorically, noticing the harsh rash blossoming from the base of your wrist. He watched the back of your head as you were unresponsive, refusing to give him anything to work with. 

He leisurely walked around to your front, with you looking back at him, trying, and failing, to look intimidating. He got down on one knee to speak with you face to face, eyes stern and unwavering. “Jus’ tell me where yer friends are. It don’t haveta be like this.”

“Go to hell.” You responded immediately. The brunette man sighed and gave you a rough punch to the jaw. You yelped and lolled your head to the side, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“I can go all night, Gimme a location, sweetheart.” He said lowly, flexing the hand that just pounded into your jaw. 

“Go. To. Hell.” You emphasized through gritted teeth. The next punch was straight to the left eye, so hard that it was sure to leave a nasty black eye. He then suddenly unsheathed his silver hunting knife and started flipping it in his hand absentmindedly.

“We saw who they were. A country girl ‘n a preacher. We can either find ‘em with yer help, or we’ll find ‘em, and before we kill ‘em, I’ll tell ‘em both how I killed ya, nice ‘n slow. Yer choice.” As the man was saying this, he leaned over, painstakingly slow, to put his knife to the base of your neck, his face inches from yours. 

Unfortunately for you, your stern demeanor faltered. Your breath hitched when you felt the cold blade pressed firmly to your neck combined with the man’s warm breath hitting your face. You were so scared that you were trembling, but also there was another feeling you had in that moment that you couldn’t quite place. “I’m n… not telling you anything.” You avoided his gaze like the plague, knowing that the man was catching on to how he was already breaking down your walls. 

“Huh? What was tha’? Use yer words.” He interrogated. He placed his hand on your knee and used it as leverage to lean impossibly closer, the knife nearly breaking the skin. Almost unconsciously, your eyes drifted from the man to his hand. It was so large, it could easily surround your relatively small hands. His fingers were so long and thick, and the veins. He had too many for you to count. There was dirt and a small amount of oil under his fingernails, implying that he worked with his hands every day. Maybe a car guy? Those hands could easily snap your fragile neck without a second thought, and it made you breathe heavier than you already were.

“Hey. Hey!” He moved his hand from your knee to roughly pull your hair back, causing the back of your head to slam against the back of the chair you were tied to. That got your attention. Also, earned a high pitched yelp from you. 

“Did ya even hear wha’ I jus’ said?” He asked, not as rough as just moments before but still firm. 

You decided to finally tell the truth. “No… I was… looking at your hand.” You said sheepishly, not looking him in the eye.

This time, the man falters, leaning back to get a good look at you. He eyed you up and down and smirked. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“N-Nothing. No reason.” You blabber out, honestly a little embarrassed that you told the truth, considering that you were supposed to be getting tortured at that moment.

He roughly tugged on your hair again, your head coming in violent contact back of the chair again, making your head fuzzy. Your eyes were half-lidded when they find the man’s piercing blue ones. “I… uh… think it’s hot.”

It looked like something clicked with the man in front of you. He eyed you once again while unconsciously licking his lips and smoothly resheathing his knife. He got down on both knees to properly look you in the face. To properly get you all hot and bothered. The same hand that was on your knee mere moments ago raised up to your throat, squeezing hard. Your eyes became wide and he chuckled maliciously. 

“Tell me what you want me to do with ‘em then.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly becoming very dry. You very much noticed the resistance on your throat when you swallowed, and he knows you did too.

“Touch me.” 

The man gave another laugh in response with how brazen you were with your desires. With one had still clutching your throat, he moved his other hand up your leg in a teasing manner. 

“Here?” He rubbed his thumb on your knee before continuing.

“Here?” His calloused fingers rubbed the inside of your thigh, and he could feel them tremble at his touch.

“Here?” He rubbed the crotch area of your thin shorts, already feeling how wet you were from him. For him. He thumbed at your clit, earning a soft whine from you. 

“Yeah? This where ya want me?”

“Yes.” You responded desperately, letting him know that you do, in fact, want this.

He then slowly removed his hand from your throat, resting both hands on your hips for a moment before starting to lower your pants and underwear. The process is excruciatingly slow, his hands rubbing up and down your ass and then your inner thighs. He finally gets your pants and underwear down to your ankles, then yanks both articles of clothing off. Your silky, red panties get shoved in his back pocket while your shorts get thrown behind him haphazardly.

His calloused hands then started making quick work untying the restraints around your ankles, getting them both off in about ten seconds. Without even exchanging words, you knew what he was doing. You swiftly wrapped your legs around his torso, adjusting so he would have the best angle.

“Good girl.” He rasped. You clenched over nothing.

He rubbed his hand dangerously close to your cunt, while his other arm was casually resting on your other leg. Like this is just a normal night for him.

“This hand? Ya want this?” He motioned to his hand with his icy blues.

You languidly nodded.

“Then beg.”

A strangled gasp forced its way out of your mouth at his comment. You then forced your brain out of its lust induced haze to come up with a coherent thought. “Ple… Please.”

He smirked, teasing your folds. “Name’s Daryl, by the way. Say my name if ya wanna be a whiny bitch.”

You were getting more needy by the second, trying to buck your hips to get even a little friction. “Please, Daryl.” Your voice was airy and you struggled to get your breathing under control.

He then shoved two shoved two fingers deep into your pussy, not even caring to stretch you out first. 

A strangled scream forcefully leaving your throat, you throw your head back in ecstasy. His- Daryl’s long, thick fingers fit perfectly inside you, almost like they were two pieces of the same puzzle. You arched your back as far as your arm restraints could let you, craving even more of his touch. You needed to feel his bulging biceps. You needed to pull and tug at his hair in desperation. You needed him. 

His pace was slow and excruciating.

Daryl spoke with a rasp. “Ya like bein’ tied up like this? Bein’ exposed? Huh? Little slut?”

All he got in response were fast deep breaths.

“Answer ‘n I’ll go faster. Told ya ta use yer words.”

Your brain was temporarily paralyzed hearing his accent get thicker, so you had to physically shake your head to snap out of your daze. “Yes. Yes, Daryl. Yes. I’m your slut.” You struggled to breathe out.

His eyebrows raised in a smirk as he quickened the pace. Unholy moans and whines left your mouth, not caring if anyone else hears. High pitched yelps and a tight feeling in your gut started when he continuously hit your sweet spot, his finger curving inside you. Your eyes were beginning to roll back, completely consumed by your hunger for Daryl. For only Daryl. 

“I- I’m gonna-”

“‘S fine. Let go, sunshine.”

With a few more pumps to your sweet spot, you did what you were told and let go. Your whole world was blurry and you felt lightheaded, but it was the best you’ve felt in a while. And no one has ever made you feel quite that good.

Daryl stood up and waited patiently for you to come down from your high, licking his fingers clean and grabbing your discarded shorts. 

You finally came back down to the same astral plane as the man now standing next to you and gazed at him with adoration. “Holy shit.”

The brunette chuckled and your dazed state. “‘Holy shit’ is right.”

He then suddenly went behind you and loosened your arm restraints. You looked over your shoulder in surprise. 

“What happened to wanting to know information?” You cocked your head.

He kneeled back down to caress your face. “Fuck yer friends. I only want you.”

[noodlewritez]

Orange crush

Pairings: Carl Grimes X GN!reader

Warnings: fluff, carl being kind of an idiot, little bit of a drabble sorry :P Also i’m working on a lot of asks right now, so dw they’re coming soon🫶

Ever since you could remember, you and Carl had been best friends, growing up together when he joined Alexandria, when he got his eye shot by your ex boyfriend...

But you had noticed you had developed romantic feelings for your best friend, holding hands with him, kissing each other on the cheek...but you didn't think he had feelings for you? And you were fine with that, after all, you didn't want to lose him after everything you two had been through together.

Rick or Michonne would tease him about having a crush on you and he would immediately go red and throw a puzzled look. "No, I don't like them...Me and Y/N are just affectionate... Can't best friends be affectionate?"

"Best friends don't leave hickeys on each other, Carl..." One of them would say.

"It's platonic!"

Or the way you would stay over at the Grimes' house and come downstairs in his shirt and some jeans. Rick and Michonne would look at each other and roll their eyes. Holding each other's hands when you went on a run, talking about how you guys would end up living together, in the middle of nowhere.

And when he did realize? Oh boy...

You were in Carl's room, reading comics together, you were laying on his chest and he sat up, looking alarmed. You sat up too, looking at him with worry. "What? What's wrong?" You tried staying quiet in case he was hearing something. "I think I like you...?" You roll your eyes. "You just now noticed?" You smile and he looks at you puzzled. "Carl, we make out all the time...?"

"It was platonic!" He would try to reason while his face turned red.

[notbecauseofvictories]

sometimes I think they put some sort of...aural drug in mediocre movies. If I played all these thoroughly middling movies in reverse, would I hear a satanic message telling me, YOU WILL BE TEMPTED BEYOND ALL REASON TO WRITE FANFIC ABOUT---YES, THE MOVIE YOU HALF-WATCHED WHILE COOKING AND ANSWERING EMAILS. YES. YES, I---YES, I'M SERIOUS. YES, THIS MOVIE. THE CHARACTERIZATION OR LACK THEREOF MAKES NO DIFFERENCE. UH HUH. MHM. YEP. LOOK, I DON'T MAKE THE RULES, I JUST WORK HERE OKAY?

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

------------

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[smallsinger5901]

My all time favourite line from each chapter of MBTY!

Chapter one: They took our girl away from home

Chapter two: As long as you call me

Chapter three: Silly girl

Chapter four: Latent content

Chapter five: Oh distant you

And a bonus:

[khorazir]

Ink and watercolour illustration inspired by the marvellous Payneland fic A Good Detective Does What He Needs To by @soulfulsam42

It’s also for today’s @dbdpromptober : Light

For tomorrow’s prompt, I’m going to try my hand at a little animation ...

[demelzathemer]

WHY are dead boy detectives fanfic writers so MANY and so TALENTED??? I CANNOT KEEP UP (I am making a collection of the best titles, by hand, and another collection of the best writers, just so I can remember to go back and read the rest of their stuff later)

[ahyperactivehero]

I know most people who do AUs for dead boy detectives like to make Crystal and Charles already friends and Niko and Edwin already friends, but I think it would be waaay more fun and possibly even realistic to do it the other way around.

Crystal and Edwin interacting like bickering siblings until someone insults one of them, and then the other has to shut that shit down because only THEY get to bully each other.

Niko and Charles becoming friends because Niko, despite being so incredibly kind, is also painfully shy and Charles has never met a stranger. He would march straight up to her and be like, 'cool, guess we're friends now!' and that would be it.

Like, I get that Edwin and Niko are a lot alike, and that's why I think it would be sweet to have her be Charles's friend, because then Charles doesn't have to worry about if his new crush would get along with his friend, because they immediately hit it off! And Crystal wouldn't have to worry about whether or not Edwin's crush on Charles was a good idea or not, because that boy is so protective he would rival even her!

[fru1tb3tz]

I can't decide if I want Will to have a shitty dead-beat and abusive dad, or a really good dad who fucking dies.

decisions, decisions...

[lupiinist]

i like the idea that lily is one of the smartest people in hogwarts but she's also just like

very clumsy. she drops things, she trips on air, and she's very unlucky too, gum sticks randomly on her hair (mary or marlene always cuts the tips of her hair every month or so because of that), and everytime something like that happens, she makes an odd sound as she snorts and laughs.

because yes, she's clumsy and unlucky, but she's surprisingly positive about it, she finds everything to be very funny, and mary and marlene are so used to it by now that they're always ready to hold her before she falls, take her out of the way of something that's being thrown, or just hold something she dropped before it breaks.

i like lily being a bit of a mess, let her be a bit of a failgirl as a treat, she's adorable, and she's a genius!!!!

(also, mary can't help but look so, so fond and in love with her whenever lily laughs when she trips on the hem of her robes, like she makes the entire day brighter just by smiling)

[beastbeneathemoonlight]

Man I just gotta say big shoutout to fanfic writers literally the goddamn backbone of fandoms, this is your friendly reminder to give fanfic's on ao3 kudoses and comments, like if you rereading something TELL THE AUTHOR THAT HOWL INTO THE COMMENTS FOR ALL I CARE