Drinkurwordslikewine - Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin

still mad that the official harry potter page turned into a draco stan acc on april 1st ☹️☹️ give my boys their day

“people who celebrate fictional characters’ birthdays are crin—” I DON’T CARE HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEORGE AND FRED WEASLEY

when you guys walk on a sidewalk, bakugou never and i mean neverrr lets you walk on the side closest to the road. he'll have his large hand on the small of your back as he guides you to the side away from roaring cars.

anddd he does the leaning his head down to hear you thing when you guys are in a loud environment. he'll have his hands buried in his pockets leaning his ear near your lips. if he still can't hear you for whatever reason, he'll place his hand on the small of your back to bring you closer to him. "say it again, baby."

having a heated make out session with bakugou when he’s wearing his glasses and having to straighten them on his face after is just too good i fear. bonus points if you have to wipe your lipstick off his mouth with your thumb as he looks at you with half-lidded, lovesick eyes and a stupid lazy grin.

im sleepyb anf this ibs beautiful

i, in fact, can handle both george and fred at the same time

me core

Before You Go

Characters: George Weasley x reader

Summary: George struggles with grief and guilt after Fred’s death, haunted by memories, until comfort and quiet understanding help him begin healing.

Word Count: 2245 words

Prompt: Before You Go – Lewis Capaldi

A/N: This is for the amazingly wonderful @caplanbuckybarnes and the decades challenge. I would like to apologise in advance.

The familiar images did little to ease the ache in his chest or the rising panic. It always started the same way. A cold, grey day. The kind where the sky stretched endlessly, smothered in a thick blanket of clouds, where the air was damp and heavy, pressing in on him like unseen hands.

Everything felt distant, as if he were watching the world through translucent glass. The shapes around him were familiar but amorphous, shifting and warping at the edges, never quite solid. A cruel imitation of reality.

He stood alone, the earth beneath his feet damp and unyielding, the scent of rain and churned-up soil filling his lungs. It felt as if his footprints would be etched here forever, carved into the ground cementing his position at the headstone. As if he were trapped in time, doomed to return to this spot every day for the rest of his life.

And then came the words. The ones he could never take back.

"I hate you."

The memory struck like a curse, reverberating through him, shattering against the walls of his mind. The words echoed, again and again, looping endlessly, filling every space inside him.

Warm tears carved silent paths down his clammy cheeks as the air was ripped from his lungs. He had meant the opposite. He had always meant the opposite. But hatred was easier to claim than the unbearable, clawing anguish that had infected every fiber of his being. It was easier to pretend he was angry than to admit he had been afraid—so, so afraid.

He would have done anything to go back, to undo it all. But time was merciless, and the past remained unchanged, its weight pressing down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper, suffocating him beneath the endless tide of regret and guilt.

Every night, this moment replayed in his mind, the grief as raw and sharp as the day it began. No matter how many days passed, the wound never closed. A million moments that should have been shared, a million thoughts now his alone. The laughter that would never come again, the secrets that would remain forever unspoken.

All the words he could have—should have—said now tasted like ashes on his tongue.

Had he told him enough? Had he ever made him understand? Did Fred know—really know—just how much he meant to him?

The scene in his dreams shifted. The solid ground beneath him gave way, turning to sludge and mud, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his ankles like grasping hands. It pulled him downward, an unrelenting force determined to drag him to the place where his twin lay waiting.

He thrashed, clawing at the earth, at the air, at anything that could save him. But there was nothing. His fingers sank into the wet, rotting dirt, slipping through his grasp as if it, too, refused to hold onto him. Cold tendrils of soil slithered into his mouth, filled his lungs, choking him with the taste of decay. The more he fought, the deeper he sank.

Above him, the light shimmered—distant, unattainable. A cruel reminder of the world that still existed without him. His limbs were leaden, his chest tight, the weight of guilt pressing down until his body no longer felt like his own. The ghosts of the past clawed at him, whispering, murmuring, dragging him further beneath the surface.

And then, he was falling.

Endlessly, weightlessly, through a deep, almost tangible darkness.

A flicker of warmth. A voice—laughter, breathless and wild. The past swept past him in flashes, fragments of a life that once felt eternal, unbreakable. Bare feet pounding against cold stone, echoes chasing them through winding castle corridors. Then warmth—the sun-heated floors of his mother’s kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of giggles bursting from their throats before they could suppress them.

Fred’s eyes, alight with mischief. His hand, reaching out.

And then—nothing.

George gasped, desperate to hold onto it, but the memories shattered like glass, slipping through his fingers.

It had never been the right time to talk about feelings. There had always been another joke to make, another prank to plan, another moment to laugh instead of say the things that mattered. They were two halves of the same whole—Fred had to have known how he felt… hadn’t he? Did it need words? Did it need to be spoken aloud?

But what if it had? What if he had waited too long?

Fred had always been the brave one. The ideas man. The eldest, always ready to take the first step into the unknown, dragging George along with him, making the unknown seem thrilling instead of terrifying. But now, Fred had stepped too far, gone too deep, and for the first time, George had been left behind.

Without him, George felt himself unraveling. A thread pulled loose, fraying, unraveling, until little by little, there would be nothing left.

Nothing at all.

The scene shifted again.

This time, everything came into brutal focus.

No haze. No distance. No mercy.

The air was thick, pressing in on him, suffocating. His limbs were heavy, as if he were wading through water, time stretching unbearably, slowing his movements but not the inevitable. His chest tightened with a familiar, crushing panic. His mind screamed at him to look away. But he couldn’t. He never could.

His eyes widened in horror.

Knowing what was about to happen didn’t soften the blow. It made it worse.

Fred’s face—so full of life, his bright eyes dancing with mischief, laughter spilling from his lips—was frozen in time. George wanted to reach out, to grab him, to shake him, to tell him to run. Don’t turn around. Don’t move. Just stay here. Stay with me.

He prayed. Pleaded. Begged for the scene to shift again, to twist into something else, something he could wake up from. That this time, he could change it. That this time, it would be him instead.

But the nightmare never listened.

A bright flash. A blinding eruption of light, striking the wall behind Fred like a thunderclap, illuminating him in an explosion of gold and red—like fireworks, dazzling and deadly.

And then came the cracks. The crumbling.

The world tearing itself apart.

The deafening roar of destruction.

And then—

Silence.

The kind that swallowed everything. That stole breath and sound and life itself.

The kind of silence George had been drowning in ever since.

George jolted awake, his body tense, breath hitching in his throat. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, his pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm that echoed in his ears. The air in his bedroom felt thick, suffocating, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His sheets were damp with sweat, twisted around him as if they, too, had been caught in the nightmare.

It didn’t matter if he slept for hours or barely at all. It didn’t matter what time he went to bed, how exhausted he was, how desperately his body craved rest. He knew, without looking at the clock, that it was 3:33 AM. It always was.

Rubbing a trembling hand over his face, he let out a stuttering breath, trying to steady himself, to slow the ragged gasps that clawed at his throat. His fingers pressed against his temples, as if he could physically push the memories away, as if he could will them into silence.

Everyone said time would heal. That grief would fade.

But six months had passed, and the wound was still as raw as the day it was torn open.

The nightmares never stopped. The weight never lifted.

Some nights, it felt like he was still trapped in that moment, still hearing the explosion, still seeing Fred’s face frozen in that last instant of laughter. Some nights, he thought maybe he’d wake up and find that it had all been a terrible mistake—that his twin would be there, grinning at him, nudging him, cracking some joke about how dramatic he was being.

But the silence that followed was always the same. Heavy. Hollow.

And George was still alone.

“George?”

Your voice was thick with sleep, soft and uncertain in the stillness of the room. He heard your bed shift as you stirred, your warmth just within reach. Guilt settled in his chest like a heavy stone. He hadn’t meant to wake you.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

A lie. One he told far too often, uncertain whether he was trying to convince everyone else or himself.

You had stayed by George’s side through the aftermath, through the quiet devastation that followed the battle. For three months, you were there—through the empty stares, the sleepless nights, the moments where he barely seemed present at all. Only when work forced you to return did you leave, though even then, you worried. You knew he wasn’t okay.

Molly saw it too.

She heard the muffled sobs through the walls at night. She watched her son wear a mask for the world, smiling when he had to, making jokes when he could, as if it would ease their pain. As if it would somehow lessen the weight pressing down on them all. But you both knew the truth—his grief wasn’t lessening. It was sinking deeper, burrowing into his bones, stretching the wound wider with every passing day.

A few weeks ago, Molly sent you an owl, worry woven between every line.

"He won’t let us in," she wrote. "But maybe he’ll let you."

And the moment you stepped into the Burrow, you knew—you weren’t leaving again.

George sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead, as if sleep were a distant thing he had long forgotten how to reach. You didn’t hesitate.

“You aren’t okay, and that’s alright,” you whispered, slipping from your bed and into his. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, grounding him. “I don’t expect you to be okay, Georgie.”

His breath hitched, his body trembling. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he let go.

His head fell against your shoulder, his walls crumbling as sobs tore from him, violent and unrestrained. His hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt, clinging to you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world, the only thing keeping him from vanishing into the void that had swallowed everything else.

You held him tighter, running your fingers through his hair, steadying him as he shattered.

You wished there was something, anything, you could say to make it better. To dull the ache in his chest. To take even a fraction of his pain away. But there were no words for a grief like this. No comfort that could mend the hole left behind.

It was a tempestuous storm—a violent, merciless thing, and George was drifting through it on a fragile raft, the waves towering fifty feet high, threatening to pull him under.

So you held on.

You held on for both of you.

The two of you lay down, limbs tangled, bodies pressed close as if proximity alone could keep the weight of grief at bay. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the slow, uneven cadence of George’s breathing. His warmth seeped into you, grounding both of you in the present, even as the past loomed just beyond the edges of consciousness.

“Fred would have been making kissing noises if he could see us now,” you murmured, your voice a careful whisper in the dark. A gentle attempt to pull him from the heaviness that had settled over him, to remind him that laughter—Fred’s laughter—still existed somewhere between the sorrow.

For a moment, there was silence, and you worried the words had fallen flat, that the ache inside him was too vast to be reached.

Then, a low, tired chuckle vibrated from his chest, muffled against your skin, and relief flooded through you.

“He always said he was the better-looking twin to everyone—except you,” George mumbled against your shoulder, his voice thick with exhaustion, with something heavier. “Said there had to be an exception.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he instinctively leaned into the touch.

“How gracious of him,” you said, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips, the sound gentle, easy.

The two of you fell into a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The rise and fall of his chest became steadier, though the tension in his limbs never fully faded. You knew sleep would take him eventually, but peace—that was something different.

It was true—George had never told Fred how much he meant to him. Not the way he should have. Not nearly enough. Maybe words had always felt unnecessary between them, as if the bond they shared transcended the need for them. But now, in the hollow space Fred had left behind, all those unsaid things sat heavy on George’s tongue, turning to ashes before they could ever be spoken.

But Fred had known. He had always known.

And maybe, in his own way, Fred had left behind a final reassurance.

"He always made a point of saying you belonged to me."

Maybe that had been Fred’s way of giving his blessing. His way of making sure George wouldn’t be left completely alone.

And maybe, just maybe, George could hold onto that.

I introduce you... Matching! <3

Original artists: @fool_rith and @Ickyeddie (twt/x)

won't you spare me another year ?

synopsis : you want to be the first person to wish your katsuki a happy birthday every year <3

an. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BOYFRIEND!!

cw. nothing, pure fluff!!! also fem reader!

"5..4...3...2...1...aaaand—happy birthday, katsuki !!"

katsuki groans sleepily as your arms tighten around him. "you're fucking insane. it's midnight."

"it's your birthday !" you defend quietly, pouting up at him. he looks down at you and chuckles.

"ya could've just let me sleep and told me that shit in the morning, would've still been m'birthday." he yawns, wiping his eyes. you shoot up to press a kiss to his cheek, leaning into his space more to kiss him all over while he pretends to try and push you off when you roll on top of him. you both ignore how he immediately goes to squeezing your hips when you settle on top.

"i could've, but then there would've been a chance i slept in too long and then i wouldn't have been the first one to wish you happy birthday."

"so my birthday's a competition now ?"

"yup. and i plan to be first every year." you giggle, he rolls his eyes but can't hide the smile growing on his face.

"clingy brat.." he mumbles, he kisses you back anyways when your lips reach his.

"you love me." you counter.

"mm, whatever." he waves off, grabbing the back of your head to bring your lips back to his. you squeal as he tries to deepen the kiss. "you're being greedy." you warn, lips smushed against his.

"s'my birthday, means i get what i wan’, right ? and since you're gonna keep me awake, could at the very least gimme a proper damn kiss." he says between kisses, it makes you laugh against his mouth and he smiles. when you pull away, you lean in to press a long, lasting kiss on the scar right below his eye. you can feel the way the muscles in his face drop and his arms tighten around you in surprise.

"happy birthday, katsuki. i'm glad i can spend another year with you." you whisper earnestly, looking down at him like he'd hung up the moon and the stars for you. unfortunately, it seems that was too much sincerity for your poor boyfriend. he squints, his massive palms enveloping your face to squeeze your cheeks.

"y-yeah, yeah. quit bein' sappy..." he huffs. you feel his thumb run against your bottom lip when he glances up at you, ears tinted pink as he quietly whispers out a "thanks...".

you don't need to say anymore, smiling as you lay on his chest. you hum "what do you wanna do for your birthday ?"

"stay in and fuckin' sleep." is his simple response, you can't help but snort.

"and nothing else ?" you look up at him.

he looks down at you "sounds like you got something you're hiding from me." he asks, suspiciously raising a brow.

you scoff, looking away "pffff, me ? no way..."you lie, your voice going airy.

you’re being grabbed by your cheeks in an instant and katsuki’s not deterred by your whining "you're a shit liar."

"i plead the fifth."

"plead my ass." katsuki scoffs, squishing your cheeks in his palm. "i hate being out of the loop on shit, you know that."

"would it kill you to not be a killjoy ? where's your whimsy ? your child's soul ?" you whine.

"whatever the fuck that means." katsuki snarks. you laugh again, and he rolls his eyes. "as long as whatever you got planned doesn't take up my whole damn day, then do what you want."

now it's your turn to roll your eyes "no need to worry, i won't be interfering with your plans to sleep in."

"our plans. you're not going anywhere." your boyfriend corrects.

"i have no say in it, do i ?" you tease.

he pokes your cheek. "nope. s'my birthday." he responds simply.

you laugh "you're using that as some sort of cheat code now ?"

when your laughter dies down he's still looking down at you. eyes, droopy with sleep sure, but with something soft inside of them. they glow illuminated by the light of the moon outside.

"what ?"

"nuffin." he sighs, still just looking down at you. his fingers run across your face, your cheeks and eyebrows and nose so softly, so unlike him (he of course has to take the opportunity to squeeze your nose, but you decide not to ruin the moment).

"yeah, right. c'mon what is it?" you urge. katsuki scoffs "so damn persistent." he reprimands. he shushes you when you remind him that "that's why you like me so much!"

"m'just..thinkin'."

"about..?" you wiggle higher up until you can kiss his chin. he sighs again , smiling to himself.

"about...this really annoying girl."

you glare up at him, he smirks. "oh yeah ?" you deadpan.

"oh, yeah. a real pain in the ass. always talkin' back to me and bothering me. planning surprises and other stupid things for my birthday every year. " he taunts.

you roll your eyes again "she sounds like a fun time. sounds to me like you just don't know how to have any fun." you grouch. katsuki laughs, of course he does, dickhead.

"yeah, well. as annoying as she is...she is a pretty damn fun time." he admits softly "real damn sweet too...probably too sweet for me.."

you look up at him in surprise. he squeezes your nose to avoid you and you swipe at his hand. he continues talking while you're distracted. "but i'm glad she chose to be with an asshole like me, and..." he leans down to press a peck between your brows.

"..and there's nothing else i'd like more for my birthday then to spend it with her again next year. even if we do lame, boring shit like staying in or doing whatever."

you feel your heart squeeze almost painfully tight. your cheeks pull up so hard you feel your jaw hurt, but you're so unbearably happy.

so unbearably happy you get to spend another year of his life with him.

you lean in to kiss him. "well, i don't know about her surprises, but mine's gonna blow your socks off. s'gonna make you cry like you did last year."

he scoffs, planting another kiss to your lips. "i didn't cry, dickwad. that's your mind making shit up." he denies.

"yeah, okay" you laugh, and with one final kiss you pull back to look at your love, with all the love you had for him. "happy birthday, katsuki."

and he smiles back, softly, and only reserved for moments like this with you.

yeah, it sure was. happy fuckin' birthday to him.

I wish I could describe how painful it is to not have enough/ a lot of new x reader content for your faves and having to force yourself to move on to another character so you won’t feel sad.

You roll over as gently as you can, even though you want to flop angrily against the mattress. The brief satisfaction you would get from the tantrum would be quickly overrun by guilt if you woke up the man sleeping soundly next to you.

Even that small movement is too much. Not even a moment passes before a muscular arm slips over your waist and a sleep slurred voice murmurs against your back, "Can't sleep?"

You mumble an apology, making to get up so that at least one of you can rest before your next patrol, but you're stopped by Shoto's arm tightening around you. You can't help but smile despite your frustration and fatigue; he's always clingy when he's sleep warm and soft around the edges.

He presses his face into the nape of your neck, and you feel his lips brush against the delicate skin there. It's instinctive, the way you relax into his hold, letting him press the lengths of your bodies together, not a millimetre of space between you as he moves to hook his chin over your shoulder, pressing a clumsy kiss to your cheek.

"Go back to sleep, Shoto."

"Rather stay awake with you." A sweet statement; one which makes your heart clench even as you hold back a giggle - he's barely conscious, his reassurance of you muscle memory at this point.

His hand moves to your hip, rubbing soft circles into the sliver of skin between your pyjama shorts and the t-shirt of his you stole back when you were both still students.

"I'm okay. Really. No nightmares, no injuries - just restless." You snuggle back into him, lacing your fingers through his and pulling his hand up from your hip so you can lay a kiss to his palm, "Go back to sleep."

You feel him nod against your neck and moments later, his breathing evens out again - your sweet boy really was holding out just for you. The thought warms your heart and suddenly, you don't mind so much that you can't sleep. Not if it means you get a little extra time to bask in his love.