#brain thomas x reader

[ieatcreepypastaforbreakfast]

Hello and welcome to my page! My names Tricky. I do creepypasta fanfic, been into creepypasta since i was like 6 lmao.

RULES AND SHIT

Please do not message me. I'm really bad at responding and i used to have an old tumblr account and i was just heavily bullied

I am autistic, as well as that i'm really bad at spelling so please don't mind the spelling mistakes i try and check them before uploading

Please do not request NSFW/SMUT i do not like that type of stuff.

If i don't do your request please understand it's really hard for me to do requests and stuff and it's not because i thought it was bad :D

HERE ARE THE CHARACTERS I DO

MARBLE HORNETS

TIM WRIGHT

JAY MERRICK <3333

CALM DOWN IT'S OKAY SERIES

Calm Down It's Okay I

Calm Down It's Okay II

ALEX KRALIE

BRAIN THOMAS

CREEPYPASTA

TICCI TOBY

JANE THE KILLER

EYELESS JACK

JEFF THE KILLER

[maskysluvr]

pleasee . i’ve been thinking abt this everyday since its came out 🥲 .

I just want Brian to pull down my panties, cum in them, lift them back up, and send me on my way. I am down tremendously-

content/warnings: noncon, physical restraint, reader is AFAB and wears panties but no gender is specified, “cunt” and “pussy” used to describe reader’s genitalia, thigh fucking, pervert Brian, no actual penetrative sex, reader gets jumped in the woods, little to no build up/plot it’s just straight into the porn

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out. Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Without warning you’re suddenly shoved to the ground, a heavy weight coming down on your back to keep you there. You yelp in surprise as you feel a body land on top of yours, pushing you into the dirt and sending a sharp pain through your ribs as they bend beneath the force of two people. 

Your attempt to yell out is swiftly cut short when a gloved hand tangles itself in your hair, gripping it tightly as it muffles your cries with the soft dirt on the forest floor. You can feel the small rocks hidden in the soil leaving scrapes on your cheeks as you thrash.

The stranger’s second hand comes down on your back, grabbing at your waist to pull your ass into the air as he hastily, almost clumsily pulls up the bottom of your shirt. He fumbles with the waistband of your shorts, fingers slipping over your button as the fabric of his glove fights with him. He lets up on your hair for one second just so he can use both hands, violently yanking at the fasten of your jeans until it surrenders to his efforts with a harsh ripping sound. He pulls your zipper down so fast it nearly breaks, and even quicker still he’s jerking your shorts down your hips and then your thighs. You’re only allowed to lift your head long enough to cough and spit, wincing at the feeling of dirt in your teeth. You manage to turn and look back at your attacker for only a split second before your face is back against the ground. You whimper against the earth as the sight of the hooded man flashes before your eyes. 

You swear that you can hear him chuckle under his breath at the squeal that crawls up your throat as you feel him pulling eagerly at your panties. You thrash against him as much as you can, but despite your best efforts the pressure on your head and back keeps you disoriented. It’s clear what he wants, though; he lets up just a bit when you sit still. You’re tiring yourself out fast, and you both know it.

You shiver when your panties are pulled down to your knees, resting against the ground and exposing your delicate cunt to the eyes of this aggressive pervert. He smiles under his mask, an expression of absolute debauchery hidden behind black fabric and a sewn on red frown that’ll be burned into your memory forever. 

The strangled noise you let out when you feel him rut against your waiting pussy through his jeans is mortifying. The denim and its metal button are harsh against your sensitive flesh as the stranger practically humps you like a wild dog, hard on twitching in his pants. You can hear him huffing through his mask, breathing heavily through the gaps in his gritted teeth. He’s desperate, nearly rabid with need for a reason that’s beyond you. 

You freeze when you hear him fumble with his zipper, gloved knuckles brushing your back as he struggles with only thing keeping him restrained. A heavy gasp makes your body shake when you suddenly feel the already leaking tip of his cock brush against your thigh. 

“W-Wait, don’t—!” You stammer, thrashing even harder in his grip with the last of your energy. He shushes you harshly, fingers tightening harshly in your hair as a warning. 

“Don’t be so loud,” He whispers, “You’re fine. I ain’t gonna hurt ya unless you make me…” 

You squeak in surprise when his cock slides between your trembling thighs. You instinctively squeeze your legs together, only to cringe when he moans in response. He lets out a shuddering sigh of pleasure as he repositions himself over you, finally releasing your hair only to pin your hands down, wrapping your body in his to keep you still as he starts to thrust. The noises that are pulled from your throat every time he pushes forward are viscerally humiliating, especially the way your voice cracks when his shaft just barely brushes your clit, not once threatening to break through your entrance but taking horrid delight in using it for his own pleasure. He’s shameless in the noise he makes, huffing and groaning in your ear and cursing under his breath every time he moves. 

He barely keeps a steady pace, his desperation becoming apparent with each thrust. You can feel his cock twitch against your thighs as it slides between them, able to feel every vein that runs up the side, all of them pumping hard and fast with adrenaline and primal need. You shudder to think what it would’ve felt like had he decided to use your hole instead.

“H-Haah…you’re…g-getting wet,” He growls in your ear, as though it’s an insult. It may as well be. You whine and turn away from him, biting your lip and ignoring the fact that you can feel yourself soaking his cock and it slides against your cunt. 

You can feel him starting to tremble, and you know in an instant he won’t last much longer. You suck in a breath, silently hoping whatever he chooses to do won’t leave a mess on your back or thighs. You won’t be able to deal with it until you’ve made the trek all the way back down the trail. 

“Gonna…g-gonna cum—“ He whispers through gritted teeth. His hands squeeze around yours, grip getting tighter and tighter, almost to a painful degree as he chases his release with reckless abandon. He’s staring to lose whatever little bit of restraint he has left, and fast. 

All at once his resolve collapses, guttural noises of pleasure falling from his lips as his hips slam erratically against you. He barely manages to choke out one last word of warning before suddenly he stops, cock head barely nestled between your thighs as his entire body tenses and shakes with the force of an orgasm that nearly makes him cry out. He barely manages to strangle the sound before it leaves his throat, cock twitching as it releases hard and fast. You cringe in anticipation of feeling the sticky warmth trail down your thighs, but the sensation never comes. After a few moments you sigh, relieved to have been granted this one small mercy. 

You’re too dazed and dizzy to move when he finally gets up off of you. You stay on the ground despite your humiliating position, and despite the wicked chuckle your attacker allows to slip. 

His boots crunch on the ground, and for a moment you think he’s just going to walk away, leave you here to take care of yourself. Then you feel your panties being slid back up your thighs. You can only be confused for a moment before you’re struck with the uncomfortable feeling of your warm, soaking panties squeezing around the mound of your cunt. The substance is thick and unbearably sticky, not to mention far too much for it to have come from you, especially without an orgasm. 

You flinch and squeal as he fastens your shorts back in place around your waist, tightly keeping your panties in place and making sure you can’t escape the feeling of his cum soaking your pussy and threatening to stain your jeans. 

He stands back up, buttoning his jeans and adjusting his pants a bit before shoving his hands back in the pocket of his faded yellow hoodie. He’s silent for a moment, admiring his work with a hidden smirk spread across his face. 

“Better get walkin’, sweetheart,” He teases, toe of his boot nudging your pussy through your shorts, “It’s a loooong way home.”

[seleneprince]

The villainesses want the divorce!

After meeting a tragic end together, Mrs Wayne and her daughters find themselves reincarnating into the bodies of their younger selves...from another universe.

In this world, their counterparts suffered from their own abrupt deaths, leaving their souls to merge in the wake of the loss, and coming back with the memories of both of their lives now bound in one person respectively.

As if that wasn't hard enough to deal with, turns out that in this alternative universe, the three of them are well-known "villains", petty and infamously evil, whose bad deeds are the reason they eventually wind up dead. And all because...they just wanted the dynsfunctional family of bats' love? And were so jealous of the "main characters" for getting it that they committed to idiotic plots to harass them and get rid of them?!

Sorry but no. Not this time, babes.

Their lives are too precious to waste on chasing after men. Seriously, what were their stupid counterparts thinking?

So, in order to enjoy this second chance they've miraculously gotten and avoid such pathetic deaths, they come up with a simple solution:

"Bruce, dear, I want the divorce."

"Oh, and the girls are coming with me."

It's perfect. Easy, because Bruce Wayne will no doubt jump at the opportunity to erase them from his life. As soon as they're no longer tied to the Waynes, they won't have to worry about suffering the consequences of this gothic telenovela anymore. They will finally make the best out of this new life and enjoy without dealing with those stupid vigilantes.

Nothing can go wrong. There's no way.

What's he going to do? Refuse?

"We'll make them beg for us to leave this house."

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2?

Taglist: @la-patrona-magdalena @therealme13posts, @coldilikeit, @like-thechocolate, @yuyuzi-ling, @luludeluluramblings (can't believe i'm tagging one of my favourite batfam writers ahshdhf), @errorunfound1, @cxcilla

a/n: If you want to be added, ask me or dm me 💖

[laroserie]

i love the idea of joining the batfam by dating bruce, but can you imagine how awkward it must be ?

like you are dating bruce, you most probably know he is batman (he couldn't date seriously someone and never tell them) which is like a huge thing, you probably knew each others for at least 5 years and dated for at least 2 before you even step foot in his house and even then ! you still have never meet any of his adopted kids, he always has a way of avoiding The meeting.

of course - you know who his kids are, bruce is ... literally the it guy of gotham, you very much know the names and faces of his family - but that's it (now if you know their vigilantes identities is different story)

the question is, are they aware of your existence ? (of course alfred is aware; that out of the question, he followed to development of yours and bruce relationship from a to z)

going more for a no, not at the start, bruce has this clumsy dumb bilionaire personality but he probably could not like for you to receive media attention because he doesn't wish for your privacy to be intruded upon because you are dating (now there may have been one instance where the paparazzi took a picture of you and him together, but they could only see you from the back, or your face wasn't visible for whatever reason). they probably learnt about your existence very late into your relationship with bruce, and it's surely by accident, like, one of them see a message from you to bruce (and it's something probably something very cheesy) when he left it somewhere by inadvertence. and depending on who see that, they either fully open bruce's phone (sorry but they all know his phone password, bruce isn't aware of that tho) and read your conversation or they find some others way to have access to his messages with you (that isn't so blatant).

they for sure, do an 'emergency' meeting about it (dick and damian were the two that really wanted to do one, the rest probably don't care that much at that time, they probably think you are just the fling of the month for bruce - well usually the fling of the month is not that ... cheesy with him ? in their messages, and the conversations aren't usually that long ... nor do they go back that much. but whatever ! they do suddenly notice that it's been a while, since, well the last fling of the month of bruce but, it must just be a coincidence) which end up with them keeping tabs on you, just in case

now, you meeting them could happen in two way

either they are the one to meet you first - they don't want to wait for bruce to formally introduce you to them - or them to you. the one that 'lead' this is for sure damian, he is determinate to find out your intention with his father (and fight you), dick will lie and say he is just there to make sure everything go 'well' but he is just genuinely very curious about you and the fact that you are dating bruce - this can go for most of them, tho cass and tim are probably the one that are the most reticent to meeting you ? but nevertheless, they still are here, because they for sure won't let damian and dick have all the 'fun'. now jason, is probably also coming for the shit and giggle.

or you meeting them could happen because of bruce - deciding that it's finally time you meet his kids, so he invite all of them to dinner telling them he was someone he wants them to meet, and telling you explicitly that he wants you to meet his family (and the people that are part of his family but aren't family family) - of course, he could talk about it with you first, he could never force you into that. the meet - dinner, probably do not go in the way bruce hoped for it to go (but truth be told, he wasn't expecting it to go the way he wished it did). it's not awful, nothing bad happen. it's just awkward. one of them (probably jason) let slip that they already knew about you - damian make it very clear that he doesn't accept you (and dick has to try to diffuse the situation and tell you that damian is just joking - damian is not joking and he gives a death glare to dick), tim probably do not say anything of half of the dinner before asking you a weird question about something he should have no information about (like what's up with one of your weird habit / quirk), cass is just silent - she assess you for the entirety of the dinner (she conclude by the end of it that you quite a nice person and that she likes you quite a bit), duke is very kind and is very polite with you (he is a bit apprehensive and isn't sure why he is there but he figures it's because bruce wanted to have at least one regular person treating you normally - dick is too ... enthusiastic for that role)

at the end of said dinner, when bruce is driving you home, it's probably the most silent ride home you have ever experienced. until you burst out laughing - the dinner was probably the funniest shit you experienced. it felt like it came straight out of a shitty tv show with 14 seasons. sure it was very much awkward but still funny ! you reassure bruce that it was fine, though you could have liked a warning.

and ... you can add a yandere twist on it, and i love yandere so ... . some of them (tim and cass and probably dick) could start developing yandere tendencies when they learn of your existence ( and keep 'tab on you' aka stalks you and learn everything they can about you ), the others (damian and jason + eventually steph and duke even though they are probably some of waaay lesser yandere-y yandere) could start becoming like that after they finally meet you in person. damian could be the one to take the most or less time to become attach on you, it depend, but he could go thru a big phase of 'i refuse for you to replace talia, my mother, therefor i will despite your entire existence' but if you try to get closer to him, this phase will end very soon and his barrier melt away, if you want to let him take his time to accept you, the result will be the same but damian will try to make up for the time he hated you.

and of course, yandere bruce could be so happy for you to like / get to know and get closer to his family, and that's one more way he can tie you to him !

[rainrot4me]

Is it weird to say I wanna treat Brian/Hoodie all gently even though I've read your fics of him and how rough and mean he is /lh.. how would your interpretation of him even respond to that, gentle affection and intimate touch that ISN'T filled with a need to get off, just overall love and care for him.

✦ . jeff the killer

Jeff is used to violence. Roughness. Everything in his world is sharp. So when you sit beside him after a mission and slowly run your fingers through his tangled hair, it’s like tossing a match into a snowstorm.

“…You’re not scared of me?”

You kiss his temple. “Nope.”

“You’re weird.” But he leans in a little anyway.

He’s not sure how to process it at first. He might try to push you away with a crude joke, but the second you stop? He panics a little. Eventually, he starts pretending he doesn’t like it just to keep getting more.

✦ . ticci toby

Toby doesn’t do silence well—but you do. And when you pull him into a hug after a rough night, or press a cool cloth to his forehead after one of his tics flares up, he goes still. Like a wild animal caught in a muzzle.

“Why’re you alw-always so nice to me?”

“Because you deserve it, even when you think you don’t.”

He loves being babied when you do it sincerely. Praise and physical affection? Heaven. He may not say it, but he’ll bury his face in your shoulder and breathe in as if you’re the only grounding thing he has.

✦ . eyeless jack

He’s seen the worst of people—inside and out. The intimacy of medicine is constant for him. So when you clean his wounds, or cup his face despite the lack of eyes, it catches him off guard.

“You don’t have to do this. I can take care of myself.”

“I know. Let me anyway.”

You’re one of the only people who can touch him without fear. He doesn’t always show emotion, but if you catch him resting his head on your lap while you hum softly, just know he’s melting on the inside.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim doesn’t like being seen—mask on or off. But when you trace the edges of his jaw, or hold him in the dark and whisper things like “I’m proud of you” or “You’re safe with me”, he cracks.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You’re more than what you’ve done.”

He’ll deny needing it, but he’s touch-starved. Praise-starved. When you show up with a clean hoodie and hot coffee? His hands shake just a little. He’s not used to someone loving him without wanting something back.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Brian takes a long time to trust, and even longer to relax. You’d think he’d stiffen at affection—but once he does let you in? He melts under a gentle hand.

You massage his sore shoulders after missions. You patch him up, talk to him softly, and don’t push when he’s quiet. You don’t treat him like a monster. And that’s everything.

You kiss his hand.

He watches you for a long moment, then murmurs, “…You’re gonna ruin me.”

He returns the favor in small ways: your favorite drink left out for you, food prepped, the blanket already warmed in the dryer. Silently saying I love you too.

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate is always on edge. Aggressive, efficient, brutal in the field. But when you offer soft affection—stroking her hair after a fight, pressing kisses to her temple—she melts, privately.

“Don’t coddle me.”

“I’m not. I’m loving you.”

She’s quiet. She doesn’t pull away.

She won’t ask for care, but she needs it more than anyone. You helping her take off bloodied gear? Brushing dirt from her cheeks? Kissing her knuckles after battle? It calms her. Grounds her. And she’ll return the affection with a quiet kind of intensity that never wavers.

✦ . ben drowned

Ben doesn’t get it at first. He thinks you’re messing with him. When you rub soothing circles on his back or call him “sweetheart,” he short-circuits a little.

“You sure you meant to call me that?”

“You’re cuter than you think.”

“…You’re funny.”

Eventually, he becomes your shadow. He lays his head on your chest while you play games together, lets you fix his hair, and maybe even downloads stupid love songs because they remind him of you. (He’ll deny it.)

✦ . clockwork

Natalie is all sharp edges and guarded smirks, but she longs to be held gently. You touch her scars without flinching. You press kisses to her ticking eye like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“You’re too soft for this world.”

“And you’re softer than you pretend.”

She’ll roll her eyes, but her grip on your waist tightens. After the walls come down, she’ll initiate the affection more often—fiddling with your hair, curling into your side, letting you wash the blood from her hands.

✦ . laughing jack

At first? He’s amused. He calls your soft touch “precious” and acts like he’s above it. But when you clean his face after a messy job, and whisper “You don’t always have to be the entertainment,” it hits somewhere deep.

“You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

“So are you.”

He laughs, but this time, it’s soft.

He becomes fiercely protective of you. He doesn’t know how to say thank you, but you’ll wake up to gifts, sweets, and strange little doodles of you two dancing under stars.

✦ . slenderman

It’s hard to imagine being tender with something so ancient and inhuman—but you do. You rest your head against his chest despite the lack of a heartbeat. You touch his hand without fear.

“Your mind is too fragile for this bond.”

“Then let me break a little.”

He doesn’t show emotion the way others do—but he begins to respond. His tendrils wrap protectively around you at night. He communicates comfort through presence, warmth, and silent understanding. You become the only being who grounds him.

꩜ .ᐟ

[love-toxin]

The way you write Tommy is just UUGH

I just wanna pin him down and ride him until he has nothing left to give :((( like gimme his chunky babies!! 😭🙏

oh noooooooo........my gears are turning......tommy with an obsessed s/o that wants to bump uglies constantly......MMMRRRROOWWWW!!!

he's so flattered, but so edgy about it cause momma can't overhear him engaging in premarital sex!!! especially not the type you like where it's just messy and raw and rough and you leave spit and slick everywhere, all over his hairy chest and his lap and your clothes. you have to do it in the barn in the hayloft and its STILL loud, still so sloppy he has to carry you in the house just so none of his family notice the dark stains on your clothes.

but can he complain? no. cause you're the only one who's ever seen him as a man and not just a mistake, and it's not like he doesn't like seeing you so needy all the time. you could be doing this to any other guy but you wanna do it to him--him! a nobody, a wretched defect like him! you must be an angel. or maybe you're a devil cause you fuck as nasty as one. he loves the scrape of your nails through his hair as you drag them down his sweaty chest, when you're perched like a pretty sculpture on his lap. his thighs jiggle every time you bounce on it--his cock, that's what you call it--and you can't help but grip them, squeeze them for balance but also cause you just love the feel of him everywhere. his belly doesn't bother you nor does the grime and sweat caking his skin, nor the dirt under his fingernails or his maddening, untrimmed bush that radiates out to his thighs like a curly black cloud.

it doesn't matter if he's been working in the slaughterhouse all day, shoveling pig shit, or doing any of his other messy chores. when you give him that look like you wanna eat him right up, he's completely at your mercy and he loves every fucking minute of it. you look at him like he's a piña colada in the desert and you'll die if you don't get a sip.

and that's before you start getting hit with baby fever. suddenly, almost out of the blue, you're picking through baby clothes in the trunks upstairs and finding old rattles and toys that are barely holding together. Tommy's baby bottles that Luda Mae kept and never threw away cause she could never bear to part with her sweet baby's things, even after he'd grown up and out of them. it's the sentiment that really gets you and then you're stuck thinking about babies, not just about what Tommy was like when he was that young, but what your babies together might look like. would they have his nice dark hair? his height? would they be hardworking and loyal like he is? would they be so committed to their family they would...

well, that part isn't important right at the moment. you're more concerned with making the babies than anything else--that's the fun part, after all. you keep dropping hints here and there but it's when Tommy finds you sewing together a stuffed bear he loved as a boy that he really starts thinking. you're so gentle with it. you clean him up and polish his little button eyes and patch up a hole on the arm where Hoyt 'accidentally' burned it with a cigarette while he was drunk. you put him back together and he looks almost brand new, newer than when he first had it and Luda Mae tenderly plucked it out of the dumpster to give to him for his birthday.

he gets it then. that night is deplorable when you two sneak out to the barn. Tommy's just as riled up as you are and when you realize he's not just fucking you for pleasure--this time, he's fucking to breed--your sobs and choked-up squeals have to be muffled by his thick fingers stuffed in your mouth. he hooks them and drags your face closer to his chest for you to suffocate between his pecs, cause he needs both hands to grip your waist and jam you down on his cock like he's shoving a cork back in a wine bottle. you're just so little compared to him and such a tight squeeze, he can't help getting a little rough when he wants in! it's just prepping you for birth. you're gonna need to squeeze out plenty of kids for him after this, and with his size? they're gonna be little monsters to try and deliver, just like he was.

but you love him and that's why you're doing this. that's why you let his nuts drag down your ass on every deep, near-painful thrust, and why you let him beat your cunt like he hates you when there's nothing but pure love and possessiveness in his eyes. that's why, when you squirm to get away, he knows you don't really mean it and slams your hips back down for you to howl like a cat in heat. that's why he can't let you sleep until sunrise, when you're half-conscious and spasming with leg twitches, cause the seed pooling in your tummy hasn't stopped leaking out from every time he's planted his roots into your squishy womb. he's gotta make sure it takes just in case you change your mind. once you get pregnant, then you really are part of the family--you'll be a Hewitt just like all the rest of them, birthing the next generation of Hewitts to keep the family roots strong <3

[cyberghouleo]

proxy twitter au part 3

part 1 part 2 part 4

[auroreliis]

Platonic batfam (or romantic, if you prefer). With darling who's English language not native. And theynot take a words in English like Their native language, Not entirely. Would insisted Bruce what batkid (any age, sure) call he "father" but on the Their (Her/His) native language? If he will know what They don't make the meaning same, like for he and batboys (and girls)? I mean, I would easily call someone "father" or "brother" exactly in English even if I don't perceive them as such, because it's not father-Father for me. How about others? Maybe batfam take it as an opportunity for to get close to darling, to teach Them to better perceive English and them in this context. And also. What about darling who swears in his native language (switches to his native language when angry/annoyed). Conversely, They calls those They like with nice nicknames in his native language, for example, Alfred (the cat and the original), Duke, probably girls.

L🍑

Yes! Absolutely, they would take this chance to get closer to you!!!

Bruce is your dad, therefore you must refer to him as such. He really doesn’t care in which language, as he either speaks it or will speak it soon, so go right ahead and speak your native language.

While the Batfam speaks English fluently, they will not force you to learn it. In fact, they’d rather force themselves to learn YOUR language (…if they don’t speak it already, that is)

However, if he heard you admit that you only call him dad in English, because it feels less personal, he would be stumped. I mean, he can’t just force you to switch your language, what would that change? Though he would certainly find ways to ensure you truly think of him as your father, he just needs to figure out how…

Also, swearing is strictly forbiden according to Bruce and Dick. You’re their little angel, the light of their lives, so you will NOT be heard using such profanities, no matter which language you speak.

Jason doesn’t give enough fucks to snitch, but if you went overboard, he would tell you to watch it.

Tim is the biggest snitch ever. Do not break ANY rules in his proximity, you will regret it.

Damian, like Bruce and Dick, prefers it when you use polite and gentle language. You’re like a blossom, blooming in the sunlight, such disgusting and vile words should not be coming from you, so watch it.

Duke would kind of freeze if you swore around him. He, ever so loyal to Bruce, cannot let this fly, but…imagining the scolding you’d get makes him feel bad. Besides, you’d never forgive him if he snitched, right? Fine, he’ll endure it, despite how uncomfortable it makes him feel. The things we do for love, huh?

Stephanie is so cool, because she’s rebellious enough to not snitch on you, but also obedient enough to not get into trouble with Bruce (…at least not THAT often). Hence why she not only ignores your swearing, but also swears with you! Not in front of Bruce, though. He would scold you both.

Cassandra has it tough. She obviously doesn’t want to snitch on you or forbid you from speaking your mind, but sometimes, your words, or specifically your use of those words in her proximity, make her feel a bit disrespected. You shouldn’t use such words in the proximity of someone who is older than you, that’s what she was taught.

Barbara is a mix of Dick’s and Steph’s attitude. Most of the time, she doesn’t care, but if your words are directed at anyone from the family, she’s telling Bruce to reprimand you right away.

In short, be careful of what you do and who is nearby when you do it.

Oh and, you have a nickname for someone specific? You won’t hear the end of it (in a positive way…mostly). They won’t leave you alone, they won’t shup up and they won’t stop bragging about how they clearly must be the favourite because their nickname is the more affectionate one, or their nickname is used more often, etc.

Truly a delusional bunch.

[axolotl4days]

Batfam fans i promise I'm gonna post part 2 to the "batman Dead Daughter" story soon (I intended to post it after the first part but I keep getting distracted and haven't finished writing it)(i have adhd and autism and I've never actually posted my story ideas before-)

However, part of why I haven't is i accidentally started thinking of a completely different story-

And it's so much angstier, and I haven't decided if i want to actually write it or if it lives in my head forever

It takes some slight inspiration from the "little misfortune" game, but tbh the most it takes is the name Misfortune

Side note:I have no fucking clue how old any of the characters actually are in canon, so for this it's just going off age order rather than numbers the reader would be in between Tim and Damian age wise but thats about it

Anyways here's the idea lemme know if anyone would be interested in reading it

The basic premise:

Backstory: The reader was adopted by the bat at the age of like 6 or 7 after the bat found reader just kinda... wandering Gotham one night covered in dirt and dried blood, when asked about their parents the reader just stays silent so bats like "Well I guess i have a new kid" because what else do you do? Takes the kid homes, cleans em up, and gifts them a scarf to try to gain their trust (he noticed reader kept covering their neck, he sees a pretty nasty scar but doesn't push reader to talk about it)

And the story would basically be the bat siblings realizing they don't know where reader came from (not even tim knows and he knows like, everything about his siblings cause it's tim)

And they don't ask because they're detectives they can figure it out right? But then they start to notice certain behaviors, subtle things that wouldn't normally raise alarm bells for anyone

But they don't get anywhere and after a few incidents (aka moments where they see reader experience ptsd but don't know what caused it) they decide to ask (I have an idea where they don't ask upfront but try to do the thing where they're all talking about their backstories so it doesn't feel so confrontstional) and reader very casually drops a lore nuke and tries to brush it off like it's nothing because "it happened a long time ago I'm fine" (spoiler alert, they are not fucking fine)(i want them to violently start sobbing while telling the story and they don't even realize it until one of the others points it out) and shenanigans ensue as they learn just how not fine they are :D

Because the story has only been in my head I've got a bunch of alternating scenes and plot line ideas so it's hard ti describe what it exactly is about but it mske sense in my head

This one would have a lot of mention to heavy child abuse, death, and other stuff, but apparently I'm sadistic cause I can't stop thinking about it

Depending how it goes it could be considered platonic yandere batfam but it'd get their gradually, but I haven't decided yet

[smolvenger]

Okay, got out my whole thoughts about Thomas Sharpe being abused and trauma dumped and boy howdy, do I need some levity :'')

I got a new idea featuring our Big Tiddy Goth Boyfriend/husband/meow meow!

Reader's sister is engaged to marry Thomas Sharpe so that their family can join a baronacy and he can enjoy some of their money. But Reader's sister is a Spirited Young Lady (tm) who doesn't want to! So the sister runs away and ruins everything! But the family needs the marriage to happen...so Reader agrees to take her sister's place. She and Thomas enter an arranged marriage.

But they genuinely start to fall for each other. Oh no!!! ;)

Would y'all like that?

[luveax]

Enjoy! These aren't all the fandoms I write for, just the ones I've written for already on the account. If you have any recommendation please ask. New characters or fandoms are welcomed! Thank you to checking my masterlist out.

Terry Richmond-

~Mona Lisa | One Shot | x fem!reader | You work with Terry setting up men and robbing them for their money and valuables.

~Mrs.Officer | One Shot | x fem!reader | As a joke you fake arrest your husband Terry and things get just a tad bit heated.

Bella Swan

~Pink Matter | One Shot | x fem!reader | Smut 18+ | Rainy day fuckin w/ sorta top Bella.

Head Cannons

~Failed Twist Out | Twilight Characters x reader | Fluff | Twilight characters reaction to reader not wanting to go out due to a failed hair day.

Hoodie/ Brian Thomas

~Favorite | One Shot | x fem!reader | Smut 18+ | You recognize your neighbor by his iconic yellow hoodie as one of your favorite p0rn stars.

Habit

~In My Mouth | Oneshot | Habit x Fem!Reader | Smut 18+ | Descriptions: Aftermath of a bloody night of fun with Habit.

[geeky-politics-46]

The inexplicable urge to write a Tommy Shelby story and title it "Save A Horse, Ride A Gangster" is strong.

Also, forget Red Right Hand. The theme song in my head is Pony by Ginuwine. I don't know why my brain has latched onto the horse riding thing so much with him.

It's also troubling to me that I find Arthur hot. I only slightly blame @call-sign-shark for fueling my fire for Arthur. Like he's a walking neon red flag. May have to try to work those issues out in a story for him too. At the very least, my therapist would be disappointed in me.

[seleneprince]

I've had the draft for the next chapter of Tales of Bats and Wolves open for what feels like hours but i've barely advanced because i'm just trying to put in order my ideas and decide what i'm actually going to include in the series because otherwise it'll be too much.

Now, instead of getting anything done, I can't stop thinking of the idea of N! Daughter actually being Catwoman's sidekick for a while as part of her training because seeked the woman out to learn her ways, and they both spend a year running around committing heists together. And ofc, Catwoman made her do it all in heels sharp enough to kill a person and tight leather, because if she you can't committ crimes with style, what's the point?

For this time, no one knows who Catwoman's new sidekick is. Some don't even know she exists, since Selina is actually a decent mentor and keeps her in the shadows because, well, she's only teaching her the ropes, she doesn't have to be involved in the gruesome parts of Gotham's underbelly (the girl does that by herself). Those who do know her call her Catgirl, which N! Daughter dislikes because she doesn't want to be a copy of Catwoman (which it's ironic because the suit she wears during the heists is very similar), but unfortunately, both Selina and Mrs Wayne find it amusing and like it. Suddenly, she's called kitty and catgirl by her mom and her mentor/somewhat mother figure?

It's even better considering Selina and Wife! Darling were friends in their youth until they went separate ways for a while, but Selina was definitely there when she gave birth and got to hold the baby sometimes until she left again. Years later, getting asked by that same baby, now older, to be mentored by her feels like one of the universe's jokes.

Anyway, just keep coming up with scenarios for this. Maybe they cross paths with the batfamily and they just don't recognise Catwoman's new companion (why would they?). She stands far from them and wears her own suit, rarely speaks and vanishes before anyone can catch her. Selina covers for her. After all, Bruce should be capable of recognising his own child. This falls on him.

No one guesses it...except one person.

*After everyone's gone*

The Signal: "Since when do you work with Catwoman, weirdo?"

Catgirl: "Excuse me?"

Signal: "C'mon, sis. I knew it as soon as I saw you. I didn't say anything because i wanted to hear you first. But seriously, what the hell?"

Catgirl: "Look, it's complicated. She's just training me, okay? So what's a couple of stolen goods?"

Signal: "I don't care about that. I meant your outfit. Geez, you look like you're about to star in the cover of a Playboy magazine. Was it really necessary?"

In the end, he keeps her secret because they're besties (and ngl he wants to see how far she can take this before the batfam figures it out).

Spoiler: They never do. She quits when she feels she's learnt enough and wants to go solo, and no one ever finds out her identity.

[rainrot4me]

They're not exactly the optimal choice for comfort, but how would the creeps treat their partner during a depressive episode?

✦ . jeff the killer

Jeff isn’t emotionally articulate, but when he notices you’ve gone quiet—no sarcastic jabs, no fire in your eyes—he knows something’s wrong.

He handles it like a feral dog trying to help its wounded owner: awkward, growly, but loyal.

“You wanna smash something? I’ll get the plates.” He offers distraction first through mayhem, violence, even a fight with him if it wakes you up. Any reaction is a good reaction in his book it means you’ll stop drowning in your own feelings.

“I’ll kill whatever’s doing this to you. Even if it’s yourself… kidding.”

But when none of that works, he gets quiet. You’ll feel him lie next to you, not saying anything, just breathing with you. Eventually you’ll feel a hand slip into yours, calloused and warm, but firm.

✦ . ticci toby

Toby struggles with his own inner noise constantly, so he understands when yours gets too loud or too heavy. It’s not pity he feels, but understanding and compassion.

He doesn’t try to fix it, he just stays. He talks to fill the silence if you want, or matches your quiet if that’s better. He’s not there to problem solve, he knows that’s not what you need, he’s just there for you and only you.

He makes you tea even though it usually spills a bit from his tremors, offers you his hoodie like a bandage, and plays with your hair to take your mind off of things.

“You don’t gotta talk. I get it. Just… stay. I’m here. We c-can rot together for a bit.”

Tears start rolling down your face? He’s wiping them away before they can even fall.

✦ . eyeless jack

Jack notices the changes slowly at first—missed meals, unwashed clothes, blank stares. He knows how the human anatomy works up and down, but emotions are where he gets stumped sometimes. It takes a minute, but enough observing makes him realize.

It clicks: you’re drowning.

He sets a gentle routine: food you like, dimmed lights, warm baths he quietly prepares. He won’t push, but he’ll gently coddle you into doing the things he knows will get you back into your routine without overwhelming you.

“You’re not broken. You’re just tired. Let me carry you until you can stand again.”

He’ll read to you in a soft voice, cuddle you into his lap, and massage your hands. He may not be able to verbalize anything, but he’ll let his body language do the work.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim sees your mask slipping because he knows what it’s like to wear one. He understands the emotional strain that comes with excessive work-load and constant pressure, so it’s no question of whether he’ll help you or not, because he’s already on it.

He doesn’t smother you with comfort, he sits beside you, steady, anchoring. He doesn’t interrogate you or add any more strain to the situation, he just tries to silently evaluate how to handle where you’re at.

When you finally break and cry or lash out, he lets you. His voice stays low, steady, and real. If you’re angry, he listens, if you’re sad, he listens, if you don’t want him around, he still listens.

“I’ve been here. I’m not leaving. Even if all you do is sit and breathe.”

He’ll clean up the messes you forget about—laundry, dishes—all without a word. Just to help, just to lighten your load.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Brian’s comfort is quiet and intuitive. He knows how to take up space with you, not for you Talking is never his strong suit, he gets caught up on words and feelings and loses his track of thought, so he helps you the way he knows best.

He’ll write notes and stick them where you’ll see them:

“You’re still mine. You’re still worth it.”

“Bad days don’t cancel good love.”

When you spiral, he brings his laptop into bed and pulls you against him, lets you sleep in his hoodie while old movies play. He has a folder with your name on it, specifically full of your favorite movies he pirated off the internet.

“We’re allowed to be human. Even you.”

✦ . ben drowned

Ben is digital mesh in human wrapping, but when he senses your world is drooping, he becomes something oddly tender. When it comes to emotions, he’s the worst out of everyone, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to simmer down and offer comfort.

He’ll bring you into his world (games, stories, music) to distract you gently, but meaningfully. He knows all of your favorites, and makes it a point to show that you’ll always have the things you love to fall back on.

“Just take a minute, yeah? You don’t gotta prove nothing to nobody, just take it easy.”

If you disappear under the covers, he’ll slip his handheld console in beside you, loaded with Stardew Valley or Animal Crossing. He lets you talk through the characters if words are too hard. To make you laugh, he’ll slip into the game and mess with your avatar until you’re smiling again.

✦ . clockwork

Natalie tries so hard to be strong for you—but she’s scared of saying the wrong thing.

She’ll try tough love at first:

“You’re stronger than this. Come on.” She’s never been given love unless earned, so she doesn’t understand when she tries to motivate you to keep moving, why you keep sinking in on yourself.

But when she sees your lip tremble? It breaks her. She doesn’t mean it in a demeaning way, but loving someone means learning new perspectives, so she tries differently.

“Let me take care of you. Just for a bit. Please.”

She wraps her arms around you and just holds on. She’ll braid your hair or wash your face, little caring rituals with nervous hands. Being soft is foreign, but when the thing that seems to lighten you up the most is just laying in bed with her, she’ll get over herself.

✦ . laughing jack

At first, he’ll try to joke it off. Clown instincts, y’know. Anything to make you smile.

But when that fails, and you look at him with hollow eyes, he deflates. He’ll chew his lips and wrack his brain for anything, but finds that you don’t need him to entertain you, you just want him there. It’s surprising to him, but being with you in general is a new world of being wanted for more than performances.

He becomes surprisingly gentle, tucking you in under garish patchwork blankets and offering candy in your favorite flavors. He’ll offer to make you sleepy, waving his claws in your face until your eyes gently flutter closed on their own, singing soft lullabies as he drifts you to sleep.

“Ah… okay. No balloon animals today. That’s alright.”

He’ll tamper your dreams. Give you nothing but soft clouds, flower fields, sweet-smelling fruits, and everything you love. The dreamscape is where he works best, so he’ll make sure it’s the best for you, too.

✦ . slenderman

He doesn’t speak comfort—he emanates it. He’s a master manipulator of body and world, so why would he hold that power back when you obviously need it the most.

When your depression is heavy, world grows quieter, the temperature of your room warmer, the scents of your bedsheets sweeter. He adjusts the world around you, making everything as comfortable and relaxing as possible. It’s almost like being caught in a daydream.

He lifts your chin with long fingers, studying your face like scripture. Whatever you desire, he’ll grant it without a question, there’s nothing too-much.

“You are not a burden. You are human. It’s natural.”

You may wake to roses on your pillow, or find entire memories of pain erased and rewritten. It’s his way of giving you peace. Not human, but he tries. Somehow all the cruelness he holds slips away with you.

꩜ .ᐟ

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

little sister, my arse (f.w.)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.

A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?

Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider

Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.

Best friends, even.

“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.

Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.

In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.

And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.

Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.

Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.

You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You looked hot.

Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.

Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.

He stared at you.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”

You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”

Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.

You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”

“It’s a postage stamp.”

“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.

“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”

Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”

Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."

You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."

Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"

He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"

That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”

"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.

"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."

You blinked again, "For what?"

He paused, "To supervise."

"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."

Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."

"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.

Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”

You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."

Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.

He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.

“You’re like a little sister to me.”

He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.

And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.

Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.

But you noticed.

So did everyone else.

And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.

And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.

Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground. Every duel, a performance. Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.

Today was no different.

You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.

But you simply smiled.

Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.

You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.

It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.

Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.

“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.

His face was a picture of panic.

Your internal grin was feral.

He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.

“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.

"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”

You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)

“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”

Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”

Little sister.

Right.

You tried not to roll your eyes.

Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.

No, it was different when it was you.

When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.

You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.

As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.

You’d get him eventually. You were patient. And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.

You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.

Until it wasn’t.

A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”

“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”

You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”

Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”

You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.

Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”

You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”

“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”

You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”

“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”

You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”

Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”

You blinked, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”

“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”

“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”

“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”

He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”

You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”

He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”

That shut you up.

He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.

“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”

He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”

You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”

He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”

Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.

He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”

You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.

“You do?”

You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”

Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.

“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.

You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”

“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”

You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.

It was nothing and everything.

Just a moment. Just a feeling.

But it was these moments that truly made you believe.

You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.

The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.

You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.

A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.

“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”

Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?

It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.

You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”

You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.

But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.

So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.

The small detail you’d failed to factor in?

Your friends hadn’t come alone.

So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.

You weren’t bitter. Not really.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.

Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.

He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.

Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.

You looked up as he stopped in front of you.

“Fred?”

“You look like a lemon.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”

You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”

You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”

You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.

“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”

“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”

“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”

“You won’t.” You said smugly.

You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”

You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.

“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.

The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”

The boy hesitated, then walked away.

You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”

Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”

You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”

He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”

The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.

“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Fred—what are you—?”

Then he dipped you.

Dramatically.

One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.

“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”

“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”

He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”

Your breath caught.

He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.

Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.

You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.

So you said nothing. You let him hold you a little too close. Let his fingers linger at your waist. Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.

And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.

At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.

The both of you just lost in your own world.

Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.

Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.

“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”

You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”

He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”

“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”

He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.

“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.

Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”

He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.

“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Angelina, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”

Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”

She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”

His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”

Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.

Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.

Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.

Oh.

Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.

He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.

Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”

But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.

“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”

Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”

Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”

George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”

“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.

“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”

Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”

George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”

Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”

George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are in love with her.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”

George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.

Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.

The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.

He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.

He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.

Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.

So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.

You’d gone all out.

Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.

So you did.

The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.

George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.

“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”

They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.

And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.

The real one.

Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.

And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.

When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.

“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”

He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”

You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.

Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.

His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.

You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning.

No hesitation.

Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”

You opened your mouth.

He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”

You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.

Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.

The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.

A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.

“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”

George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”

Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.

You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.

His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.

“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”

Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.

You just winked.

And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.

And he always had been.

Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.

Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.

Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.

At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.

George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.

“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”

Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”

“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”

Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.

This went on for days.

He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.

It was, frankly, kind of adorable.

George was having the time of his life.

On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”

Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.

Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.

Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.

Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.

You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.

When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.

Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”

Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.

“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.

Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.

“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”

You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Moi?”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”

You just winked, utterly unapologetic.

You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.

The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.

He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.

He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”

That was when you snapped.

You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.

For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.

He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.

Again and again and again.

But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.

You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.

“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.

Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.

Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?

Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.

“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.

Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.

And now? Now he was properly wrecked.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.

“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”

He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—

“Oi!”

The door slammed open.

George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”

Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”

George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”

“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”

George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.

Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.

“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.

You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”

Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”

You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.

Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”

“You do.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”

You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”

He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”

Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”

He did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.

Bonus:

It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.

Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.

You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.

He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.

“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.

“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.

“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.

You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”

His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.

Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”

Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.

“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”

Fred blinked, “What is that?”

George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”

You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”

You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”

Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”

“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”

Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”

Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”

Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.

Bonus Bonus Scene:

It started innocently enough. (Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)

You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along. “You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.

Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.

By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.

Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.

You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.

You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.

Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.

You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.

Until—

“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”

You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.

Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)

Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.

For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.

Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.

Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.

Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.

Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.

“How long has this been going on?!”

Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”

Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”

You winced. Fred winced.

Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.

Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.

Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Even George stopped laughing.

You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.

Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.

And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.

“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”

You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”

He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”

Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.

“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”

“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”

“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”

“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.

“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.

“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”

At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.

Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.

You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.

“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”

“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.

Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”

“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.

And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

[vervainandspritz]

JUST ANOTHER OF YOUR MISTAKES

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Request made by @justsumtuffstuff: Could you do a tommy shelby imagine where you secretly have his kid but don’t tell him until one day aunt polly sees you and is like “holy shit” but that’s not the surprise, the surprise is you have twins. Just a lot of angst and fluff pretty please? ((:

This fic will have two parts!

Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, grieving, a lot of pain, eventual fluff, smut

A/N: It's a.. heavy fic, so beware. Interact for more

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

~~

The land of Birmingham seemed to never change, not one bit. Ever since the first people settled there, the sky hung over them as if by force, never clear enough to see prospects for the future. Robbing the poor kids of dreams, of the loud thumping in their hearts caused by excitement for the good that never came.

It would seem that God has lost his way to Birmingham, not to mention Small Heath. Dirt, smoke and silence that rang too loud when working men would finish their shifts in factories seeking peace in their homes. After all, the human brain can get used to everything.

What was the difference between going to sleep hungry every night, and the relentless churning in the depths of her stomach that Y/N felt? Pain that never let go, waking up along her side like a loyal husband, never ceasing to accompany her throughout the day. Never loosening the hold on her heart.

Oh, how cruel the fate can be, Y/N thought, looking at the white ceiling of her bedroom. One she slept in for many nights too long, carrying the weight of the curse on her shoulders.

Because she was cursed, that one she was sure. Seeing the man she loved more than anything else in the world, losing himself in the grief after another woman.

Because that was the woman whose name Y/N dared not speak or even think. That's who she was, another woman. Embodiment of pain and betrayal of so many promises, taking away the beautiful, blue gaze Y/N yearned for so badly.

God must have been so cruel, putting her through the uncertainty of ever seeing him again throughout the war, and then taking him away.

Taking him away from Y/N, and letting her watch the process. Letting her see the distance growing, the dilated pupils in his eyes after each doze of opium, fruitlessly trying to numb the pain he carried.

Y/N couldn't help but wake up everyday, wondering how different his grief would be if it was her who died. Would he cry? Would he push the other woman away, like he did her? Sometimes the pain felt like too much to handle, but Y/N would never try to pull the trigger. Subconsciously feeling the weight of shame in her chest if she'd ever somehow found out she was right. That he wouldn't care.

So she lived, losing pieces of her heart day by day, warming his bed whenever he saw it convenient.

Until that one day came, that was. Hearing the... Scary, oh so scary news from her doctor she visited in secret. Putting both of her hands on her still flat stomach, she didn't feel anything physically. Yet it was enough to find the strength, buried so deep in her heart.

The love she felt for her unborn children outweighed the love for him.

The tension in Arrow house felt heavier than usual, as Y/N dragged her heavy suitcase down the stairs before slowly making her way to his office. The pain, longing in her heart slowing her down, extending the seconds into forever.

Y/N took a deep breath as her hand pressed down on the metal handle, the loud click echoing throughout the mostly empty room. Wordlessly she slipped inside, walking up to his desk quietly, letting out a shaky breath when she stopped mere inches away from the wooden furniture. His eyes didn't move from the documents he was reading, an empty gaze fixed on black letters despite knowing she was there. Y/N waited for a second, giving him a chance to look at her. Hoping he would.

But he didn't.

”I'm leaving” she said, loud enough to be heard. Silence followed her words, loud like never before as her heart squeezed in anticipation, silently begging him to stop her. To say something. Several moments passed before he finally did, making her heart stop for a mere second.

”Safe travels, Y/N Y/L/N” He responded in a cold, husky voice and for a moment, Y/N wondered who he was, wearing his face but sounding so different.

But the dust settled, just like the weight of his words as soon as she closed the door behind her back for what she thought would be the last time.

~~

Polly's eyes cut through his skin like a blade, her gaze never changing after that one feral day. The look of contempt and disgrace not even a bit different than one she gave him finding out what happened, back then.

”I was hoping you wouldn't be so stupid” She hissed, leaning forward, reaching for a cigarette with a shaky hand. Her eyes were teary, as she inhaled the smoke. ”When you were younger I saw your mother in your eyes. Now, they're full of greed and foolishness. Just like your father's” She spat out with contempt, raising from the chair. Quickly walking up to his own, she kneeled down for a moment, to meet his gaze.

One so empty, that gave her goosebumps.

”I will never forgive you, and... Neither will you.” She whispered. ”But you will have to live with the choice you made.”

Her words echoed loudly in his head several minutes after Polly left... And they never stopped ringing now, thirty eight months later. Thomas counted, every morning to be sure. After sobering up it was difficult to tell days apart. He rarely slept, fearful of the dreams he had at first.

He saw her, she was so close and yet no matter how fast Tommy ran, he couldn't reach her. Out of his reach no matter how hard he screamed or cried. Looking at him with the burning tears he caused.

It took him three months to sober up, give up on opium and... Feel. Thomas wasn't ready for the hellish pain that dawned on him once the drug wore off. The terrifying longing that dawned on him when he felt the remnants of her perfume on his pillow. The lack of relief he hoped for so badly, throwing away every single Grace's belonging he held onto previously, burning the photos and destroying the items, but it never came.

As time stretched, it became more intense. Thomas carried the pain and guilt wherever he went, finding the smallest bit of relief only in his office, searching for Y/N in every piece of England day by day.

Replaying the ways in which he treated her, internally setting himself on fire and forcing himself to feel every bit of it. Because that's what he deserved, to feel and carry the cross he created with his own hands.

Oh how beautiful the pain was, as he'd lean back in his armchair, closing his eyes and remembering her gaze. Her scent and her laugh, echoing so lively in his mind.

...but none of it worked, no matter how many people searched. How much money he spent on the search. Almost like she disappeared into thin air.

Day by day he was dying a little, bleeding through the wounds he so desperately prevented from healing every single time. Keeping the memory of her alive in his mind, not letting the hope die. Because it was all he had. Glimmer of hope. The leader of Peaky blinders became even worse than before. The pain shaped his mind in unknown ways, as the limitless cruelty became visible to anyone who dared to cross his path. Peaky Blinders were unmatched.

Nobody besides Thomas held onto the hope anymore. Knowing Y/N for so long, John and Artur knew she wouldn't come back. Not if her life depended on it. Polly only prayed for her safety.

...and Y/N? She stopped praying once her children were born. After finding out she'd have twins, she prayed every night for them to be born healthy. It was all that mattered.

Not the fact that she had to be using a fake name after moving to Coventry, mere miles away from Birmingham. But she couldn't afford to move further.

It's been.. so fucking hard. Everything. Y/N spent every night crying, begging any God that would listen to take away the pain in her heart. The pain that her babies only managed to lessen. Working as a waitress on nightshifts after accepting the kindness of her older neighbour. Mrs Wilson offered to take care of her boys while she works to help her make ends meet. Y/N had no idea what she would do without a woman she grew to call her only family.

”It's no problem, honey. They're little angels” She said quietly with a kind smile, taking one of the boys into her arms mere days after they were born.

The pain Y/N felt by having to leave her kids every night was stronger than the physical one. Having to work a demanding job after giving birth to keep the roof over their heads.

She cried, cried so much that eventually tears ran out and all she could do was.. keep trying. The two little people by her side were giving her strength. Light that she couldn't see before them, and only existed because they were here. Keeping her own heart beating.

***

”Are you sure? I can take care of them while you go, honey. You know how much I love them, don't you?” The older lady offered eagerly, caressing Nick's cheek with a smile, and a hint of concern while she glanced at Y/N.

”Thank you, but I will take them. The least I can do is spend time with them throughout the day.” Y/N responded, smiling sadly to her neighbour who just nodded along, understanding the allusion.

Letting out a sigh, she put her hands together.

”Be careful, dear.”

Y/N squeezed her hand lightly before pulling away as she held her son's hand, while carrying the other one on her hip.

”Always”

Travelling via train took no longer than forty minutes, and with each passing mile, Y/N's anxiety grew. She hasn't been in Birmingham for a long time now, not looking back.

Yet, because of her official address being still in the Arrow house, she needed to visit the office to complete documentation for boys. She put it off as long as she could, but it was inevitable now.

Despite the negative emotions, Y/N couldn't felt.. better, having her babies with her. The familiar facial expressions or blue orbs were enough to sometimes bring her to tears, but she couldn't love them more. They were a perfect little copy of the man whose name was engraved on her heart. The older they were, the more similar looking they were and now at dashing two and a half years, both boys were troublemakers.

Slowly making their way through Birmingham, Y/N held one little hand, chatting away with Nick, who was more energised than his brother who slept soundly in his mum's arms.

”...and dat?” He asked, pointing towards the building and glancing curiously at his mama. Y/N smiled at his curiosity, seeing how similar personality wise he was to her.

”that's a house” She replied calmly. The little boy cheered loudly, throwing his arms in the air.

"Yaay! Hooose!” He squealed making her chuckle, not caring about the scolding glances from other passengers.

A couple minutes later the other little one woke up, and started fussing because obviously he also wanted to walk now, while Nick wanted to be carried now. Sighing, Y/N put one of the kids down, and as she managed to pick up little Nick, she gasped loudly seeing her son's legs already in motion as he ran towards the crowd.

”Tommy! Thomas, stop!” She yelled after him, chasing him with Nick on her hip who watched the whole thing with his blue eyes wide open. ”Tommy!” She yelled once again, and he finally turned around, stumbling upon someone.

Y/N closed the distance as fast as she could, grabbing little Tommy and pulling him back to his feet, as she checked for any bruises – found none.

”I'm so sorry, i–” She started out, wanting to apologise to the random passenger, but words died on her tongue as soon as her eyes locked with the familiar brown ones.

”Y/N?” Polly stumbled out in shock.

Fuck

Part two upcoming