#than a ‘sticky frog’

[fibfoolingart]

the lords in black were summoned, but if the lakeside mall was a shorter walk than the high school

i was thinking ab how the lords’ “holding court in their form” seems influenced by being summoned in a high school, and what they might look like if they were summoned in the mall instead.

so instead of jocks and theatre nerds, we get: a mall goth, a food court employee, an unattended sticky child, a mall cop, and an ancient mall walker.

further explanation (semi pete’s pov) of what role they take and the kind of feelings they evoke below the cut:

pokey is a mall goth. but not the kind built on personal freedoms or anti-establishment grit. pokey feels like a mall goth curated by the algorithm, tiktok trends and a thousand-dollar amazon cart. his hair’s professionally dyed, his boots unscuffed. but that’s not really what you notice. it’s the presence he radiates, this quiet, sharpened confidence that only comes from belonging. you’ve never worn black lipstick, never cared for goth music, but still… something about him makes you wish you did. makes you wish you could walk beside him. his blue is familiar (not like richie’s warm teal, staining your fingers in a cramped bathroom) but in a painful way. it’s the blue of dart frogs and stovetop flames. of winter skies so empty and flat they feel like a threat. and when he looks at you, really looks, you’re not just alone. you’re individual. and it hurts.

nibbly is probably the happiest food court worker you’ve ever seen. or maybe he’s just grinning. a grin that stretches too wide, showing every tooth. too wide to be safe. nibbly’s the color of intestines, of pus-pocked acne, of grease shimmering over something bloody. his uniform might’ve started as the same highlighter pink behind every counter, but now it’s muted, aged by years (or eons) of absorbing grease. it almost looks like nibbly himself has been steeped in oil: hair clumped and sticky against his face, his shirt, your food. his visor is dull pink, his eyes cloaked in shadow. he holds a tray out to you. your hands twitch to take it. it feels like you’re supposed to relieve him of it. it’s your order. even if you didn’t place one. even if you don’t know what’s on it. you just… know. and somewhere deep in your stomach, you get the sinking feeling that it’s not the food he wants to eat.

wiggly is a paragon of snotty mall kids. sticky, unsupervised, and terrifyingly confident in the way only children who've never been punished can be. he’s also unmistakably green, crusted around his nose and mouth, fossilized under his fingernails, soaked into his shirt. and he hates you. not in the vague, bratty way. this is something deeper. something personal. every unattended kid in a mall dreams of crushing you like an ant. but when this kid looks at you, you understand that he can. he holds himself with more than reckless confidence. he’s not just sure no one will stop him. he’s sure you can’t.

blinky is a mall cop whose issues with authority transcend the stereotype. he doesn’t resent power, he needs it. he deserves it. He’s compensating for it, breathing down, your neck, keeping constant vigilance. you’ve seen him before. every mall has one. maybe it’s the flickering security cameras blinking orange in the corners. maybe it’s the static whisper of the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. maybe it’s just the way you feel watched before you’ve even walked inside. his sunglasses hide his eyes, but somehow you know. he’s looking at you. you haven’t done anything wrong. not really. but he knows. he knows what you would do. and he’s waiting for it.

tinky is still walking. he’s been walking since the fountain ran. maybe since the mall opened. maybe since before that. his tracksuit used to be tan. now it’s yellow, sickly, rusted, corroded by sweat and time. his skin, his hair, his eyes, everything about him is yellowing, wilting. creased with the dusty, moldy hue of things forgotten in the dark. his walk is slow. wheezing. bones grinding under paper-thin skin. but he doesn’t stop. he never stops. he laps the fountain, again and again. when he looks at you (eyes jaundiced yellow under the cloud of curdled milk cataracts) you feel it. not fear. not pity. recognition. you wonder if this is your future. if this is all that’s left for you. just the suit. the steps. the orbit.

but also their designs might still be the same bc the summoners are still high schoolers, and the lords are just mirroring them lol

[fandomlit]

sweatshirt thief (spencer agnew x reader)

summary as the office thief, you finally find your passion—stealing people’s sweatshirts. it turns into an iconic bit that cameos in many videos, but some cast members are surprisingly waiting for their turn..

warning swearing

gif cred belongs to @menchie

you were notoriously known as the office thief. it was a bit you had unintentionally started after some games gone chaotic in which you had been known, or more likely accused, to steal cards or other game related objects to either derail the game or benefit your competitive nature.

if anyone asked (and the fans started to), you would say it was angela’s fault, truly. she was the one who had yelled, after stealing penalty cards and slipping them into her spread during moose master, that soon you’d be stealing from desks. and so you decided it was only fair. the next day, angela was in a near panic trying to find her lucky frog—a small plush you had gotten her. and when she came to you, nearly in tears, to say she had somehow lost your sweet gift, you were holding him in your lap. from there, the thief rumors really started.

from pens to coffee cups to the shoe off of amanda’s foot, you were sneaky with your takes, but most everyone knew it was you after some months of shenanigans. even the fans, once amanda and shayne had you star on smosh mouth after the infamous shoe incident. but it wasn’t until about a month ago when you found your favorite thing to steal, and the fans loved it even more than you did—sweatshirts.

it started when you “arrived late” to a werewolf shoot. courtney had already given the intro and they had bantered a bit about the game before chanse gave the awaited, “aren’t we missing someone? where’s y/n?”

“sorry guys!” you called from just out of view and you watched jaws drop and laughter start when you romped onto camera, hands on your hips. you stopped in a “casual” pose, the iconic ‘furniture’ sweatshirt on full display to all. “traffic, you know?” shayne was almost in tears on the couch, face red as you took your seat next to angela.

“where did you get that?” he squeaked out, voice pitched higher in his hysterics. “i haven’t worn that in weeks!” his words sent the cast present into even further hysterics.

you just shrugged, keeping yourself impressively stone faced amongst the laughter. “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“are we just.. not going to address it?” shayne said after a few more minutes of more banter and explaining the game. he was still chuckling, eyes locked on the sweatshirt you had somehow managed to get your hands on.

“shayne,” you sighed, shaking your head. “you’re married, stop looking at my outfit.” courtney and angela gripped onto each other’s arms to steady themselves from their laughter as chanse gasped dramatically. and thus, the sweatshirt stealing began.

next was tommy, who was more in love with how you pulled it off than confused. then there was angela, who stared at her iconic arizona tea sweatshirt in shock for half of the video. your favorite for a while was amanda’s reaction, who at first was obliviously giddy that you had found the same striped pullover as her until you finally cracked and started laughing. you had even managed to get your hands on anthony’s ‘on the verge’ sweatshirt one of his rare days on set, which he found absolutely hysterical after being informed of your sticky fingers.

some of the cast watched as you and anthony laughed and talked, you still proudly donning his sweatshirt.

“who do you think’s her next victim?” angela asked.

“i don’t know,” tommy hummed, tilting his head. “maybe courtney? she told me she’s been waiting for a chance to get ian, but he doesn’t really wear sweatshirts.”

“you know who does wear sweatshirts all the time?” they shared a knowing look.

and to be honest, spencer was waiting his turn.

you and him had been good friends for a while, getting lunch together once a week and spending downtime in the office brainstorming and joking with each other. he was trying to be cool, downplaying his feelings for the sake of a comfortable workspace in the scenario that you didn’t reciprocate, but his connection to you was undeniable.

you were beautiful, hilarious, confident, and your personality radiated in everything you did. not to mention you two had amazing chemistry both on and off camera—your infamous stone face was hard to break, but spencer was one of the few who could catch you off guard regularly, a fact that the fans loved to point out. but even without the fans to point it out, your banter and teases at each other were natural and fun, and spencer cherished that connection.

so he was waiting for a sweatshirt to go miraculously missing, so he could have that moment of teasing you on camera for wanting his sweatshirt, but also for the selfish fact that he just wanted to see you in his clothes.

he was a little worried that he was being too obvious about it and that’s why you weren’t taking the bait. he had started hanging his sweatshirt on the back of his chair wherever he was while also starting to tease you about your sweatshirt stealing habits.

“you just want to be next, don’t you?” you had teased back one morning, raising your mug to your smug lips. spencer’s heart immediately sped up. he knew you were joking, but the thought of you immediately clocking him had his cheeks heating up.

spencer decided playing along was his best bet—denial would only make him look as desperate as he felt. he leaned against the counter, offering you a charming smirk. “i just know you won’t be able to stay away for much longer.” you let out a laugh, and his smirk grew into a smile. “if you think i’m irresistible, just imagine how comfortable my sweatshirt will be.”

you laughed again, shaking your head as you moved past spencer to return to your desk, “we'll see where the day takes me.” you turned and winked at him as he watched you. his heart could have exploded as you giggled. “see you later, spence.”

he felt like he had been emotionally blue balled when you pulled up to the next smosh pit video "late" and rocking one of damien's hoodies.

"sorry i'm late! traffic, y'know?"

then it was courtney, and then arasha. after two months of the bit, he was ready to beg. the joking flirting between the two of you, plus the genuine connection you had when hanging out was starting to haunt spencer. it was beginning to feel like everything was going so well, and yet there was a piece missing. as if the sweatshirt stealing would be the great crux to this growing tension and incessant pining.

of course, it happened when spencer least expected it.

it was a crazy week in the smosh office, with fitting a lot of shooting in to accommodate busy schedules in the weeks after. there was a lot going on on the games side and spencer quickly found himself deep in his work, nearly forgetting your sticky fingers with his efforts completely focused elsewhere. and that's where you got him.

it was the friday evening shoot--the very last thing he had to do before he got to relax for the weekend. it was a simpler edition of board af, with you, angela, shayne, tommy, and spencer. he didn't even think twice about you being late when tommy started the intro.

"but wait," tommy chuckled, "aren't we missing someone?" spencer's heart involuntarily sped up at the classic line that began to signal you. "where's y/n?"

"sorry i'm late!" and when you stepped into the light, it was as if all the weight in the world had been taken off of spencer's shoulders. from the long week filled with shoots, complicated scheduling, last minute brainstorm meetings and other stressors, the sight of you in his iconic legacy hoodie was the most satisfying relief he could have imagined. he didn't realize one of his hands had come up to cover his open mouth until the other cast members looked at him as they laughed. "traffic y'know?"

spencer had thought about how he'd react a thousand times, but in all of those times he had never imagined just how good you would look in his sweatshirt. still, he masked his internal freak out. he dropped his hand and shook his head. "it has been such a crazy week, i don't even know when you did that." he wasn't aware of just how big his smile was in that moment.

you bowed with a proud grin. "a magician never reveals their secrets... but you have a bad habit of leaving your sweatshirts on the backs of chairs when you take them off. it was only a matter of time."

he just laughed, internally patting himself on the back. he couldn't take his eyes off of you, even as you sat down. he shook his head as the rest of the cast still grinned knowingly at your pair. "well, you look great."

"i feel great," you sighed out contentedly. you offered him a subtle wink before sinking into the video, "so, tommy, what are we playing?"

it was a fun gaming session, with the usual chaos and yelling that usually ensued, but spencer felt a little more into it today. and maybe it was because his pulse rushed every time he looked over and saw the adorable sight of you wrapped in his iconic hoodie, but spencer felt like every joke and every move he made was right on the money.

once there was a brief lull as turns changed and you spoke, "i'm so sorry guys, could i take a bathroom break really quick? i'm really hydrated."

"go piss girl," tommy encouraged and you giggled before jogging away to the nearest restroom.

"so, spencer," angela spoke loudly. "bet you're feeling great right now." his entire body flushed--he knew exactly what she was alluding to, and the image of you entering in his hoodie with a grin flashed into his brain once again.

"actually, a little cold," he decided to sigh in response and the cast laughed out in response. he hoped that distracted them from the warmth he could feel on his cheeks.

"okay, sorry! i'm back!"

"that was quick," shayne laughed, brow furrowed. and then you came around the corner and his jaw hit the floor. spencer’s heart nearly stopped and his jaw dropped when you plopped back into your seat, wearing another one of his sweatshirts—the light green champion one he had been looking for for weeks. and, lord, if this wasn’t the best way to find it.

“i was wondering where that went!” he exclaimed, laughing amidst his shock. if no one noticed his blush before, there was no way they’d miss it now. “oh my god!”

you grinned evilly, and it was way too hot for spencer to handle amidst the chaos.

“you’re actually a klepto,” angela was saying when spencer could finally tear his gaze away from you and focus on his surroundings. you laughed out and he couldn’t think of a more beautiful sight than you doubling over in his crewneck. his mental camera was going to need new film after this.

they picked the game back up after this resuming the chaos that was slightly more amped from the hilarity of your thievery. there was another pause when alex called out, “hold on, guys.. y/n, can you come back here for a sec? it looks like you got the bad mic today.”

“of course i did,” you laughed, standing and moving behind the camera for them to correct. they all chatted on set for another second about something happening in the game before you came back in sight.

“YOU’RE ACTUALLY KIDDING!” angela demanded and you didn’t even make it to your chair before you were doubled over, face beautifully flushed in pride and hilarity at your own bit. spencer’s hands came up to cover his open mouth as he saw you donned another of his sweatshirts—the tan champion one he had literally worn yesterday.

if his face got any redder he thought all blood flow to his body would be cut off. his hands moved up to rake through his hair as he laughed out again, shaking his head. he was so giddy inside, and everyone's incessant laughter was only ramping up the hysterical situation and his adrenaline. "what the fuck!" he laughed.

"this should be a lesson to you," you spoke, pointing at him with a grin as you walked back onstage. "stop leaving your sweatshirts around! you know i'm the sweatshirt thief!"

"it's almost like spencer wanted this to happen..," shayne muttered and spencer shot him a glare, but it seemed you didn't hear him over something angela was saying.

eventually, the game picked up without any further interruptions besides the occasional jest about the situation, and it ended with spencer taking the win.

"well, it looks like the spencer is the real winner today," angela sighed. "in many ways." she looked back at you and you all laughed again before shayne took the lead on the outro.

after you all signed off, spencer's gaze moved back to you immediately. you looked back at him after a moment, still smiling in that mischievous way that had his head reeling. "i'm pretty proud of myself for this one."

"i can tell," he chuckled, horribly aware of how hot his face still felt.

"personally, i'm so impressed," shayne laughed and angela immediately agreed.

"i will say," you nodded, "spencer wins comfiest sweatshirts." the others immediately complained.

tommy hummed teasingly, "i feel that's a little unfair! you only tried one of everyone else's, but three of spencer's! he clearly got an advantage."

you giggled, "maybe i'll have to draw more samples from everyone to really tell. i'll start a dance moms style pyramid." they all laughed, talking about what you could do, but all spencer could think of is how he hoped he would be the only one who you took multiple sweatshirts from.

soon after the shoot, as he packed his things for the day, spencer's mind was still reeling. he felt like he was on cloud nine, but he wanted to keep riding it. he wanted to ask you out or tell you how pretty you were, but above all he had the deep urge to just kiss you and let that do all the talking.

you approached spencer's desk with a sheepish smile and three neatly folded sweatshirts in hand.

"ask as you shall receive, spencer," you sighed and he raised an eyebrow at you. "you were the only one who asked me when their turn was, so i made it extra special for you."

"oh," he chuckled, his heart beginning to race just as it did earlier. "well, it was very appreciated. and you looked great." it came out more sincere than he had meant it, but he was glad when he saw a flush rising to your cheeks.

"why, thank you," you smiled. there was a moment where you both just smiled at each other before you held out the small stack to him. "well, i wouldn't want to keep you from them any longer. thanks for playing the game."

he almost didn't want to take them. what he really wanted was for you to put them back on and kiss you and compliment you and spin you around. but after eyeing them for a moment, he opted to just take them. "i'll always play the game with you, y/n." yet again, it came out so much more sincere than intended.

after a beat where it looked like you may say something, you just offered him a small wave, "have a good night, spencer." and in a moment of panic where he thought this might be the best chance he has, spencer grasped your hand just as you turned from him. you turned your head back to him, looking down at your hands as you paused. you sounded a little flustered when you spoke, "was there something else?"

"um, yeah," he gulped awkwardly. he looked into your patient eyes as he tried to form some smooth talking to convince you into a date with him, but the smile you offered him only proved to scramble his brain even further. so, he resorted to what he had been thinking for most of the afternoon and tugged you close as gently as he could. he made sure there was no hint of disgust in your expression just before he took your face in his hands and kissed you with a passion he didn't think he had left in him after such a week. but you had revived that part of him from its slump the second you walked on set.

spencer could've collapsed when he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders and your lips kiss him back with the same passion, if not a little more. it was like heaven to hold you, his hands moving so one was in your hair and the other held your waist, and it was even better to feel you pour your emotions into the kiss just as much as he was. he didn't know how long you two stood there, lost in the moment, but still wished it had been longer when you pulled apart for air.

he took a moment to think properly before speaking in a surprisingly level tone, "you've done a great job at flustering me all over the place today," you let out a surprised giggle, "i thought it was only fair to pay it back somehow." you laughed again, moving the inch forward to press your foreheads together.

"i definitely think you achieved that."

he smiled, praying you couldn't hear his heartbeat despite your closeness. "and i would love to repay it further. maybe with dinner?"

you hummed and the way you looked up at him, eyes shining with feelings he couldn't wait to decipher, nearly made him melt in your arms. "dinner sounds amazing. but only if it's carry out."

"oh, for sure," he nodded, leaning away from you so he could grab his keys off of his desk. he missed the closeness instantly. "we can eat at my apartment." he leaned down and picked up the sweatshirts he had dropped when he kissed you. he grinned as he offered them back to you. "but only if you wear one of these."

you let out a laugh and grabbed his legacy hoodie, teasing, "what, my fit isn't good enough for you?"

"oh, it is. you look great in everything," he assured, wrapping an arm around your waist as you two started toward the doors. he smiled down at you. "i just think we should pay tribute to what got us here." you hummed in response. "really, we should be thanking all the sweatshirts stolen."

"no. we should be thanking angela."

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[zhelin-thames]

The Realms React To: Batfam Babysitters vs Magical Toddler Playdate (with Klarion)

(featuring De-aged Danny, Klarion the Witch Boy, and the slowly unraveling sanity of the Batfamily)

Bruce: I’m assigning shifts. Danny cannot be left alone with Klarion.

Tim: Too late. Klarion showed up ten minutes ago and they’re currently drawing runes on the kitchen tiles.

Bruce: …I TOLD you to lock the magic wards.

Steph: That was before Klarion turned the lock into a gummy worm and declared Danny his “chaos prince.”

Damian: I tried to stab him.

Cass: nods solemnly She helped.

Jason: Klarion just threatened to turn me into a cactus and Danny cheered.

Danny (2 y/o): holding up a juice box like a holy relic “Dewey say WESPECT NAP TIME!!”

Klarion: offended “NAP TIME IS OPPRESSION.”

Duke: They’re floating now. They’re both FLOATING. The ceiling fan is spinning backwards.

Babs (on comms): What the hell is a "chaos pact” and why did Danny sign it with applesauce?!

Dick: I tried reasoning with them. Danny licked my face and Klarion hexed my shoelaces to scream.

Alfred: Master Bruce, the sugar gremlins have united. There is chanting in the walls.

Danny (giggling): “Kwarion says the bathtub is the new THRONE.”

Klarion: “Let the coronation begin. We will fill it with Jell-O and frogs.”

Jason: I don’t even know if I should stop them or take notes.

Damian: This is a war crime.

Cass: points at the glowing frogs War crimes with style.

Steph: Wait. Where’s the dog?

Klarion: cackling Teekl is currently babysitting Batcow. Don’t worry. She’s very responsible.

Bruce: We don’t have Batcow anymore.

Danny: cheerfully “Moo moo went boom boom in the void!”

Duke: I am not emotionally equipped for this level of supernatural babysitting.

Babs (overwatch): Alright, I just caught Klarion opening a dimensional rift with a juice box straw.

Tim: Danny traded his left sock for a spell scroll.

Jason: sobbing laughter HE CAN’T EVEN READ.

Cass: Klarion reads for him. They have story time now.

Dick: Okay but listen—Klarion is doing the voices and Danny keeps demanding “more violence.”

Steph: They started a sock cult. I just saw four plushies in cloaks.

Bruce: gritting teeth Who authorized this?!

Alfred (calmly): Master Danny looked at me with those enormous green eyes and asked if we could make the house "Halloween forever." I, naturally, agreed.

Danny (crowned in fruit loops): “By decree of me, Prince of Spookville, we shall not nap until the moon sings!”

Klarion: bowing deeply “LONG MAY HE REIGN.”

Damian: If I disappear into the walls, do not find me.

Tim: If I disappear into the walls, please rescue me.

Duke: I looked into the bathtub throne and saw my future.

Jason: I saw my past.

Babs: Klarion just summoned a demon shaped like a bouncy castle.

Danny (excited): “BOUNCEY BOI!!!”

Dick: There are spikes on it.

Steph: Yeah, but they’re adorable. Like…baby safe spikes.

Bruce: WHAT THE HELL IS A BABY-SAFE SPIKE?!

Alfred (returning with cookies): Tea is ready, and I have diplomatically negotiated peace using oatmeal raisin offerings.

Bruce: Where is Danny now?

Alfred: Attempting to hex the microwave with a juice box.

Bruce: I am going to cry.

Danny: from the kitchen “MACHINE NO GO BEEP NO MORE.”

Klarion (gleeful): “AND THUS, TECHNOLOGY KNEELS!”

The Realms (watching):

Clockwork: Fascinating. This is better than cable.

Fright Knight: They’re going to blow up the bathtub.

Ember: I like these Batkids. They’re so loud.

Walker: That baby just ate a sigil.

Ancients: We bless this union of chaos. Let the mortal world burn—in friendship and bubbles.

Conclusion:

Danny is now wearing a cape made of sticky notes and peanut butter, Klarion is teaching him how to levitate juice boxes with his mind, and the Batfamily has collectively decided to let Alfred handle it.

He is now King. Again. Of the bathtub.

Danny (beaming): “I RULE THE TILES.”

Klarion (swooping dramatically): “AND I, YOUR LOYAL COURT JESTER!”

Jason: I have never felt more like the normal one.

Danny (proudly): “This was best playdate ever.”

All of Gotham: shuddering in the aftermath

Klarion: Next week—WE CONQUER DAYCARE.

Bruce: faints

[astrotruther]

🔗 Lilith in the signs

their shadow side ft. songs that clock them too accurately.

♈️ LILITH IN ARIES

Their anger is a reflex, not a choice.

Secretly terrified of being controlled, so they control first—chaotically.

'I don’t hold grudges!' (rewrites history to paint themselves as the wronged party.)

Will fight you over a parking spot.

Smudged eyeliner, broken phone screens, unsent rage drafts.

♉️ LILITH IN TAURUS

Keeps a mental spreadsheet of every favor, compliment, or crumb of attention they’ve ever given.

"I’m not possessive, I just know what’s mine." (stares at you like you’re a straying pet.)

Silent treatment lasts longer than most relationships.

Will spend $200 on a candle to "treat themselves" after you forgot their coffee order once.

Vintage perfume bottles, handwritten lists with aggressive underlining.

♊️ LILITH IN GEMINI

Weaponizes forgetfulness to dodge accountability.

"It’s not lying, it’s narrative improvisation."

Starts debates just to watch you sweat. Changes sides mid-argument for fun.

Ghosts for months, then slides into your DMs like "you up? also, defend this political take."

Screenshots of deleted texts, meme warfare, unhinged Google Docs.

🎵 Who are you to recognize me / You frogs who live up to your name / I hope you die in that well - 땡 (Ddaeng) - BTS

♋️ LILITH IN CANCER

Cooks you soup while listing all the ways you’ve disappointed them.

'I’m fine :)' (cries in the shower for 3 hours because you used a tone.)

Collects your vulnerabilities like seashells—for safekeeping, obviously.

Will remember that thing you said in 2017 and weaponize it during a fight about pizza toppings.

Faded polaroids, saltwater-stained journals, cottagecore revenge plans.

♌️ LILITH IN LEO

Posts a thirst trap after any minor ego bruise. "Ugh, just feeling ugly today :/ (pls argue.)"

"I don’t need attention!" (sets themselves on fire metaphorically until someone notices.)

Secretly wants to be the ex you never get over. Leaves a sweater at your place on purpose.

Harsh flash selfies, dramatic Spotify playlists, Notes app manifestos.

♍️ LILITH IN VIRGO

"I’ll fix you :)" (proceeds to dismantle your entire personality like IKEA furniture.)

Nitpicks their own happiness into oblivion. "This joy is imperfect. I reject it."

Corrects your grammar mid-breakup. "It’s ‘you’re,’ not ‘your’ devastating me."

Neat highlighters, spreadsheets of your flaws, passive-aggressive sticky notes.

♎️ LILITH IN LIBRA

Flirts with the waiter to get free dessert, flirts with you to win an argument.

"I just want peace!" (stirs the pot, then acts shocked when it boils over.)

Dumps you but leaves the door open just enough to keep you orbiting.

Mirror selfies with cryptic captions, Pinterest boards titled "Vibe Shift."

♏️ LILITH IN SCORPIO

Asks invasive questions to "test your loyalty," then punishes you for answering wrong.

"I don’t trust anyone." (makes you earn it via psychological hazing.)

Their silence isn’t peaceful—it’s forensic.

Black candles, redacted text posts, unsent poems in blood-red ink.

♐️ LILITH IN SAGITTARIUS

"I just speak the truth!" (the truth is whatever hurts you most in the moment.)

Claims moral high ground from a moving vehicle.

Will backpack across Asia to avoid processing a breakup.

Blurry travel pics, deleted tweets, vaguebooking about "freedom."

♑️ LILITH IN CAPRICORN

Replaces therapy with productivity. "Can’t cry, I have a 5-year plan."

"I don’t get attached." (secretly mourns you for a decade.)

Rejects you before you can reject them.

Monochrome selfies, LinkedIn hustle posts, locked diaries.

♒️ LILITH IN AQUARIUS

"I don’t care." (organizes your entire life from afar to prove they don’t care.)

Treats love like a sociological experiment. "Fascinating. Now suffer."

Leaves group chats without explanation as a power move.

Glitch art, cryptic polls, unsent rants in the drafts.

♓️ LILITH IN PISCES

Love-bombs you into a daydream, then vanishes when it gets real.

'You misunderstood me :(' (you understood them perfectly—that’s the problem.)

Will forgive a crime but hold a grudge over how you said "good morning" in 2022.

Blurry film photos, deleted love letters, Spotify wrapped full of sadbreakcore.

🎵 In the dream I shortly went into / My agonizing phantom pain is still the same - Singularity - BTS

Donate 💌

[phantasm-ae]

I want my boy Gaz some recognition 😭😭😭😭

Maybe the team will get to meet her🤨🤨🤨🤨

(okay but like imagine... Gaz having a wife similar to Price's and Ghost's wife like she is all sweet, loving, and caring... And then boom! She's Carrying Gaz like it's nothing! Like she has that Texas Cottage core vibe (is that even a thing?) like girl is sunshine and strength)

omg omg omg... im so sorry it took so long anon RAAAA. But! I have an ideaa hehehhe. Soo yk Rick and Morty?? Hehehhe well…

cw: chaotic afab reader x kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, slightly mad scientist afab reader, fluff

HEADCANON: The team meets Gaz’s bird. And well…. She was probably more than they’d expected

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x afab reader

Kyle has been dating her for months.

Wildly intelligent and hilariously blunt. Slightly feral lass who wears chaos like perfume and can talk about planetary physics and frogs in the same breath.

The kind who corrects documentaries mid-sentence, and once told Kyle after snooping through his documents, about how his missile trajectory calculations were “embarrassingly phallic,” and sincerely meant it.

And Kyle? Well... He’s absolutely gone for her.

Has been since day one when she marched up to him after attending a childhood friend’s lecture, shoved a melting popsicle in his hand, and said:

"If you had to save the world with only one mathematical constant, which one would you choose? Don’t think — answer!"

Caught between her unblinking stare and a rapidly dripping sticky mango mixture near his cargos, Kyle had only blinked twice and mumbled, “...Pi?”

“Coward,” she said, then grinned like she’d just met her new favorite problem.

That was it. Done. Hooked. Doomed, even.

And well Kyle?

Kyle, awestruck, bemused, and surprised — fingers and wrist sticky with artificial sugar and syrup. The gossamer and sweet liquid staining his newly acquired cargos — could only smile back and nod almost knowingly.

The 141 meet her months later though, during one of those rare in-between missions when there's time for drinks and dinner and recharging before the next chaos hits. But here he was. Fucking sweating and itching through and through.

Well it wasn’t like he never expected all their paths to cross eventually. He always knew she’d meet them. Meet this.

Introduce herself to this part of his life soon enough and not as an accessory or a passing visitor. But as something inevitable. Like gravity. Like sunrise. Something meant to be embedded into every bit of narrative she could sew herself into.

Because if Kyle was ever honest, she knew she wasn’t the kind of person you could keep in a separate drawer. No, never. Would never even think of ever shucking her away on some pent up flat or four-cornered bedroom. Pretty little bird kept and fed well with jewels and soft perches? No. That wasn’t her.

That was never going to be her.

Never.

She was storm and thesis, claws and questions, and Kyle -- sweet, brilliant Kyle -- knew it from the moment she walked into his life like a living paradox, equal parts catastrophe and charm. She didn’t visit chapters. She rewrote them. Annotated margins. Circled themes. Demanded footnotes.

So yes, he always knew.

She overflows. Gushes. Deluged. Trickles sweetly and syrupy into the vestiges of the gloomy part of his existence. Will spill into everything and into him. And Kyle, hopelessly, stupidly gone for her, will never really try to stop it.

So if he was being honest, some part of him had always imagined this moment -- her walking into the same room as the lads, sharp-tongued and starlit, leaving a trail of sparks in her wake. Not if. But more on when.

And now it was when.

But Christ was he still bloody nervous, aye?

Collar too hot and cap a bit too tight on his forehead, palms vaguely clammy like he was back in basic waiting to be called for his first ever inspection all over again. Which was stupid, because this wasn’t a mission. Wasn’t even a bloody op.

It was just.... her -- meeting the rest of his team.

And yet, Kyle was still internally combusting like she was a ticking biochemical warhead that could either charm the lads or annihilate the entirety of Price's backyard.

He glanced sideways at the entrance. No sign of her yet. Okay. Okay. That was fine.

Soap, across from him, was already two pints in and mid-rant about the correct ranking of fast food crisps, while Ghost sat with his arms crossed and offered the occasional low grunt of disagreement. Slow blinking in boredom and lazying around near some of Mrs. Price's potted plants.

Price nursed a whiskey like it was an old grudge and pretended not to be listening, albeit trying to stifle the slight quirk of his lip every time Soap seemed to look even more chauved and disgruntled at Ghost's lack of interest at the importance of learning the difference between Cheese-flavored crisps and barbecued ones. The younger bloke almost fuming at the disinterested and blased remarks he received from his superior. Snobbish over Ghost not knowing the based characteristics on Vinegar vs Vinegar-coated.

“She’s gonna love you lot,” Kyle muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Still don’t get why you’re sweatin’ bullets, mate,” Price replies after sidling up next to Gaz after Soap started yelling at Ghost over the massive and weighty bastard choosing Walkers over Pringles, shaking his head with an amused grin. “You said she’s a wee genius, yeah? She'll be fine aye?"

“She's just.... odd” Kyle said after swallowing

Price’s eyebrows drooped a bit reassuringly. Boonie hat tilted, expression something between humoured and understanding -- the same look he gives rookies before a live op. “Odd’s never been a problem with us, son. You seen Soap’s sock drawer?”

“Ah sort them by how often I wear ‘em, obviously” Soap called out from the booth, clearly listening now after a huff. Stomping back to grab another pint. “It’s practical warfare.”

“Freak behaviour,” Ghost muttered behind his own drink.

Kyle exhaled a nervous laugh, glancing again at the door. “I just mean… she’s different. Proper brilliant, but she says things like ‘Diogenes walked so Newton could run,’ and she means it. Like, genuinely. She once argued with Siri and won.”

“She sounds like a bloody delight,” Price replied dryly, then gave him a nudge with his elbow. “C’mon. You think any of us are normal?”

Kyle looked down at his hands, a little calloused, a little sweaty. “She just means a lot. Don’t want her thinkin’ she’s gotta tone herself down for anyone. She deserves better than that”

Price’s voice lowered, sincere. “Then don’t let her. The team’ll love her for exactly who she is. Just like you already do.”

Kyle was about to respond -- probably with something sarcastic and choked-up -- when the door creaked open.

She walks through the gate carrying a box labeled “Absolutely Not Explosives (Maybe Snacks)”, wearing a bright-green button down with her usual tenured slacks and folded manila envelopes tucked in one pocket. Windblown, wide-eyed, her glasses sliding down her nose, and grinning like she just stepped out of a fever dream and into someone else’s backyard. Armed and saddled with that same barefoot-in-a-storm kind of confidence that had ruined him from day one.

“Hi!” she calls out.

And it’s not just a greeting -- it’s an announcement. A declaration of entry. Like Archimedes, entropy, and the snack box had all been waiting for this exact moment to collide.

Kyle’s heart stuttered once, then promptly gave up any hope of ever functioning normally again.

She beelined for him as usual like a woman on a mission, but halfway there.... she noticed the fire pit --

-- specifically, the way it was constructed.

Oh shit, not again.

She veered without hesitation, knelt next to it, squinting like she was analyzing a nuclear core, and muttered, “Someone built this using a Fibonacci spiral as emotional support.”

“Fuck's Fibonacci?”, Soap whispered loudly, nudging Ghost with his elbow. “This Gaz's lass then, aye?”

Ghost gave her a slow once-over. Head tilting a bit at her mismatched flats and patched pockets. “Bird looks like she drinks Red Bull and argues with God.”

Before Kyle could respond -- or run, depending on the emotional weather -- she reaches into the sleeve of her coat and yanks out a... suspicious-looking metal rod.

No one spoke.

Then -- click -- a blade folded out. But not like a normal blade. No, this looked like a half-melted Swiss Army knife made love to a soldering iron. Wires dangling at the bits of shorn metal. Clinking and sinewy it was. A button at the side of the make-shift handle blinking blue rapidly.

Yep. Something definitely hissed, Price concludes as he minutely flinches for the first time at the sight of something so foreign and obtuse near his wife's petunias.

Ghost tensed, gaze locked like he was trying to identify what kind of improvised weapon she’d just birthed into existence, while Soap -- daft numpty -- only leaned forward in fascination.

“What the fuck is that?” Price asked, calm but also not calm, the way a father might ask why there’s a raccoon in the dishwasher.

She didn’t look up. “Thermodynamic calibrator-slash-ultralight torch. Built it from scrap and spite. Give me a sec.”

Then she jammed it into the soil like she was performing surgery on the lawn. A sharp hum buzzed through the air. One of the lawn lights flickered. She squinted at the fire pit, adjusted a dial, then jammed the device again into the soil near the base. The fire pit roared to life, its flame suddenly tall and balanced, licking upward in a soft golden spiral. It was mesmerizing, a near-perfect bloom of heat and symmetry.

The men collectively leaned back.

“Hell's bells” Soap muttered.

She stood, smacked some dirt off her knees, and grinned with both pride and a worrying amount of glee. “There,” she said, adjusting a final dial before stepping back. “Now it distributes heat evenly -- low flicker rate, too, in case anyone here’s prone to headaches or, you know… prefers not to feel like they’re being interrogated by the sun.”

Her tone was light, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Ghost -- casual, gentle, like it was just an offhand observation. But Kyle caught it. The way she noticed things most didn’t. The way she chose to.

Soap leaned back slowly, a grin now stretching across his face like a man watching the birth of a new religion.

“I like her", Soap grinned.

Kyle was already up on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, love… you gonna say hi properly, or you planning to interrogate more of the landscaping?”

She stood up straighter now, poised and readied, like nothing was odd once more, turning with an inviting and warmy grin, holding the box up proudly with a small and enthusiastic wave. Almost like she didn't just reconstruct a fire pit with a weaponized calculator and a god complex. “Hi! Sorry, got distracted. The heat ratios were offensive. Also, I brought snacks!”

She shook the box once for emphasis. It jangled. The sound was deeply suspicious.

Ghost, once relaxed and a bit.... touched alarmed that someone picked up on his discomfort with flickering light without him saying a word, now sat a little straighter at that. Eyes sharp once again. Cautious and perched. Shoulders just barely tensed under his hoodie as something absolutely squeaked when she juggled the looming cardboard in her wry hands repeatedly.

Price side-eyed the box like it had a timer.

Soap was still smiling like he’d just found a new hobby. Gait shifting to approach her closer. Reading the “Absolutely Not Explosives" label aloud. “Tha's either a bloody threat or a right good promise.”

“Depends on who opens it,” she replied cheerfully, then smiled open and inviting, adjusting her grip to shake Soap's outstretched palm. Shoving the box right after to Kyle's chest. Price humming in amusement at the sight 'oof' Kyle breathes at the weight and mounty thing now in his grasp. A misguided care package from a mad scientist at that. He was sure of it.

Making him stagger a step back, having to catch it again with both hands as it tilted precariously to one side. Something clinked. Something else sloshed. Something definitely clicked.

Price hummed, one brow rising as he took another sip of whiskey. “She always gift-wrap danger?”

“Only on the holidays,” Kyle muttered, staring down at the box like it was about to start reciting code.

Meanwhile, she was already gripping Soap’s hand with a firm shake, her grin bright, chaotic energy radiating off her like a short-circuited sunbeam.

At his sergeant's words, Price shakes his head in hilarity and interest, a slight lift from his beard for a surprised smile before stepping forward himself and offering his own hand. “You must be the chaos professor.”

She blinked at his hand at that, his words making her pause but grin proudly, grasping his sinewy fingers firmly as well in return. “I’m not a professor. Yet. But I am a Doctor of Applied Theoretical Physics, with a minor in Quantum Physics”

“You’ll fit right in,” he replied, clearly entertained. “I’m John.”

“Captain John Price,” she said then, squinting. Almost like something just pieced itself together in her head. A corner of her glasses slightly blinking green and blue. However, light and subtle -- just a shimmer beneath the lens as if scanning data only she could see.

She tilted her head. “Ohhh. You’re the John Price. Task Force 141. SAS. Operation Kingfisher, the oil rig interception, three confirmed HVTs neutralized in twenty-one minutes. That John.”

Price raised a brow, his grip still firm in her handshake. “That’s a very specific résumé you’re rattling off.”

She grinned, shrugging. “I like to research my boyfriend’s coworkers. Helps me know what kind of cookies to bake and what kinds of extraction plans to draft in case things go horribly wrong. And can I just say for the record, that you truly have a ridiculously symmetrical face.”

Price chuckled low in his throat, that rare and gravelly sound of a man both flattered and bewildered. “Symmetrical, huh?”

She nodded, eyes narrowed with faux scrutiny. “Yep. It’s giving ‘military recruitment poster.’ Like someone made you in a lab to sell patriotism and protein powder.”

Soap let out a loud bark of laughter. “Och, she's clocked you dead-on, Cap"

Kyle was standing off to the side now, box still in his arms, looking like he was debating whether to set it down gently or hurl it into the bushes before something in it decided to hatch. “Please don’t feed her ego,” he called over. “It’s already got its own gravitational field.”

She shot him a wink at his response. “That’s rich coming from the man who cried at my thesis defense.”

“That’s -- I had a cold,” Kyle protested, cheeks already pinking.

“She presented using live fluid simulations and built a metaphor about dark energy and love,” he added for the others, like that would somehow make it less devastating.

Ghost muttered into his glass, “Startin' to think you didn’t pull her… bird drafted you.”

“She did,” Kyle said, deadpan. “I was conscripted.”

Price shook his head, that amused smile now tugging higher under his beard. “Well, Doc, welcome to the madness.”

She glanced at the squad -- all casually observing her like she was both a field report and an open flame -- and clapped her hands once, bright and fearless.

“Excellent,” she said. “Then I’ll make tea after this. Also, about that fire pit--”

Soap looked delighted. “Aye, that wee disaster? That wis me, cheers.”

She gave him a mock-somber nod. Almost cringing at Soap's enthusiasm as if it physically hurt her to try and school someone for something pointless and small at the end of the day. “I admire the conviction, Johnny. But the stones.... were holding a grudge.”

Ghost tilted his head. “Fuck do stones hold a grudge for?”

She looked at him over her glasses. “Vibrations. Like people. Only less dramatic.”

Soap leaned over to Price, muttering, “This one’s a unit. A proper mad scientist.”

Price snorted. “And you love it.”

“You know I do.”

Finally, Kyle placed the suspicious box on the table with the care of someone setting down a baby rattlesnake. “Alright, so are we opening this or performing a ritual?”

She lit up. “Both.”

Something beeped.

Ghost stiffened.

Soap leaned closer.

Price calmly took another sip of his whiskey like he was very used to seeing strange things unfold in his garden.

And Kyle?

He just grinned, wide and resigned, as she started peeling back the tape with the flair of someone revealing buried treasure. Because this was her. All of her.

Spilling and overflowing for sure. All light, wit, and kinetic mess. Sharp edges wrapped in cellophane, brilliance hidden beneath layers of glitter and chaos and a worrying understanding of black-market circuit boards. Solar flare in the shape of his other half is what it is.

But somehow. Bloody somehow.

Still. Will. And is --

-- utterly Kyle's.

“Alright,” she said brightly, flipping the box open now with a flourish, “Let’s play snack roulette!”

Revealing the inside of the malty cardboard now filled with neatly organized rows of tiny vacuum-sealed parcels, each labelled with suspicious enthusiasm:

Nutritionally Suspicious Brownies

Possibly Radioactive Jam -- Only Kyle's

Chili Lemon Cry-Biscuits

Emotionally Unstable Muffins

Entropy Taffy

Soap leaned in with glee. “Christ, ye name yer snacks like they’ve got emotional issues”

“They kind of are,” she replied, plucking out the Cry-Biscuits and casually tossing one to Ghost, who caught it one-handed with all the enthusiasm of a man expecting to be poisoned. He sniffed it once, then gave her a look.

“Why’s it humming.”

“Because it’s fresh,” she said simply, then added, “And also maybe reacting to trace particles in the air. The spice is… volatile.”

Ghost stared. “You trying to kill us bird?”

“If I was, you'd already be carbon scoring,” she chirped.

Soap popped one of the taffies into his mouth with a crunch. Immediately blinked. “Holy shite. I can taste colors!”

masterlist

[maria021015]

The One Time She Said Yes

Fred Weasley x FemReader

All of the times Fred Weasley asked y/n to marry him. And the one time she said yes.

Warnings: Angst, Canon Character death

———————————————————————

The Burrow always smelled comforting. Like cinnamon and sun-warmed grass.

It was a golden afternoon in late summer, and the mismatched garden behind the Burrow buzzed with dragonflies and laughter. Well, had buzzed, until about ten minutes ago, when a small girl with grass-stained knees and a pout bigger than the sky had been told by Charlie and Bill that “this game’s for big kids, sorry.”

Now she sat beneath a sagging old apple tree, chin in her hands, eyes watery and red-rimmed. Her little floral dress was wrinkled and half her hair had come loose from the ribbon her mum had carefully tied that morning.

That’s how Fred found her.

He’d only come out to tell her that Molly said it was time for juice and treacle tart, but when he saw her sitting there all small and sad and scrunching her fists like she was about to cry again, everything else kind of melted away.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “D’you wanna play with me? We’ve got a dress-up box. George says he wants to be a prince, but princes are boring.”

She sniffled and looked over at him, lashes wet.“You don’t think I’m too little?”

Fred scrunched his nose. “You’re not little. You beat Percy at Exploding Snap twice last week.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “Okay,” she mumbled.

They trailed into the Burrow hand in hand. Molly barely blinked at the trail of glitter, mismatched fabrics, and toy swords they left behind as they rummaged through the dress-up box. By the time they reemerged, Fred was wearing a wizards hat and an oversized waistcoat that dragged behind him like a cape, and she wore a tulle skirt over her clothes and a flower crown that slipped too far to one side.

“You be the fairy queen,” Fred said importantly, striking a pose with a crooked plastic wand, “and I’ll be the wizard knight who saves you from the goblins.”

“But I don’t need saving!” she said proudly, puffing up.

Fred grinned, a little gap in his front teeth where one had fallen out last week. “Alright, then I’ll be the goblin.”

They ran around the garden for ages, casting spells, banishing invisible trolls, and laughing until their cheeks hurt. Eventually, breathless and tangled in old tulle and the buzz of imagination, they collapsed onto a patch of soft grass near the gnome-warren.

Fred was quiet for a moment. Then, with the kind of sudden gravity only a six-year-old like him could muster, he turned toward her and asked, “Will you marry me?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Marry me. Like Mum and Dad. I’ll build you a castle with fairy lights, and we’ll eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

She giggled, the sound sticky-sweet and sunlit. “That’s silly, Freddie.”

“Is not!”

“You can’t marry people when you’re six.”

He frowned, pouting. “Why not?”

“Because we’re too little,” she insisted, like it was obvious. “But…ask me again when we’re big. Maybe I’ll say yes then.”

Fred beamed. “Okay. I will.”

And he meant it.

———————————————————————

The living room at the Burrow looked like a battlefield.

Dice lay scattered across the rug like fallen soldiers. Game cards were stuck under couch cushions. The air smelled like biscuits, old books, and the distinct electricity of a thunderstorm rolling in beyond the hills.

They’d been playing for hours. The rest of the Weasley siblings had already given up and moved on to different activities, but not y/n and Fred.

Fred sat cross-legged across from her, his nose wrinkled in concentration as he narrowed his eyes at the board between them. She was chewing the end of a sugar quill, gaze locked onto her final move.

“Don’t do it,” Fred warned dramatically, throwing out an arm. “It’ll end in tears.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re losing.”

“I’m saying that because I’m about to lose, and I can feel it in my spleen.”

“You don’t even know what a spleen is!” She giggled, eyes bright with triumph as she placed her final piece.

The board groaned, a puff of confetti burst from the centre, and the enchanted scoreboard flashed her name in dancing letters that sparkled obnoxiously in pink and gold: GRAND VICTOR: Y/N!

Fred fell back with a loud groan, covering his face with both hands. “NOOOO. Not again!”

“That’s three games in a row,” she said smugly, twirling the sugar quill like a wand. “You said you were going to crush me this time.”

Fred peeked between his fingers. “I still won though.”

“In what universe?”

“Because you played with me. You know, I won in a romantic sense.”

She froze, blinking.

Fred immediately sat up, flushing as if he only just realized what he said. His ears were turning pink, and he picked at the frayed hem of his jumper like it might offer him a way out.

“Wha…what does that even mean?” she asked slowly.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Just…y’know. I still have fun playing with you even when you beat me at everything.”

“You’re weird.”

Fred puffed out his chest. “My dad says the best people are.”

She rolled her eyes and stood to start packing away the pieces. Fred helped, quietly at first, then asked, not quite casually, “D’you remember that time I asked you to marry me? When we were little?”

She looked up from folding the scoreboard. “Yeah. In the garden. You said we’d eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

“Still a solid plan,” he grinned. “So. I was thinking…now we’re older, maybe I should ask again.”

She blinked, startled. “Wait, now?”

Fred shrugged one shoulder, gaze flicking up but not quite meeting hers. “You’re my best friend. And if I’m gonna marry anyone someday, I want it to be you.”

There was no laugh this time. She studied him for a beat too long, then broke into a grin. “Fred, we’re ten.”

“I know. I’m not actually proposing! It’s just…practice. Y’know. For future proposals. Gotta start somewhere.”

“Well then you need to practice losing,” she teased, flicking a game piece at him. “That was the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

Fred clutched his chest like she’d mortally wounded him. “You wound me.”

“You dramatic toad,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “But fine. Ask me again when you’re much older. Like seventeen.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Seventeen?”

“Yeah. You’ll be all tall and mature by then, right?”

Fred’s mouth quirked. “Debatable.”

“Then we’ll see,” she said, already turning away.

Fred watched her go, chest fluttering, and whispered under his breath to the empty room, “Seventeen it is, then.”

———————————————————————

The summer sun was blistering, a relentless orange blaze overhead that turned the Weasleys’ backyard into a sweltering arena of cracked grass, scattered broomsticks, and discarded jumpers. The garden smelled like honeysuckle and sweat, mingled with the distant aroma of smoke from the kitchen. Molly must’ve started dinner.

Y/n’s family was visiting again, as they always did during the summer. Except now, y/n also got to see the Weasley children at Hogwarts, where they all attended school. She and the twins were in their third year now, and little Ron had also just finished his first year at school. He was nowhere to be seen now, though. Probably off writing a letter to his new best friend, Harry Potter.

Y/n and the twins had taken their time to play a rather long game of quidditch in the field. Fred hovered above the makeshift pitch in a lazy loop, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, his broom handle warm beneath his palms. Below him, George was shouting something incoherent about cheating, but Fred wasn’t listening.

His eyes were on her. She rocketed across the sky like a streak of starlight, her clothes clinging to her frame in the wind, hair whipping in all directions. She leaned into her turn, cut through the air, spun hard, and smack! The Quaffle went sailing straight through the middle hoop like she’d done it in her sleep.

“HA!” she shouted triumphantly, fists thrown in the air as her broom dipped and coasted toward the ground.

Fred’s jaw dropped.

George groaned. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m retiring. I can’t keep being destroyed like this.”

“You’re just mad she’s better than you,” Fred teased automatically, still watching her as she touched down, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes sparkling with pride.

“Better than you, too,” she said, turning to him with a smug look. “I believe that was my fifth goal.”

“I wasn’t even keeping score,” Fred said, half-defensive, half-in-awe. “It’s hard to count when I’m being dazzled.”

She arched a brow, brushing sweat-damp hair out of her face. “Dazzled?”

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. “Yeah. By your…uh. Aerodynamic excellence.”

George made a gagging noise somewhere behind them. “I’m going inside. Mum! They’re being weird again!”

The door slammed behind him. They were alone now. The wind had picked up slightly, brushing warm air across the field, fluttering the edges of her sleeves.

Fred cleared his throat and kicked at the dirt with one scuffed trainer. “You were really good today.”

She glanced at him sideways, suspicious. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I do want something,” he admitted, grinning.

She smirked and leaned against her broom, letting it rest across her shoulders like a bat. “I’m listening.”

Fred took a step closer, the sun catching on the reddish highlights in his hair. “I just…was thinking. You’ve got killer aim, a terrifying poker face, and you’re possibly the coolest person I know.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment hidden in his joke. “Fred—”

“And,” he cut in quickly, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I think you should marry me.”

There it was. Out again.

She snorted. Loud. “What?!”

“C’mon,” he said, shrugging one shoulder but watching her closely. “Just imagine it! Quidditch every weekend, breakfast food for dinner, and I’ll let you win every board game if you say yes.”

She gave him a look, eyes narrowed, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You’d let me win?”

“I always let you win,” he said, deadpan.

She took a slow step forward, letting her broom fall to the ground as she closed the distance between them. “You’re an idiot.”

Fred grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

“No,” she said, laughing now, shaking her head as she walked past him. “It’s a you’re-an-idiot. When are you going to stop joking about that?”

He turned to follow her, something flickering in his chest. “Who says I’m not being serious?”

She paused, just for a second. It was the kind of pause that lingered longer than it should’ve. Like maybe the words had landed deeper than either of them expected. Her gaze met his, and he couldn’t read it this time. There was something guarded there. A flicker of something just out of reach.

Then she smiled, crooked and careless. “Because you never are. You joke about everything.”

Fred watched her walk away, barefoot and fearless, as the wind lifted her hair from her shoulders.

He wanted to call out after her. Tell her that he would never joke about her.

He didn’t.

———————————————————————

The night hung heavy and velvet-black above the castle, stars scattered across the sky like spilled secrets. It was late - long past curfew - but the Astronomy Tower had always been their place. The highest point at Hogwarts, cloaked in quiet and cool wind, forgotten by prefect patrols too lazy to climb that many stairs.

She pushed the wooden door open with a creak, the chill night air slipping over her skin as she stepped out onto the stone platform. Fred was already there, perched on the edge of the low wall with one leg swinging carelessly into the dark. A half-empty bottle of Firewhisky dangled from his hand, glinting amber in the starlight.

“Nice of you to show up,” he slurred, grinning when he saw her.

It wasn’t odd for her to find him up here. It was one of the only times she’d see him at school without George by his side. It also didn’t surprise her to see the bottle of grog in his hand. It had been a stressful year, after all. Umbridge had made sure of it. In fact, if the witch were to catch them up her she was sure they’d be severely punished. Maybe even expelled.

“You said it was urgent,” she replied, arms crossed, voice dry. “I thought one of your inventions went wrong. Not that you’d climbed onto the roof with contraband.”

Fred wiggled the bottle invitingly. “Not just contraband. Premium bad decisions.”

She sighed, stepping closer. “How much have you had?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Enough to finally be brave, I think.”

“Brave or stupid?” she muttered, taking the bottle from him and setting it down safely on the stone ledge.

Fred didn’t answer. He was looking at her with a softness that made her stomach twist - eyes half-lidded, hair wind-tousled, face flushed from the Firewhisky and the cold. “George and I are leaving. Tomorrow. We’re not coming back. Can’t put up with that vile toad anymore.”

She pursed her lips as something in her abdomen churned uncomfortably. “I was wondering when it would finally happen.” She admitted. She’d noticed that the twins were at their wits end lately. Really it was only a matter of time before they took off, leaving her behind.

“You should come with us.” Something behind his gaze almost begged her.

“You know I can’t. I need to finish school,” she shook her head. But she wished she could say yes. He nodded, taking another solemn swig from the bottle.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, “you look like the moonlight’s in love with you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his borderline nonsensical words. “You’re drunk.”

“Drunk. Not blind.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she fought to keep her voice steady. “Okay, that’s it. You’re going to bed.”

Fred reached out, caught her wrist before she could move away. “Wait.”

She stilled. His fingers were warm. His grip gentle. Hesitant.

“D’you remember,” he said slowly, “that summer when we were ten? We were playing board games and I asked you to marry me. You told me to wait til we were seventeen.” Fred smiled, boyish and unsteady, but somehow painfully sincere. “So…am I tall and mature yet?”

She didn’t speak right away. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped snitch.

“Fred…”

“I’m serious,” he said, eyes locked on hers now. “I know I joke all the time, but I’m not joking now. I want…I want to marry you someday. Properly. I’ve wanted it since we were five. Since that stupid game in the garden. Since always.”

Her throat tightened. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“Yes I will,” he insisted, voice rising with stubbornness. “I will. I’ll write it down. I’ll carve it into the back of my hand if I have to.”

She laughed, but it came out watery. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he whispered. “Not about you. Never about you.”

She swallowed the ache in her chest and slowly crouched in front of him, tucking a windblown curl behind his ear. Her fingers lingered there longer than they should have. “You’re drunk, Freddie.”

“But I love you,” he said, quiet and sure.

She closed her eyes for half a second. Just one half-second of weakness. “I know.”

Silence hung between them like breath before a kiss. And then, she shook her head.

“You’re going to bed.”

“No—wait, please—just—”

She tugged gently on his arm, helping him down from the ledge. He stumbled a bit, and she caught him, letting his weight lean into hers as they started the slow descent from the tower.

His voice, sleepy now, mumbled against her shoulder. “You said…seventeen…”

“I know what I said.” She didn’t let him see the way her eyes burned, the way her lip trembled.“I just didn’t think you’d be asking me when you could barely stand upright.”

Fred let out a soft breath, something like a laugh. “Still gonna ask again. Next time maybe you’ll say yes.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him that part of her - maybe most of her - wanted to say yes right there. Had wanted to for years. But not like this. Not with whisky on his breath and wobble in his knees. Not when she couldn’t trust that he still meant it. Not when he was leaving tomorrow and she would be stuck here at Hogwarts. Not when she had no idea where either of them would be this time next year.

She got him to bed, helped him out of his shoes, brushed the hair from his forehead as he blinked up at her with glassy eyes and a crooked, hopeless smile.

“You love me too,” he whispered.

Her heart cracked. She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and shaking. “I do.”

But he was already asleep.

———————————————————————

The Burrow had never looked so magical. Golden lanterns floated like fireflies above the garden, casting a warm, flickering glow over rows of white-draped tables and dancing guests. Strings of enchanted fairy lights tangled around tree branches around the floating marquee. Fleur looked radiant, Bill dashing, and everything - the laughter, the wine, the music - felt like the start of something instead of the end of a world teetering on the edge.

She stood near the fringe of the celebration, a half-full glass of champagne in hand and the soft hum of the wedding band playing behind her. Her dress was a deep shade of emerald that made her skin glow in the candlelight, her hair pinned up with little sprigs of baby’s breath.

It was one of the few moments in recent memory where she didn’t feel like a war was looming just beyond the trees.

And then—

“Merlin’s beard,” came the familiar, amused voice from behind her, “they let you into a place like this looking that fancy?”

She turned. Fred Weasley was standing there. Clean-shaven, hair wind-tousled as always, a slightly askew bow tie hanging loose at his collar and a glass in his hand that was suspiciously not his first. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him, but then again, he was. His smile was crooked, but his eyes were soft, and they scanned her like she was a memory made real again.

“Fred,” she said, her breath catching a little.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips. “Still as full of yourself as ever.”

“Absolutely,” he said proudly. “Although, I’m still trying to recover from the emotional trauma of seeing you walk in tonight. I mean, bloody hell, you’ve grown up.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Oh, flattered,” he said easily, stepping closer, his gaze lingering on her just long enough to make her cheeks warm. “Definitely flattered.”

A moment passed, too long to be casual. Then he tilted his head toward the dance floor. “Wanna dance?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to - she did, and desperately so - but because her heart had spent too many years pretending it didn’t still skip at the sight of him.

But she nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

He offered his hand with an exaggerated bow, and she took it, letting him lead her into the sea of swaying bodies and floating lanterns. The music was soft and old-fashioned. A violin wept gently above a lilting piano. He held her hand in his and settled the other lightly against her waist. They fit together like a memory.

“So,” he murmured, “Healer, huh?”

“So you’ve been keeping track?” She smiled up at him. “St Mungo’s. Spell damage ward. Long hours. Screaming patients. You know, glamorous.”

He grinned. “Saving lives and breaking hearts, I imagine.”

She nudged him with her hip. “And what about you? I hear Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes has lines out the door.”

“Oh, we’re wildly successful,” he said dramatically. “Money. Fame. Adoring fans. It’s exhausting, really.”

She laughed, and his smile softened.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, after a pause. “That you’re happy. You and George…you deserve it.”

Something flickered in his expression. “Yeah. We’re lucky.”

The song slowed. The light caught in her hair. And for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, “I missed you,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

“I thought about writing,” he added, his voice low. “But I figured you were busy becoming a real adult and didn’t have time for a clown like me.”

“You’re not a clown,” she said. “You’ve never been.”

Their eyes met. There it was again, that same pull, that unspoken thing that had been dancing between them since they were seventeen and drunk on the Astronomy Tower.

“We should’ve tried,” he said suddenly. “Back then. When we had the chance.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His hand slipped lower on her back, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “We could try now.”

Her heart stumbled. “What?”

“There’s still time for you to marry me.” It wasn’t a joke.

There was no teasing grin, no punchline waiting. Just Fred, holding her like she was something fragile and burning, saying the words like they’d been waiting in his mouth since they were kids.

“Fred…” she whispered.

“I mean it.” He gave a breathless laugh. “Look at us. You’re stunning, and I’m…well, at least I’m charming. That’s gotta count for something.”

She stared at him, mouth parting to answer. And that’s when it happened. A bang cracked through the garden, loud and unnatural. The music stopped. People screamed.

A silver otter Patronus shot across the air, swirling above the crowd. “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Gasps broke the quiet. Plates clattered to the ground. Wands were drawn. And then, before anyone could move, black figures began to appear at the edge of the clearing - hooded, masked, radiating menace.

“Death Eaters!” someone screamed.

Fred pulled her behind him without thinking, wand out in an instant. “Go!” he shouted to her over the panic. “Get out of here!”

“No! Not without you—”

“I’ll be fine,” he lied. “Just go—”

A jet of green light sliced the air between them.

Fred flung a shield charm, but the blast knocked them apart. She hit the ground hard, vision spinning. In the chaos - spells flying, guests screaming, tables flipping - she caught one last glimpse of him, red hair flaming under the dark sky as he dueled back-to-back with George, fearless.

She shouted his name. He didn’t hear her.

And as another curse exploded far too close, she was yanked backward by Charlie Weasley, who wrapped an arm around her and Disapparated them both out into the cold, dark night.

———————————————————————

The air was thick with smoke and fear. Spells lit the night like lightning. Screams echoed down every corridor. The world was ending one brick at a time, and she was tearing through the rubble like a ghost in search of a tether - desperate, driven, breathless.

The last year had been hard on everyone. War had torn families apart, sent people into hiding. Y/n had been on the run, fleeing death eaters left and right, there had been no time for anything else but surviving to fight another day. She hadn’t seen the Weasley twins - hadn’t seen Fred - since Fleur and Bill’s wedding.

Her feet pounded across the flagstone floor of the Entrance Hall, boots soaked in something too dark to name. She ducked behind the crumbling statue of Gregory the Smarmy, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out, like it needed to find him too.

Fred. She had to find Fred.

The war was deafening, duels flaring all around, bodies falling in corners she didn’t let herself look too closely at. All she could see, all she could feel, was his face the last time they were both here. That sleepy grin from the Astronomy Tower. The way he said, “You love me too.”

He was right. And she was going to tell him.

“MOVE!” she yelled, pushing past a stunned first-year being ushered toward the Great Hall by a terrified Hufflepuff prefect.

A shockwave rattled the windows as something exploded above the grand staircase. Dust rained down like ash. Somewhere in the chaos, she heard Bellatrix Lestrange laughing, and her skin went cold.

But then she caught sight of Molly Weasley, stood near the base of the stairs. Her wand was raised, her hair wild with battle and her robes scorched at the hem. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, but when she turned and saw y/n, her face crumpled in sudden relief.

“Oh, thank Merlin—” Molly surged forward, grabbing her into a fierce hug.

“I came back to fight,” she gasped into Molly’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Molly pulled back, cupping her face in both trembling hands. “Of course you did, love. Brave girl.”

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp and panicked now. “Fred. I need to find Fred. I need to tell him—”

Molly paused, and something gentle came into her expression. Something knowing. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes shining.

She nodded rapidly, too choked up to speak. “I can’t wait anymore. I just…I love him. I always have. And I can’t…if something happens before I—”

Molly wrapped her arms around her again, tighter this time. “You go, darling. You go tell him. He and George were defending the Room of Requirement - the passageway to Hogsmeade. He’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes wet, throat tight.

“Go,” Molly said, tears in her voice. “Go get our boy.”

She didn’t hesitate. She took off running again, weaving through chaos, through bodies and broken glass and echoing cries. The castle was bleeding. Its stone walls cracked and scorched, its staircases broken, its portraits either vacant or weeping. But she kept going, dodging curses and dodging death, clutching her wand tight to her chest like a compass pointing north.

Fred. Fred. Fred.

That was her mantra.

The Room of Requirement was near. She could hear shouting - his voice, unmistakably loud even under duress.

She rounded the corner just in time to see him. He stood in front of the shattered stone doors that led to the Room of Requirement, wand at the ready, George beside him and blood streaking his cheek. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts as he cast spell after spell, holding the line like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even now, even covered in dust and sweat and blood, he looked like home.

She stumbled forward, heart in her throat. “FRED!”

He turned at the sound of her voice. Their eyes locked across the broken corridor, over the sea of chaos.

BOOM.

The world went white. A violent spell tore through the stone above them, and the ceiling exploded. The wall beside the Room of Requirement collapsed inward. Screams erupted. A flash of heat, of light, of fire.

“No. NO!” she screamed, sprinting forward as the debris settled, a thick cloud of dust rising like smoke from a pyre.

George’s voice rang out first, raw and panicked. “FRED?!”

She dropped to her knees, hands already digging through the rubble, ignoring the searing pain in her arms, the gash on her temple. She ripped at the stones, pulled away wood and plaster and whatever else had buried him as George’s wand went to work doing the same.

“Please,” she sobbed, fingers bloody. “Please, no, not like this—”

A hand, still warm, reached out through the rubble.

“Fred, Fred, I’ve got you. Don’t move—” She uncovered his face, half-buried beneath broken stone. His eyes fluttered open, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. She let out a strangled sob, brushing the dust from his cheek, her hands trembling. “Don’t move. I’m getting help. Madam Pomfrey…someone—”

“No,” he whispered, catching her wrist with what little strength he had left. “No time. Just…stay. Please.”

She shook her head violently, blinking tears from her eyes as she tried to clear more debris from his chest, from his legs, from the place the wall had caved in and crushed him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay, I swear—”

“Look at me,” he rasped. She froze. His eyes were unfocused. But they were on her. “Don’t kid yourself,” he said, voice quiet, slurred with pain. “You know I don’t have long. I just…I just wanna look at you. One last time.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Fred blinked slowly. “Told George you’d show up…didn’t believe me…”

She cradled his face in her palms, brushing the blood away, the tears falling freely now. “You idiot. You absolute idiot. You don’t get to die before I tell you.”

“Tell me what?” he rasped, barely audible.

“That I love you.” Her voice cracked. “That I’ve always loved you. That I was waiting for the right time, and I was wrong. There’s never a right time. I should’ve told you when we were kids, when you asked me again and again and I kept saying no. I should’ve said yes.”

Fred smiled through the pain. “Finally. You know I’ve got to ask—”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head again, tears falling freely now. “Don’t you dare…don’t you dare say it.”

“I have to,” he insisted, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth where blood was bubbling past his lips. “It’s tradition.”

“Fred—”

“Please,” he said softly. “Let me ask one last time.”

And then, through the pain, through the blood, through the smoke of a burning world, he looked at her like he always had - like she was the only real thing that had ever existed - and said: “Will you marry me?”

It shattered what was left of her heart, the shards puncturing her lungs and stealing her breath.

All the years. All the laughter. The stolen glances. The nights spent side-by-side pretending not to feel what they both did. The almost-kisses. The failed timing. The jokes that weren’t really jokes at all.

He had always meant it. And she had always loved him.

“Yes,” she whispered, lowering her forehead to his, tears falling onto his shirt, her hands cradling his face. “Yes. I’ll marry you. I love you.”

Fred let out a soft sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Took you long enough.”

His hand found hers, fingers tightening with the last of his strength. His eyes stilled. And the warmth left his fingers.

Her breath caught. Her body locked. She stared down at the boy she had loved since childhood, the boy who had asked her six times - and the one time she’d said yes, the war had already taken him.

The castle was still imploding around them, but all she could hear was silence. She pressed her lips to his forehead. Her tears dripped onto his skin.

She didn’t scream. There wasn’t any breath left in her.

She just leaned into his chest and sobbed in silence. Not because she didn’t want anyone to hear her grief, but because no sound in the world could hold the weight of losing him.

Nothing could pull her mind away from replaying those final moments. Not when George - shaking and crying - pulled her away from him. Not when the fighting stopped. Not when they carried Fred’s body back to the great hall. Not when Molly hugged her and broke down. Not when George and her fought side by side until Dawn broke. Not in the hours after the battle ended. Not for days. Weeks. Months.

Even years later she would never forget Fred Weasley. He was always hers. Until the day they would finally meet again.

[nvxzaa]

── .✦ Mama’s boy

Masterlist

Pairing :Dad¡idol! Lee Minho x reader

Word : 733

Genre : fluff

Warning : none

Yn hadn't even had time to put her bag down when a miniature tornado had already pounced on her legs.

- Mummy!" cried the little boy, his arms raised and his cheeks red with happiness.

She laughed softly, crouching down to hug him.

- "Hi sweetheart... I missed you too."

Ever since he could walk, their son had only had one obsession: Yn. She had to carry him, stay by his side, eat with him, sleep next to him - sometimes even accompany him to fetch a toy from across the room.

- He refused to eat until you came," Minho said from the kitchen, arms folded in mock jadedness.

- You could help me, you know. I'm the one he sticks to all day."

Yn raised an eyebrow, amused.

- "You mean you suffer from not having my attention for three hours?"

- "I mean that there are two of you to make me jealous, and I feel like I'm the second choice in this house."

She burst out laughing, straightening up with their son in her arms.

- "You're jealous of your own son?"

Minho came over to her, resting his hands on his hips.

- I loved you before him. I should have priority rights."

The little boy grunted when he saw his father too close to his mother, which didn't help. He reached out and pushed Minho's torso with an authoritative gesture.

- "No! Mum to me."

- "That's what I was saying," Minho growled. "He's stealing my girlfriend."

Yn sighed, shaking his head.

- "You're worse than two brothers fighting over a console."

- "A console? I like you a lot more than a console, babe."

She giggled, as their son hid his face against her neck, as if he wanted to melt his jealous dad even more.

- "You know what?" she said to Minho. "You can have the bath tonight. Maybe it'll make it up to you."

- "I'll try," he replied, falsely solemn. "But if he sulks me again, I'll sleep with you and he'll go to his bed."

- "You say that every night and you always end up cuddling him."

- "Shut up."

And despite the ridiculous rivalry, Minho smiles. Because deep down, he loved it. This noisy, sticky, loving life.

The bath was going to be... eventful.

Minho had prepared the water, chosen his favourite toys - the yellow duck, the blue whale and that damn frog that sang a song as soon as you pressed it. He had armed himself with patience. And towels. Lots and lots of towels.

- "Come on, champ. Here we go."

But the "champion" in question clung to his mother's neck like a little monkey, eyebrows furrowed.

- "No. Mommy too."

- "Mum's staying here. She's going to cook dinner. Dad's giving you a bath today."

The look he gave Minho could have made a kitten cry.

- "Mum too!"

Minho rolled his eyes.

- Are you serious? You're throwing a jealous fit over shampoo?"

Yn, who was watching the scene from the corridor, bit her lip to keep from laughing.

- "Do you want me to come? Just to save you?" she asked in a corner.

- "No. I can handle it. I'm his dad. He's going to figure out eventually that I'm just as cool as you are."

- "You think so?"

- "No."

But he eventually picked up his son anyway, taking him upright, potato sack style.

- "Treason!" the boy shouted, arms outstretched towards his mother.

- "That's it, call social services, go on."

Yn followed them with her eyes to the bathroom, where she soon heard splashes, protests... and laughter.

A few minutes later, Minho came out with their son wrapped in a towel, looking triumphant.

- Mission accomplished. He even said I was 'almost' as funny as Mum."

- "Almost?" repeated Yn.

- "I'll take what I can get."

They set their son down on the living room carpet to play for a while, and Minho took the opportunity to slip an arm around Yn's waist, pulling him against him.

- You're mine now. I've earned the right to five minutes of cuddling."

- "You say that, but in three minutes he's going to call you."

As if he'd heard, their son looked up.

- "Mum?"

Minho hugged Yn tighter.

- Shhh. She's not there. It's a mirage."

Yn stifled a laugh against his chest.

- "You're stupid."

- "But you're mine."

And for a few seconds, just a few, it was true. No screaming, no toys flying, no jealousy fits. Just them. Their little chaos of love.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Remmy and sensitive!reader who misheard him talking with James and Sirius about something/someone and mistakes it as them talking bad about them. Reader avoiding Remmy for days, avoiding his touch and barely talking to him until he has enough and confronts reader who just breaks down into tears instantly

“No I know mate! It’s so fucking annoying!” You hear the words tumble out of Remus’ mouth with full frustration and freeze in the doorway.

He could be talking about anyone. Right?

James pipes up next, “There’s no way they don’t know they’re fucking annoying.”

Maybe it is you.

“Doesn’t seem like it. They’re just always there. Sometimes some breathing room would be nice.”

You’re convinced now by Remus’ words that it’s you they’re talking about and the frog in your throat swells and tightens your vocal cords.

Silently, you wipe the tears running down your cheeks and make your way to the bathroom.

Remus knows you’re home ten minutes after his phone call when he smells your peach body wash wafting through the bedroom.

“Hi dovey,” his words saccharine as he holds his arms open to you.

“Hi,” you don’t walk into his arms, instead brushing the curve of his shoulder as you go to your closet for your pyjamas.

“Something wrong?” He leans back on his palms, worrying his bottom lip as he watches you change in the closet.

You wonder for a moment how he could’ve been so cruel and now pretend like he wasn’t just complaining to James about how much you’re around him.

“Uh uh,” Remus’ alarms are going off and he stands up, walking over to you now that you’re dressed.

“Dove,” he murmurs, hands holding your thighs. “Are you upset with me? Have I done something wrong?”

Has he done something wrong? The nerve of him- and still you can’t find it in yourself to do much else than tear up.

“No,” your breathing is quickly becoming labored and Remus worries that you might make yourself faint.

“Talk to me, baby.” It’s the baby that does you in, all soft and honeyed and sugary sweet when his words earlier had been so harsh and jagged.

“You told James that it was annoying that I’m always in your space.”

“What?” His heart stops, mind whirring at the impossibility of your words.

Sniffling you carry on, “I heard you when I came in-“

“Baby, no-“ you cut him off.

“It’s okay to want your own space, sorry for crowding you before.”

God Remus could cry at how small you sound.

“We weren’t talking about you baby, you have to believe that.” His massive hands are cupping your cheeks robe, keeping your eyes level with his.

“You don’t have to lie, Rem,” Your tears are still tumbling down, nose running while you hold your breath. You have a strange feeling this is going to head into, ‘we should break up’ territory.

“I’m not lying, sweet girl. You can call James now if you think so, but I swear we were talking about Frank and his newest fling’s inability to not be all up in each other’s space every five seconds.”

You blink, “So you don’t want us to break up? You aren’t annoyed with me? Because if you are,” you take a shuddering breath. “I can take it.”

Remus tuts, “There’s not a possible timeline where I’d be breaking up with you. Baby, I swear on everything holy and sacred that I wouldn’t ever think let alone speak about you that way. We really were talking about Frank.”

You sigh, tension releasing from your muscles. “M’sorry,” you whimper, shutting your eyes as Remus stamps soft, sticky kisses to your face.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my love.” Remus kisses your forehead and then your lips. “I love you more than life itself, dove. Not a fucking thing I wouldn’t do for you, yeah? Best thing I ever had.”

Remus spends the rest of the night kissing and holding you, he even calls James up to reassure you that he’d never speak about you like that.

James is aghast you even wonder and promise you that if Remus ever lost his mind like that he’d kick his ass.

[herpsandbirds]

𝗕𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 – 𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗴, 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙖𝙙𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙪𝙨

Frogs of the genus 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘴, distributed in Eastern and Southern Africa, have short arms, a rounded body shape, and show significant sexual dimorphism in body size. Consequently, the much smaller male is unable to effectively clasp the female during amplexus. Instead, mating pairs are bonded together by an adhesive skin secretion. While both sexes produce the sticky secretion in defence, it is not clear whether the male or female frog, or both, produce the glue during amplexus. Furthermore, there is no basic information on the physical properties of the adhesive secretion in 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘴, such as its adhesive strength, differences in adhesive strength between the sexes, and adhesion duration. In this study, we used an electrical stimulator to induce the release of the adhesive secretion and demonstrated that it is produced by both male and female 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘴 individuals. Additionally, the adhesive strength of the frog secretion was measured for different adhesion durations. The results showed that the adhesive strength was maximal at 1–3 h (median: 8.12 N/cm² for females at 1 h duration and 7.20 N/cm² for males at 3 h), decreased significantly after one day (0.85 N/cm² for females at 24 h and 0.41 N/cm² for males) and almost disappeared after three days. A comparison of adhesive strength between the sexes showed few statistically significant differences, suggesting that both male and female secrete the same glue substance. The question of the precise origin of the adhesive secretion during amplexus is discussed.

Kᴀᴋᴇʜᴀsʜɪ, R., K. Hᴇᴍᴍɪ, W. Lᴀɴᴅᴍᴀɴ, N. Fᴜʀᴜɴᴏ, L. Dᴜ Pʀᴇᴇᴢ, L. Mɪɴᴛᴇʀ & A. Kᴜʀᴀʙᴀʏᴀsʜɪ (2022): Better than mere attraction – adhesive properties of skin secretion in the Common Rain Frog, 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘴. – SALAMANDRA 58(1): 43-51 plus supplementary documents.

The paper (in English) is available at:

www.salamandra-journal.com

Photograph by Dylan Leonard

[snail-day]

A Step Away From Death's Door

Yandere! Shoko x Reader

Sum: Sometimes it isn't so great when your yandere can heal just about any sort of damage.

wc: roughly 1k

tw: Yandere Behaviors, Body horror, Noncon resurrection, Mutilation, Graphic surgical scenes, Medical horror, Mentions of death and suicide attempts, forced survival. Dead Dove Do Not Eat

You don’t remember how you died this time.

There have been too many attempts to count - too many jagged ends and ruptured goodbyes, each one blurring together like bruises layered over cuts. Your mind can't hold them all. Can't keep track of which train, curse, or blade it was this time. They're stitched together in your memory like she stitches you - hastily, feverishly, with no concern of being gentle.

What’s left are only impressions.

Copper. Bile. The warm, wet gurgle of your own blood climbing your throat. The soft give of torn viscera slipping between your fingers as you tried, uselessly, to keep yourself together. You remember the stillness that followed. The quiet hum just before nothingness.

You welcomed it. Begged for it.

Because at least when you died, it was quiet.

But death is always kept just a step away with her.

Your eyes crack open to a world of sterile light. The high whine of fluorescents stings your ears. The operating table beneath you is cold enough to leech through bone. Your limbs won’t move - not from exhaustion, but restraint. Soft leather cuffs buckle your wrists. Thick gauze straps cross your chest.

You’re held in place like one of those frogs used for dissection. Be thankful she hasn't started to use the dissection pins.

There’s the antiseptic that pulls you from your thoughts. The scent of blood and iron beneath it. Your stomach lurches, if that even is your stomach anymore.

“You’re really putting me through it lately,” Shoko murmurs, voice smooth as a scalpel’s edge. Her silhouette leans over you, surgical mask pulled down around her neck. Strands of her dark hair have slipped from their tie and cling to her cheeks, sticky with sweat and flecks of dried blood. Her eyes are as cold as the table beneath you. Eyes that do not grieve anymore.

Her fingers trace a line across your chest, where her stitching holds your sternum closed like a laced-up corset. The tension in the thread pulls at every breath you take.

“So selfish,” she hums. “You keep throwing yourself into death like it’s some kind of mercy. Letting curses shred you limb from limb, break your ribs like kindling, split you wide open like a rotten fruit.”

You flinch when her hand settles over your ribs, palm flat against the bones she’s reassembled. They creak softly under her touch.

“I should thank you, really,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “You’ve made me better. More precise. You made me understand loss in a way no textbook ever could. If you’d done this to yourself a year earlier… maybe I could’ve saved them. Satoru. Suguru. All of them.”

She sighs, then lowers her face until her lips are just above yours. Her breath is warm, unbearably close.

“But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?” she whispers, voice soft as a lullaby. “You didn’t want me to save them. You wanted me to grow. To blossom. You wanted me to become this - this beautiful, twisted thing that only you get to see.”

She kisses you. Soft. Reverent. Tasting the pain in your mouth.

“You always come back to me,” she murmurs. “Even when you’re trying to leave. Especially then.”

Her blood-slick gloves press against your chest, right above your sluggishly beating heart. She presses hard. Almost cruel.

“You gave this to me, remember? So even if you die screaming, I’ll dig you out of the dirt with my bare hands and cradle this broken little thing until it beats again.”

Her voice is tender as silk, warm as rot.

“You’ll never escape me. I’ll keep you alive no matter how many times you beg me not to. Again and again, until there’s nothing left but a heart that only beats for me.”

A pause.

She brushes a damp lock of hair behind your ear. Smiles like a mother admiring a newborn.

“Your liver nearly gave out this time. I had to harvest one from a fresh corpse. Lucky for you, I’ve gotten very good at separating the useful from the waste. And even better at keeping you just alive enough to remember what it feels like when I put you back together.”

You feel it then. The weight in your side. The dull, throbbing ache. The unmistakable wrongness of something not fully yours - something borrowed, stolen, something placed inside you that you never asked for.

How many times has she done this now?

How many pieces of you no longer belong to you at all?

“I don’t even think you remember what your original heart looked like,” she says in a breathless laugh, almost like she’s teasing. Her fingers trail lightly across your abdomen, and then - snick - you feel the cool kiss of a scalpel dragging gently down your side. Not cutting. Just playful. “But that’s okay. You don’t need to.”

She leans in close, voice syrupy with pride.

“I could always show you the jar I put it in,” she whispers. “It’s one of my favorites. Sits right on my desk. Sometimes I hold it while you're on missions. Makes me feel close to you.”

The room spins.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or beg. But your throat is raw, packed full of gauze and silence. Your vocal cords have been carved and sewn shut too many times to answer your mind’s pleas. Even crying is out of reach, you aren’t sure your tear ducts even work anymore.

All you can do is shake. Tremble. Convulse like a pinned insect beneath her gaze.

And she loves you like this.

Soft. Silent. Stitched-up and shaking. Just coherent enough to feel it all.

“I’ll keep going,” she promises, eyes glowing and lovesick. “Even if you burn yourself to ash. Even if you splatter across train tracks or let a curse claw the meat from your bones. I will always find the pieces.”

She tilts her head, watching your face twitch beneath the haze of pain and sedation. Her gaze softens, not with mercy, but love.

“You’ll never die right, honey,” she whispers against your lips before a quick peck. “Not while I’m still here to bring you back.”

[milk-bby]

For a fic request could you do fluff with alanas? Pretty please and thank yous 🫶🫶 and I live ur work🫶

Melted hearts.

Alanas Brasas x reader

Wordcount: 1.0k

Warnings; fluff. so many pop-culture refrences. marvel slander (my bad chat). not beta read as i started writing at 10pm. Established relationship (can you guys tell i like this trope yet.)

A/n: THANK YOU ANON!! MY SECOND ALANAS FIC YAYY!! I hope you all like this one as much as the last one, because i enjoyed writing this one too. also i like his nose in that first pic so pretty. Fun fact: I called my friend's (@xbugs) planet zoo anteaters "Sigmund" and "Freud".

ENJOY!!

“Can I help you?”

Alanas looks at you suspiciously as you stand in the doorway of the living room, a bowl of chopped mango in your hand. Slowly, you pad over, setting it on the coffee table. 

“.... i’m cold.” You mutter, dressed in his shirt and some tights. Without a word you sit next to him, lips staying pin straight, but your eyes glinting with a mischievous hint behind the irises he adores. 

“You can put the hea- … no. no, you wouldn’t.”

You only grin wider, quick to move. He squirms before letting out an uncharacteristic squawk as you lay your frigid hands under his hoodie and onto his bare stomach. You cackle evilly, as if this was a huge betrayal scene in the millionth marvel movie that has the exact plot every time. 

When he finally adjusts to the temperature of your hands, he lets out a shuddering breath, giving you a disapproving glance with a slight pout that only you would notice. 

“You’re evil. So so evil.”

You don’t even move to deny such a claim, taking your hands out of his hoodie for now, going back to your fruit. You savour a cube of the juicy fruit that you dressed with a small bit of syrup. From your peripherals, you can see him slowly creep his hands towards your bowl. You only give him a side glance, frozen in place as you see his fingers grasp onto a big piece of the mango. If he didn’t want his phone to become sticky, you just know that you would have the most diabolical 0.5 taken of you with your cheeks half-full like a hamster suspicious of its owner’s hand changing the water bottle.

“... Not even a thank you? His greed sickens me.”

He laughs at your jab, getting out an “ačiū” before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You slightly grimace at the sticky residue now on your skin from his lips, but he only grins back as if this was payback doubly for the sin of touching him with cold hands. You believe he much prefers them warm, engulfed in his during any activity. 

“You’re a thief.” He mutters suddenly.

“Oh for stealing your heart? Har har.” You wittily respond, almost expecting him to use a shitty one-liner that only ever works in a rom-com with too many sex scenes and no character development. Instead you get the opposite of what you expected.

“Sure, but that’s not your shirt. Or your mango.”

You stare at him blankly.

“...”

“...”

He stares back, just as playful as you are.

“Is this a ploy? I’m not falling for it.”

“Tt. I’m not an animal, you know… Except when I shred that guitar.”

Another silence runs between you from such a confident line you’d hear in a DisneyXD show or even in a series with the same quality writing as Miraculous Ladybug.

“I’m sorry.” He finally gets out with another tug at his lips.

“There’s no way you’re laughing at your own joke, man, what the hell. I felt like that one Gnomeo and Juliet clip of the frog dying from cringe.”

“It’s not a crime.”

“You’re making a good case for it to be a crime.”

“Wow.”

You both crack, leaning against each other as both of your laughter fills the room. The sound of joy being common between you both but it never changes. Even when your laugh lasts slightly longer than his does, Alanas doesn’t move to wrap up the joke, instead just looking at you like you’ve hung the stars all by yourself. He holds the same adoration in his gaze as if you had struck his heart with a million different chords that he can construct on each fret of the guitar, the stake of a muse piercing the muscle bluntly enough to rewrite how he loves you with the same result every time. That result will always be you in his arms after the sun descends. 

It will always be you stealing his shirts and the fruit that he had planned to eat but never will. It will always be coming home from uni to find you trying to position your fingers correctly to make a chord on his guitar. 

It will always be you to him, even if you give him a right jolt with hands colder than the melting ice caps.

Your laughter had ended a while ago by now, just staring back at him with the same starry eyes that makes him question if he really deserves the beauty and grace of your love (of which your answer has always been a yes, “what would i do without you?” and a kiss pressed to his lips).

Your lips both meet in the middle, locking together sweetly. You can taste the mango piece he stole from your bowl on his lips still, making you grin like an idiot into his lips. He can only reciprocate that energy with a small humoured huff into your lips, teeth lightly catching your bottom lip as you pull away. 

“Are you still cold?” He whispers against your lips, assuming you have in fact warmed up from all the laughing, his touch and the kiss. He expects a no, despite the fact that he knows you’ll find an excuse to touch him more, to feel your skin on his, heartbeat to heartbeat slowly syncing. 

Predictably, you nod, abandoning the mango to cosy up to him. Alanas raises his eyebrow as you start to lift the edge of his hoodie. With the same deviousness as before, you settle yourself into his hoodie, snuggled under the now stretching fabric. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, already slowing to match yours.

“Hi. This is… drastic, isn’t it sweetheart?”

“Maybe. But you’re warm. Can you blame me?”

“I guess not.”

[sparklystarrrr]

Hello again! I dunno if this is okay but as I read your posts I saw that people send requests via this! I recently read Hats Galore that was from @ghost3029's request and was lookin for like a side story where they met as kids in the Queendom of Roses but found out there isn't so I wanted to suggest like how they met please!

IMAGINE!✨️

Tiny Riddle, dressed in perfect red-and-white lace, is sitting stiffly at a long table set with precisely aligned teacups and sugar cubes. Other noble children are robotically sipping tea in silence, too scared to make eye contact with him. Then all of a sudden—

*CRASH!*

The garden gate SLAMS open, and in bounds was the tiny Mad Hatter!Reader. 7 yrs old, wild-haired, wearing mismatched socks and in one hand? A teapot. In the other? A frog. ( dats how far my pea-brain can think at the top of its head 🥺 and you can twist or salvage it if u wanna mate since this is just a thought! Hope ya read this~!🙃🥲 )

Sorry if i'm sending this while you might or might not be busy🙏, but I wanted to ask this of you before my pea brain forgets and I go through deja vu 'gain!🙇🙇‍♀️🙇‍♂️

(😔 sso sorry for bein uncultured bout this kinda stuff cuz its my first time usin' Tumblr so I'm just slowly familiarizing myself here!~❤️‍🩹)

Childhood romance is another one of my fav tropes its so cuteeee

Ribbit!

Synopsis: Where the young rose-red boy's love blossomed for the young, messy child

Contains: Riddle R. x Gn! Mad Hatter! Reader, childhood puppy love, set in elementary/primary school, very short

The sun was warm and bright, bright red roses decorated the bushes in the elegant Queendom, and it smelled of fresh fruits and baked goods. In the small elementary school the small children had been out for some tea time and recess. Children played and ate happily while conversing in a very poised manner clearly taught by parents and teachers. Some children though, not as elegant.

Little seven year old (y/n) ran happily among the bright green blades of grass. In the (h/c) haired child's hands was a small toad no bigger than a tea cup. It was slimy and green and covered in mud. Also terrified of being in the small troublesome child’s hands…

A small Riddle sat at a table with a few other small children happily drinking tea and eating scones. It was quite peaceful… until…

*BOOM*

(Y/n) burst through a play set, knocking down an incredible amount of toys with a gummy smile plastered onto their face. The frog sat surprisingly obediently in their chubby hands.”Riddle! Riddle! Look what I found! It likes roses just like you do!”

Riddle turned around in curious shock. “(y/n)? You’re muddy, let’s go inside and clean up, okay!” The small boy said in a soft voice. The frog jumped from their hands in a muddy splash onto little (y/n)’s chubby cheeks. “Aww, okay!”

Riddle’s own stubby hand grasped their’s gently before they could run after the frog, not caring about the mud and dirt coating (y/n)’s hands, and brought them in the classroom to wash their hands (with the help of their teacher of course).

Instead of bringing them to play, Riddle brought them for some tea.”Here (y/n), drink tea!” Before an adult could come assist, (y/n) happily grabbed the tea pot of warm sweet liquid and filled her cup. The child was not experienced in tea pouring obviously, so when pouring, they overflowed the tea cup into a large beige puddle on the table cloth. (y/n) plunked down the pot, nearly shattering it’s delicate ceramic,”Uh-oh! Big puddle, hehe!!” They giggled in a high pitched voice while splashing the tea around.

Riddle panicked a bit, “(y/n)! You can’t splash the tea around! It’s for drinking!” He hurried to get some napkins or something to blot the tea away. A few teachers rushed to grab something as well while (y/n) sat in their sticky mess. “Aww the tea got on my favorite socks ever ever! Look at them why don’tcha”(Y/n) shoved their feet right into Riddle’s view to show off the socks they wore. One had been pink and purple striped while the other was green and white flowers with tiny yellow polka dots. “Um, those are two different socks?” Riddle questioned.

“Mhm! They’re my favorite socks in the whole wide world!!!” They yelled happily, throwing their hands up to the sky and nearly knocking their cup to the grassy floor. “What’s your favorite thing?”

Riddle’s attention was piqued when their words came to him. He thought for a moment, “Hmm… I think it’s you (y/n).” He said quite softly. He was a shy young boy after all. On the other hand, (y/n)’s eyes were glistening. “Really? Me? Your favorite thing is me?!” it seemed like their smile was growing bigger by the second,”You’re officially my favorite thing too Riddle!”

(y/n) chucked their hands around the red haired boy, effectively knocking him to the ground. He hesitated for a moment. He’d never been hugged so affectionately before. It was new. He slowly wrapped his hands around them as well with a content smile. Little did the two of them know that in just ten years, they’d be the world to each other~

[dannydoesthisthing27]

Guy has dimples, and when he's close enough and smiles, Honey pokes his cheeks

Honey has stretchmarks and Guy traces them when they lay together

Guy wears beanies more often than other hats. His favorite is a green and teal knit one that Honey made when they first moved in together, and Honey was learning how to knit

Honey wears baggy hoodies primarily. Their favorite is one Guy bought them that has the looney toons logo and characters on it

Guy had a cat when he, Honey, and Kayla(?) Moved in together. According to Guy the cat typically takes months to get comfortable with people. It layed on the arm rest of the couch next to Honey the first day they moved in (the cat never got within six feet of Kayla)

Honey (after they and Guy got their own place) adopted a pair of milk frogs. Now there's an enclosure in the dining room area (next to the window) (all the animals are spoiled)

Guy leaves sticky notes everywhere as reminders to himself or as treats for Honey (sweet messages/jokes)

Honey puts leaves pieces of paper with sketches on them around their place. Some days, there's a theme that's obvious. Other times, it's a guessing game. Honey will leave one and wait for a while before checking to see what Guy wrote at the bottom of the page as a first guess. After that, they'll leave a new sketch in a different spot with either a hint towards the answer if he was way off or confirmation that he's going in the right direction until he figures it out or gives up

Guy says he doesn't have a favorite genre of music, but his favorite style of music is stuff like Will Wood, Fish in a Birdcage, Lemon Demon, McCafferty, The Front Bottoms (he's also a sucker for anything older. 70s, 80s, and 90s) (Fleetwood Mac, B-52s, earth wind & fire, etc..)

Honey really means it when they say they dont have a favorite genre. They have a preference towards the same music as Guy but with a broader list of artists and songs. They also listen to a lot of rap, metal, rock, and punk music

Guy has an impressive shoe collection, but his favorites are his doc martins

Honeys' favorite pair of shoes are their converse all stars (in navy blue) (they also have 2 inch platform leather boots)

Guy knows how to roller skate and also has heelies he'll wear sometimes

Honey knows how to skateboard, but they use a longboard more than their actual skateboard

Guy doesn't like writing poetry. He prefers short form stories, mostly because the formating of poetry isn't a style he's comfortable with

Honey doesn't like regular canvas for painting. They prefer things with different textures and trying different mediums to see what looks best (they like colored pencil on rough paper and paint on wood)

Guy likes golden/colored jewlery

Honey likes silver/ cool tone chrome jewlery

Guy has a blåhaj and several other shark plushies that he keeps on the bed

Honey also has several shark and frog plushies, but they're stored on the beanbag in the living room

Guy likes making food in the oven (pork chops in a cast iron skillet is his favorite)

Honey likes using the stove (hand made mashed potatoes and greenbeans with bacon and caramelized onions cooked into them)

Guys favorite cuddling position is laying down facing each other with his arms around Honeys waist and their arms around his shoulders

Honeys favorite that they'll admit to is Guy resting on their chest with their arms around him and their face in his hair (their real favorite is them as the little spoon with him pressing his face into their back, and his arms squeezing them)

Guy has acne scars and a skincare routine he does at night (I dont know enough about skincare to make specific headcanons :/)

Honey has scars from picking at pimples (not acne though if that makes sense) but they don't care enough to do much more than wash their face occasionally with whatever basic face wash Guy has around

Guy makes Honey sit with him at least once a month and do the full routine. He makes them sit down and sits on their lap so he can apply all the product himself. He gives them a flower print headband to push their hair back and claims their lap is the only place he could sit because it gives him the best angle, and thats definitely the only reason

Honey begrudgingly accepts the treatment but allows themselves the contentment of being with him while he pampers them (they love how rough his hands are while still being gentle with them)

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Gwi-Nam (1/4)

Word Count: 3.9k

I remembered that I actually wrote this whole thing for fun several months ago. Might as well use this for an easy peasy ease back into society.

R stared at the email on her phone, her brain scrambling to make sense of the Korean typo in the email. Although she stood in the main hallway, gathering many stares from the native Korean high school students, the posted signs were not the most helpful.

She took in her surroundings once again, adjusting her old and well-loved frog backpack, loaded with stationery. The hoard of students desperate to make it to class on time sometimes collided, and R was astounded at the sheer student population of the public high school. Unlike from her home country, the high school seemed well-funded and quite modern, even compared to the college she was actively attending at home — which had given her this opportunity abroad. The atmosphere made R somewhat anxious.

R sighed, deciding the best course of action — after a few failed attempts of grabbing a frantic student’s attention — was to go to the right and follow past the principal’s office. R’s entire goal was to find the teacher’s lounge. And although one might think to ask the principal, she was terrified of making a poor first impression. 

The hallway had grown vacant and silent, only the sound of her footsteps echoing. She noticed her tattoo cover-up sleeves were scrunching slightly, and while walking, looked down to adjust it.

She suddenly heard loud, quick footsteps come from behind. Just as she went to glance over her shoulder, a hard shoulder smashed into her back and knocked R forward onto the ground. She scraped her knees, which created instant panic. As she scrambled to sit and inspect her knee, there was a cruel snicker.

R scowled, recognizing the tear in her leg sleeve. Luckily, R was always analy OCD and overprepared, and knew she could clip it with a pin and hide it under her knee-length black skirt. 

Two shoes stopped in front of her. R looked up, unamused. A student who looked far more mature than his peers by a few years toward her with black banks and a Korean-styled mullet. As she was still adjusting from her native tongue to Korean, his words did not register at first.

R’s scowl disappeared as she intently focused on the words.

“Since when does our school let in foreign [unknown]?” he sneered.

R blinked, only assuming it was foul language spitting from his mouth, and rolled her eyes. “You are making a bad first impression on a new teacher.” She intentionally left out the assistant.

She watched as his breath and stance stiffened. “Shit.” He glanced her over, a slight smirk growing. “The school must be desperate if they took in a foreign [whore] with fake hair and tattoos.”

R’s eyes widened and her cheeks darkened, pulling the dark brown wig over her head to hide her brightly dyed hair. She finally brushed herself off and pinned the sleeves together. R returned to her feet, only then recognizing the slight burn in her knees.

“Listen, kid. How about you mind your business and I’ll mind mine? I can already tell you’re an asshole, so I’d recommend you get to your class before I bring you with me to the principal’s office for harassment.”

The student sneered and crossed his arms. There was a momentary tense staredown before he seemed to loosen up, clicking his tongue and walking off — but not without snatching one of her decorative to-do list papers. R sighed, not caring enough to pursue her to-do list. She already seemed fairly unprofessional with her frog backpack, so a pink sticky note with Hello Kitty on it was better off left out of sight.

Despite the aggravating experience, R continued on her way, plastering a smile on her face. Eventually, she found the teacher’s office empty. However, a teacher named Ms. Park had left a name on the door with R’s name and the classroom number. R sighed with relief, heading off to the classroom.

R burst through the classroom door. Ms. Park had been speaking, but all went silent except for the muttering of students. R was nervous, but as time passed, the classroom became as familiar as any other.

~~~

R blasted her somewhat generic pop playlist since the old songs from the 2000s never grew old to her. She was chowing down on her boxed lunch, which was cutely styled like everything else: a Hello Kitty lunchbox, as she succumbed to capitalistic desires of that brand easily. 

The concrete, half-built foundation was where she went during the lunch period to get some peace and quiet. During the semester, construction had been placed to a halt except for weekends, as there were frequent noise complaints from school staff and students. To R, it was her perfect hide-away location from prying eyes.

As she finished up her homemade kimbap — an accomplishment R was proud of — Shake It Off began echoing from her phone. R grinned, and she stood up. She sang poorly, but sang with it regardless, even incorporating some equally poor dance moves during the chorus.

R halted mid-song as her stomach had a sharp, sudden pain, hissing loudly and grasping her stomach. She cursed under her breath.

“Eh? How unathletic are you? How embarrassing.”

R gasped in fright, swerving to face the onlooker. She sighed out of relief, recognizing the infamous rule-breaker from her classroom (although he rarely attended class). R had a neutral opinion of the boy, as he was notoriously the “bully’s gopher,” but hadn’t ratted her out or spread any rumors about her unprofessional underbelly. 

“At least I’m more athletic than the gym instructor,” R shot back, noticing that the stomach pain had left.

Gwi-nam’s eyebrows raised, adorning a cheeky grin. He often put up an air of unapproachability, but due to R’s semi-authority, it seemed he neither cared to intimidate nor to fake manners. 

“You could get fired for saying something like that.”

“I could get fired for a lot of things, kid.”

R went over and sat back on the cement steps, furrowing through her lunchbox and sipping on an internationally imported Capri Sun. Gwi-nam leaned on the crudely placed metal rails, leering over the woman. He eyed the package curiously, as well as the rest of the cutified objects.

“I’m amazed someone like you got transferred here,” Gwi-nam scoffed. “There’s nothing professional about you.”

“My college GPA, past internships, letters of recommendation, and my polyglot status say otherwise. Besides, Ms. Park says I bring a modern level of cultural diversity.”

“God, you’re full of yourself.”

“So what?” R chortled, slurping up the rest of her juice. “I deserve to be a little self-confident. I worked hard to get here.”

Gwi-nam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. What the hell are doing out here anyway? I bet you’re too weird to make any friends.”

“Not at all. I just like to eat alone,” R insisted. “Why are you here, kid? Don’t you have anywhere else to be or lunch to be eating?”

“I don’t have friends. Just people I hang out with.”

“Hm. Well, how about some bribery to get you back with your people? Here’s a chocolate bar.”

~~~

R handed the student sitting next to her a tiny container of cut canteloupe and some chopsticks. “At this rate, you owe me an entire hot pot.”

Gwi-nam snatched the bowl, immediately digging in hungrily. “No way,” he grumbled with a full mouth. “That would count as taking advantage of a student. Besides, with how fat you’ve gotten, you obviously have some food to spare.”

R clicked her tongue angrily, swatting Gwi-nam’s neck. “How dare you comment on a woman’s wait like that. With those manners, it’s no wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

The comment made her feel somewhat insecure regardless. Gwi-nam wasn’t wrong. R had been wearing baggier shirts recently, as no matter how much she exercised or ate healthily, it hardly impacted the small stomach bump she had developed in the last two months. The only explanation was that it was from poor sleep, stress, and overworking. 

“I’m too busy for that.”

“Too busy because you’re beating up some helpless classmate, right? Don’t think I don’t notice when your knuckles are all messed up. You’re called the bully’s gopher for a reason.”

“You fucking bitch,” Gwi-nam sneered,“ don’t call me that. Just because you know a fucking language doesn’t mean I won’t kill you.”

R sent a glare before snatching back the cantaloupe from him. “God, you’re rude and sensitive.”

“As if. Now give me my food back.”

She rolled her eyes. She very much assumed he had home problems and had taken some level of pity on him since the boy showed up in the building every day since their first encounter and had neither friends nor food. But after enduring an all-nighter, she didn’t feel like putting up with his foul attitude.

R shoved her food back into the lunchbox and stood up. As she did so, Gwi-nam’s hands latched onto R, causing her to almost trip. Gwi-nam shouted in irritation, but the sensation of standing had made R feel dizzy enough not to notice. Black dots clouded her vision and she stumbled forward slightly.

“Hey!” Gwi-nam exclaimed, grabbing and pulling her back to the step. 

R sat, and it felt as though her stomach vibrated with agony. She let out a hiss of pain and laid back, the lunchbox long forgotten. R gasped and rubbed her stomach, feeling a sudden leaking sensation. It was as though her stomach was hollowing out.

“What’s wrong?” Gwi-nam huffed, aiding in lowering her slowly onto the steps. 

“I… I don’t know — I feel…”

“What the fuck —!”

R was confused, focusing on nothing but the sharp cramps. But as Gwi-nam scampered away, R twisted her head up to see what he was looking at. R screeched as she noticed a waterfall of bloody blobs leaking from her white skirt. R reached for her phone but barely felt the ability to move from the cramps. It was as though her period was on blast.

“Call a fucking ambulance!” R shrieked, to which Gwi-nam clumsily withdrew up from his pocket. 

He called 119, but nothing other than confusion was displayed in his expression. R heard the muffled voice of an operator, to which Gwi-nam stuttered in reply,“ I - I need an ambulance at the front gate of Hyosan High.” Another few seconds passed before Gwi-nam spat out a few stuttered descriptions of the emergency. 

He pocketed the phone before grabbing R’s arms and tugging her up. R grunted, a few tears sliding down her cheek. When R’s legs gave out, Gwi-nam scoffed in annoyance and scooped her up, trying to disregard the blood that stained his jacket.

R grasped onto him for dear life, stuttering,“ What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, stupid?”

A few minutes later, Gwi-nam arrived at the front gate at the knick of time. He flinched at how loud the sirens were as the ambulance pulled up. Nurses rolled out and helped get R into the back, with Gwi-nam deciding to get in the back.

~~~

“Ms. R, it appears you had an intense miscarriage,” the doctor informed the woman, staring at the clipboard. “You were being too hard on yourself during the pregnancy.”

R paled and shivered. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know you were pregnant?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry then. However, you should be able to head home now. Your boyfriend is waiting outside.”

“He’s not my…” R mumbled, watching the doctor walk off. 

The nurses helped R to her feet. She was thoroughly cleaned, adorning nothing but the white robe. However, with the state of her old clothing, they had been discarded with instructions to head straight home and change. R slipped on her shoes and shuffled weakly to the open doorway.

His head bobbed sleepily, Gwi-nam was sitting by the door. R wiped away her tears and softly shook his shoulder. R was surprised he had waited, as by the time everything was okayed, the sun had set. Ms. Park had called at some point, but R would deal with the repercussions of a missed afternoon session and after-school office hours when she got home.

“Gwi-nam,” R called.

His head shot up and a snort escaped. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed. He rose, immediately eyeing her up and down. “What happened? The sons of bitches wouldn’t let me go in to see you.”

R chuckled, insecurely grasping at her stomach. “It was… just a stomach ulcer that got stuck. They had to get rid of it, that is all. I’m alright.”

Gwi-nam’s shoulders instantly relaxed. “Eh? All that blood for an ulcer?”

“It’s been growing for two months now.” R glanced around. “You should head home now. Let me get you something from the vending machine. It’s not much, but —“

“You were the one in the hospital,” he gruffly mumbled. “Besides, you were the one who said I owed you a hot pot.”

“Nonsense. Your parents are probably waiting for you.”

He snorted obnoxiously. “No, they’re not. So, let’s go.”

Gwi-nam grabbed her arm and started dragging her down the hall to the exit. R protested but with his tight, unrelinquishing hold, she gave in and joined him at a nearby convenience store. After some fuss between them, Gwi-nam was able to take what she grabbed and pay for the food together. R was as grateful as she was surprised by the student’s kindness.

When they sat at the window, R inquired quietly,“ Are you sure your parents aren’t waiting for you?”

“As if. My dad’s probably off at work while my mom’s fucking her new boyfriend in a hotel.” R frowned, to which Gwi-nam snapped,“ Hey, don’t fucking look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” she replied. “I’m upset. You deserve better people in your life.”

Gwi-nam tried not to show that the comment had taken him aback, covering it up with a glare and a scoff. However, despite his best cover-up, R noticed how blood rushed to his cheeks. R sent him a sweet smile, unaware of just how impacted Gwi-nam was.

~~~

The door to the classroom slid open loudly, and without looking, R stated,” It’s not like you to be so early for our sessions, Cheong-san.”

When R received no reply, she looked up. She was taken aback to find Gwi-nam standing at the entrance, harboring an unsure and anxious expression with his backpack shouldered. R tilted her head and sent a smile.

“Gwi-nam, come sit. How can I help you?”

“I need help with English, obviously.”

R chuckled as the man plopped into the seat next to hers, backpack on the floor. “I assumed. I was more so asking what you need help with for English.”

“Oh. Uh, with… the homework.”

R found it endearing how nervous he was, glancing constantly at the door. She knew he would rather be caught dead than at a study session, but was incredibly proud of his courage. Gwi-nam pulled out the paper. The class was assigned various Robert Frost poems to decipher. Gwi-nam had been assigned to Stopping by Woods. And instead of just using a translator, Gwi-nam came to R.

“Do you need help with the grammar functions?” R inquired.

Gwi-nam nodded, grabbing a pen. R began explaining the concepts and switching words to make the sentences more comprehensible to a foreign speaker. Gwi-nam was surprisingly attentive until a ding came from R’s phone.

R glanced briefly at the notification, noticing the time. “Ah. I have a scheduled student appointment in a few minutes, so I have to cut this short. Can I pen you in for next Monday?”

“Eh? Why?”

“So that you can come again. If you do, I’ll even bring you a snack. How does three-thirty sound?”

Gwi-nam shoved his notes back in begrudgingly. “Whatever,” he muttered, not meeting R’s eyes.

“Great! See you then. Get home safe, Gwi-nam.”

He didn’t reply, quickly shuffling into the hallway. R’s heart warmed, and a part of her felt somewhat proud that she was making an impact on her student’s life to some capacity.

~~~

R awoke with a gasp, clasping at her bedsheets. It took not a moment after for her alarm to go blaring in her ears. She immediately shut it off and focused on regaining her breath. 

Everything was going well in Korea. Work, friends, lifestyle, school (as exhausting as it was to be doing college at the same time as her transfer abroad) — all except the overlying issue.

R had managed to attract a stalker. 

It started small, and she was convinced it was a student of hers. She constantly felt watched when nobody was around. Things would go missing from her bag or desk. Then one day, while she was in the office on her own, she glanced over and saw a shadowed figure staring through a crack in the door.

That’s when things seemed to escalate, especially the paranoia. She became more organized with her things and knew when things would disappear. She carried a safety weapon at all times. Sometimes, when a hooded man followed her for a stretch, she’d break for a run.

And then things escalated again — one day, the hooded man ran, too.

That was when, after calling Ms. Park in distress, they went to the police together. R knew that Korea tended not to take cases like her’s seriously, and it’s not as though she knew how to talk to a police officer that well.

With thorough convincing from Ms. Park, they kept an eye on the neighborhood R lived in from time to time. But that hardly seemed to do any good, because that was when R noticed that hooded man outside her apartment building. And then outside her apartment.

R invested in every home safety feature. Door cameras, motion-detecting lights, and a silent break-in alarm if it came to it.

She was terrified and was considering moving, to say the least. Calling the police was a lost cause since they “couldn’t do anything with the footage” and “a crime hadn’t happened yet.”

So R lived in fear. The stalker had even invaded her nightmares.

When R grabbed her phone, she noticed that one of her bear-shaped sticky notes was beside the phone. She went through her notifications before she roused herself. And only then did she notice the content of the sticky note.

Written in messy, almost intelligible Korean, was written ‘The cops can’t do shit.’

R shrieked. She noticed her underwear drawer was ajar. She noticed that her lights had been unscrewed. And the silent alarm hadn’t been triggered. R was a mess getting ready for work, taking photos of the various evidence. And although she tried to compose herself on the subway, she was still a wreck when she got to campus.

As she walked past the school gates, she gasped when a fist punched her shoulder suddenly. R veered her body toward the culprit, recognizing Gwi-nam immediately. He wore a casual expression.

“Gwi-nam,” R stated, recovering from her shock – and momentarily forgetting her troubles.

The student clicked his tongue, motioning to his head. “Your hair is falling off, teacher.”

“Ah!” R, embarrassed, readjusted the wig furiously. “Better?”

His nostrils flared and he eyed her up and down. He nodded.

“Thank you. I hope to see you in class later.”

R walked away, feeling her student’s eyes follow her intensely.

Only then did the panic come back. She was in a rush, greeting students only briefly until she arrived at the teacher’s office. R wrapped her arms around Ms. Park from behind, who jolted in shock.

“R!” she exclaimed. 

“Help.”

R released her and handed the now attentive Ms. Park her phone. The woman scrolled through the photos, growing paler by the second. She handed the phone back.

“You can’t stay there anymore.”

“I know that — but my landlord won’t accept it as a reason to break the lease. My credit score will be destroyed.”

“Fuck the credit score!” Other teachers glared, causing Ms. Park to clear her throat and compose herself. “You have to move out today. I’ll help you after class.”

“My assignment will be late.”

“R. This is not up for negotiation. So stop worrying and let’s leave this for after school.”

She nodded, blinking away the blurred tears. She sat at her desk, rummaging through her items quickly. Ms. Park nudged her, a twinkle in her eye.

“You know, you’re out here doing miracle work for our students. I was checking class B’s overall grades, and I found that On-jo has gone from a D+ to a B-. And even better, Gwi-nam somehow went from failing to a B+. I’m sure you’ll get a bonus from the principal for all your hard work at the end of the school year.”

R smiled, some of her uneasiness lifting off her shoulders from the news.

~~~

Much to R’s dismay, it quickly became apparent that R had forgotten to pack a lunch. She had grabbed her lunch box, but the contents were nonexistent. Thus, R knew she’d have to head down to the cafeteria vending machine grab some carbohydrate-filled junk, and break the bad news to Gwi-nam.

On her way, she noticed Gwi-nam leaning on a wall on his phone. R hummed, approaching. Gwi-nam immediately noticed, eyes glued to her figure. R paused in front of him, fumbling with her fingers.

“Well, Gwi-nam, I… woke up late this morning, so I didn’t pack a lunch. Do you have money for the vending machine?”

“Eh? Late? How unprofessional.”

R rolled her eyes. I’ll take that as a yes. Just make sure you eat.” R spun to head over to the cafeteria before pausing. “Oh, one more thing. I’m proud of you and the progress you’ve made in class, Gwi-nam. I hope you know that.”

She walked over to the cafeteria, not noticing how the student gulped and his cheeks grew red, unable to tear his gaze away from the woman.

The cafeteria was crowded and R struggled to evade students. She replied to greetings from students and eventually made it to the vending machine. R checked her phone as a goofy lunch wrap slowly unraveled. Alas, the lunch period was already fifteen minutes through.

The wrap was nearly loose, sliding down the front. It did so slowly, and R nearly screamed when she realized it was about to stop moving.

R had had a bad enough day and kicked the machine. Just like that, the wrap plopped down. As R grabbed it, the noise level in the cafeteria skyrocketed. R swerved to observe the commotion and was unprepared for what she saw. A hoard of students were flying through the glass entrance, until students suddenly slammed it shut, locking out a small group. Screams echoed, and despite the unknowing threat, R dashed toward the entrance, shoving her wrap into her skirt pocket.

And that was when another hoard approached. Students covered in blood ran at the group, and although they tried to run, the students caught them. Blood spewed against the glass, and R shrieked. Although R was frozen in place, everyone around her was running amock in panic from the sudden brutal attack. 

R stood just on the other side of the pane, not far from the front door. Students ran, and then so did the blood-covered students. The doors went crashing open, and R’s life flashed before her eyes as a student she immediately recognized pounced at her.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Love, Lies And Loki~19

Summery: Y/n takes Loki to the club and ends up getting drunk.

Characters: Loki x wife!reader

Note: All characters except Loki are mine!

||Master List||

20. Yours, always (requested!)

🍾 Drunken Mischeif And Divine Patience 🥂

It had been your idea.

As most wild things in your marriage with the God of Mischief tended to be.

“It’ll be fun,” you’d said.

“We need a night out,” you’d insisted.

Loki had raised a skeptical brow, his long fingers steepled under his chin. “You want to take me to a club? Y/N, the last time I entered such a den of flashing lights and loud music, I nearly hexed the DJ for—what did you call it—‘a garbage remix of Sweet Dreams’?”

“I’ve chosen a better one this time,” you grinned, slipping your arms around his neck. “Besides… you owe me.”

“I do?”

“For the laundry incident last week.”

Loki grimaced. “You hold that against me still?”

“You turned our entire wardrobe pink, Loki.”

“It was a magical anomaly—”

“It was a red sock in with whites.”

He sighed. “Fine. One night. But if someone spills sticky beverages on my boots again, I will turn them into a frog.”

“Fair.”

⸻

You looked stunning. Dressed in a fitted, sleek outfit with glittering accents and your favorite heels, you felt like you belonged on a dance floor.

Loki… looked like royalty. Dark pants tailored perfectly to his long legs, a deep green silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of his collarbone, and a black blazer with a subtle emerald sheen. His hair was half-tied, half-loose around his shoulders, and more than one person turned to stare as he entered behind you.

“Eyes forward,” he muttered to one gawking patron, and they immediately obeyed.

“Loki,” you nudged him, “no glaring.”

“No glares,” he said innocently. “Just gentle divine intimidation.”

You snorted.

Inside, the bass thumped like a second heartbeat, and strobe lights streaked across the crowd like a meteor shower. The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and overpriced cocktails. You loved it.

Loki did not.

He stayed close behind you like a shadow, scanning the crowd with a wariness usually reserved for battlefields.

You turned and grinned. “Tense?”

“I have fought in actual wars with less chaos.”

“Oh, come on,” you tugged him by the hand, “you’re a literal god. You can handle a little partying.”

His eyes dropped to where your fingers laced with his. He softened. “With you? Always.”

⸻

You got the first round of drinks.

Loki sniffed the electric-blue concoction in his glass and arched a brow. “This smells like it could strip paint.”

“It’s called a Starborn.”

“It’s called a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You took a sip and coughed. “Okay, wow. That’s strong.”

Loki looked unimpressed. “Allow me.”

He knocked it back in one go and set the glass down without flinching.

You stared. “Didn’t even blink.”

“I’ve drunk with Thor,” he said simply. “My tolerance is legend.”

“Careful,” you warned, “or I’ll try to match you.”

“And I’ll carry you home in my arms like a bridal sack of potatoes.”

You burst out laughing.

⸻

You pulled Loki into the middle of the crowd.

At first, he resisted. His body moved stiffly, like someone unfamiliar with the rhythm of the club—because, well, he was. But then the beat kicked in, and your hands found his hips, and his found yours, and suddenly—

He loosened.

His body swayed with yours, graceful and fluid, moving like silk in a breeze. People cleared space instinctively. He didn’t try to steal the spotlight—but he owned it anyway.

“Show-off,” you whispered in his ear.

He smirked. “Merely giving you something worth watching, wife.”

God, he was intoxicating.

You danced like the night would never end. Shot after shot followed—whiskey for you, something glowing and mysterious for Loki. He drank with easy elegance, but you… well, you were starting to tilt.

Quite literally.

⸻

“Youuuuuu,” you declared, poking Loki’s chest, “are sooo hot.”

He chuckled. “Yes, love, I am aware.”

“I mean stupidly hot. Like… your cheekbones should be illegal.”

Loki raised a brow as you leaned heavily against him. “How many shots was that?”

“Uhm,” you counted on your fingers, “maybe… six? Or seven. Wait—was that before or after the blue thing?”

He sighed. “That’s it. You’ve had enough.”

“But I wanna dance!”

“You can barely walk, dove.”

“I can float,” you said dreamily, trying to spin but instead flinging one heel across the floor.

Loki caught you just before you hit the ground. “Alright. We’re going home.”

You clung to him like a koala. “You’re sooo strong. Like, godly. Did you know that?”

He rolled his eyes, hoisting you up bridal style. “Yes, darling. I’m very aware.”

Carrying you out of the club should have been easy.

Except it wasn’t.

First, there was the doorman who tried to flirt with you.

“Leaving so soon, gorgeous?” the bouncer winked.

Loki turned, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “Do you have a death wish?”

You—slung across Loki’s arms like a dramatic theater maiden—giggled and waved. “Bye, Trevor! You’re cute!”

“My name’s Eric.”

Loki hissed in Old Norse.

⸻

Then, there was the alleyway detour.

You saw a stray cat—jet black, eyes glinting green in the shadows.

“LOKI!” you shrieked. “IT’S NYX’S COUSIN!”

Loki stopped mid-step. “We are not chasing stray felines right now.”

“But look!” you pointed dramatically. “She’s judging me. I love her.”

“I’m judging you,” Loki muttered. “Doesn’t mean you should chase me either.”

The cat hissed and vanished behind a dumpster. You whimpered.

“She hates me.”

“She has excellent instincts.”

“Rude.”

He sighed, hoisted you higher, and kissed your forehead. “Come on, darling. We’re almost to the car.”

⸻

You did not go quietly.

There were tacos to be obtained.

“I want tacos,” you declared.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“So? Taco trucks never sleep!”

“I don’t care if they’re open or delivering food by chariot. You are not eating anything you can’t pronounce while drunk.”

“I can say taco.”

“Barely.”

You pouted and buried your face in his shoulder. “I’m a disappointment.”

He rolled his eyes but softened. “You are many things, Y/N, but never that.”

“You’re so nice to me.”

“I’m legally required to be. Husband obligations.”

“Do you love me?”

He looked down at you, blinking. “Is that a real question?”

“…Maybe.”

He exhaled, exasperated but fond. “I love you more than anything. But if you projectile vomit in this car, I will rescind my vows.”

⸻

Getting you into the passenger seat was a mission. You refused to let go of him.

“Just sit down,” he coaxed.

“But you’re warm.”

“I’m not a blanket, Y/N.”

“You’re better.”

Finally, he buckled you in, and you immediately leaned over and squished his cheek with your hand.

“Your face is pretty.”

“Thank you,” he said, half amused, half trying not to run a red light from secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m gonna keep you forever.”

“You married me. That’s kind of the arrangement.”

You hummed. “You’re really good at taking care of me.”

He smirked. “Don’t make a habit of requiring it like this.”

“I make no promises.”

⸻

Halfway through the ride, you started singing.

Off-key.

Very, very off-key.

“Loooove is an oooopen dooooor—”

“Oh Norns,” Loki muttered.

“With you! With you! With you! With you—”

He snapped his fingers. Your mouth stopped moving—but the sound kept playing.

You blinked. “Did you mute me?!”

“No. I merely—redirected. The sound is now playing from the speakers. Even the car must suffer.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

He chuckled despite himself.

⸻

Loki carried you up the stairs with one arm, unlocking the door with a flick of his wrist.

You were still humming when he set you down on the couch.

“I love our couch,” you whispered reverently.

“You also told the barstool you loved it.”

“This one’s better. Smells like you.”

He blinked. “Is that… a compliment?”

You face-planted into the cushions. “It’s the highest honor.”

He sighed and knelt beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. “Do you need anything? Water? Aspirin? A time machine to undo tonight?”

“I need you to stay right here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

His expression softened. “Always.”

⸻

Ten minutes later, you threw up in the bathroom.

Loki held your hair back with one hand and rubbed your back with the other. “That’s it. Let it out. Mortal alcohol is poison.”

You groaned into the toilet. “I’m dying.”

“No, you’re just drunk. There’s a difference.”

“Tell my plants I love them.”

“I’m sure they’ll write your name in chlorophyll.”

When you finally finished, he carried you to bed like fragile glass, tucked you in with one of his own oversized shirts, and whispered a spell to ease the headache you’d have in the morning.

⸻

You cracked open an eye.

Loki was lying next to you, propped on one elbow, reading a book. His other hand gently rested over your stomach.

“…Hey,” you rasped.

He glanced down. “You’re awake.”

“I feel like roadkill.”

“You look better than that.”

“Thanks.”

He closed the book. “Do you need anything?”

“…Just you.”

He kissed your temple and slid under the blanket beside you. His arms wrapped around you, warm and solid and safe.

“I’m sorry I got so wasted,” you whispered against his chest.

He chuckled. “You were adorable. Chaotic. But adorable.”

“I said embarrassing things.”

“You told a stranger I had ‘abs like Greek tragedy.’”

“Oh my God.”

“You also proposed to a traffic cone.”

You groaned.

“But… you also told me I was your home.”

You blinked up at him. “I said that?”

He nodded. “It was very soft. Very genuine. Right before you tried to adopt a pigeon.”

You giggled. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

He kissed your forehead. “Always, darling. In sickness, in health, and in tequila-fueled nonsense.”

“Even if I puke in your shoes one day?”

“I’d make you scrub them with a toothbrush.”

“Fair.”

He held you tighter, his voice softer now. “I love you. Even drunk. Especially drunk. Because that’s when you forget to put up walls. And you just… let me see all of you.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed.

“I love you too, Mischief King.”

Epilogue –The reverse situation

It started with one drink.

Then two.

Then… several.

You weren’t even sure how it happened. One moment, Loki was leaning suavely against the bar, twirling his cocktail glass like a smug demigod who owned the room. The next, he was challenging a group of frat guys to a shot contest and calling them “tiny-blooded Midgardian infants.”

You raised a brow. “Loki, maybe we slow down?”

He waved you off with a wide grin—teeth glinting, cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “Nonsense, darling. I’ve bested fire demons and frost giants. This—” he held up a double shot of something radioactive-looking, “—is child’s play.”

“Oh boy.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, Loki had climbed onstage, stolen the karaoke mic, and declared to the bar, “My wife is the most radiant creature this planet has ever known, and I shall now serenade her with the mighty ballad of… ’Oops! I Did It Again’.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “No. Absolutely not—”

But it was too late. Loki began to sing. Horribly. With dramatic flair.

“I’m not that innocent!”

Someone screamed, “We love you, weird elf man!”

Loki pointed to you with the mic. “That’s my queen! Mortals, gaze upon her! But not too long—I will smite.”

⸻

You somehow got him off the stage.

Barely.

He leaned heavily into you, crown of dark hair messy from the wild dance he did during the final chorus. “Did I do good?”

“You sang Britney Spears in front of strangers.”

“I channeled my inner war goddess.”

You snorted. “Come on, karaoke god. Let’s get you home.”

⸻

Loki did not go quietly.

He tripped over absolutely nothing—twice—and insisted the stars were talking to him.

“Did you hear that one?” he whispered in awe as you fumbled with the seatbelt.

“No.”

“She said my cheekbones are ‘dangerously majestic.’”

“Sounds like something you’d imagine sober, too.”

He beamed. “True.”

You sighed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m the cutest,” he mumbled, snuggling into your shoulder. “Married the best. Lucky me.”

“Aw. Look at you being sweet and slurring your words.”

“‘IM not slurring. I’m… speaking… poetically.”

⸻

It was poetic chaos.

Loki refused to take his boots off because “they’re enchanted,” tried to flirt with a lamp, and then dramatically fell across the couch like a dying prince.

“My time has come,” he moaned. “I have tasted Midgard’s nectar and been bested.”

“You’re literally just tipsy.”

“Do not belittle my struggle!”

You helped him sit up and guided him toward the bathroom. “Alright, your royal wreckage. Brush your teeth, then straight to bed.”

He stumbled, poked your nose. “You’re bossy when I’m mortal-weak. I like it.”

“Shut up and spit.”

⸻

By the time you got him into pajamas and tucked under the covers, he was in a half-lucid daze, blinking up at you with soft green eyes that shimmered in the dim light.

“You take such good care of me,” he whispered, voice thick with wine and warmth.

“Always.”

He reached up, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “You are my anchor, Y/N. Even when I’m drunk and ridiculous.”

You kissed his knuckles. “Especially then.”

He hummed, eyes fluttering. “I sang to you…”

“I’ll never forget it.”

“You still love me?”

You smiled, climbing into bed beside him and curling up in his arms.

“More than anything, Loki.”

His arms wrapped around you, possessive and tender.

“And tomorrow,” you added, “when your head feels like it’s been trampled by Mjolnir, I’m making you a green smoothie and playing that karaoke video I recorded.”

His eyes shot open. “You recorded it?!”

“Every glorious second.”

He groaned and buried his face in your neck.

“You’re evil.”

“You married me.”

“Fair.”

⸻

As he drifted off, Loki murmured something almost too quiet to hear:

“Next time, let’s both get drunk. And sing a duet.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “Deal.”

-the end