Harry & Padfoot

I know not every mc can be strong willed, I understand that the people you love can be your greatest weakness... But nothing pisses me off like a flimsy reader/mc.

Bro's cheated 27 times, ran over your mum, then reversed the car back over her to 'assess the damage', boiled your goldfish, waxed one of your eyebrows, let his sidechick call you the Pillsbury doughboy, his mum treats you like shit stuck to her shoe and doesn't give a fuck about you the entirety of your relationship... But as soon as mc finds the strength to move on, a kiss on your 'sweet spot' is all it takes and you're weak at the knees. This is the 21st century, be a baddie go show your panty or something like ohmygod?!?! Stand up!!.

Nothing makes me walk away from a fic as fast as seeing someone who doesn't deserve forgiveness get forgiven after doing the bare minimum, or like when they've wronged someone and they leave them but they were pregnant or something

" why didn't you tell me?'' "I deserve to know" Shut up you deserve nothing.

For the love of god, get angry, get evil, get even, throw hands if you must.

Like I don't know who I want to fight more, the characters or the writers.

katsuki thinks he's in trouble when your thumb brushes against his cheek to wipe the grease from the explosions he caused.

so he stutters, with his face completely red and hot, and lightly pushes you away. " i can do this on my own! " he insists, then rubs his face with the back of his glove, only to cover more than half of his face with grease now.

but katsuki knows, he's in trouble when you laugh in that pretty voice, and your eyes crinkle like that. so this time he lets your cute pink napkin wipe across his cheek, his chin, the tip of his nose, and then finally, his quivering lip.

© startaee 2024. do not copy, translate or repost .

When I find a 10k+ words count, friends to lovers, where he fell first and harder, extra yearning, no smut, fluff + angst fic

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.

me tweaking out trying to find that one good fanfic

Bats

Here's some thoughts about Bruce Wayne, my husband btw

cw: Major fluff

Just imagine being the wife of Bruce Wayne. Not the playboy, or the billionaire, not the philanthropist, but Bruce Wayne. A man who had to grow up at the young age of eight, and later on becoming a young man who spent his time traveling the world. Learning all he could, fighting, languages, anything. A man who sacrifices everything for the ones he loves, hoping that he can protect them from the world that seems hellbent on taking away all the people he holds dear.

Bruce is a man of few words, but each word that leaves those beautiful lips of his has a purpose. Those quiet moments when its just the two of you, cuddled in one of the plush couches in the Wayne manor library. The moonlight flittering in from the tall windows, the crackling of the lit fireplace is the only other noise that accompanies your whispered words of love. Wrapped in his protective embrace, a body that spends nearly every night defending and protecting the innocents of Gotham is here hugging you and gently massaging your back.

You bring a level of solace that Bruce didn't think he would ever have. Given how he accepted the fact that being Batman meant that he could never really have that. Then you came in. It wasn't some massive firework show or falling from the sky. You just... walked in like you were meant to be here all along. The patience, understanding and unwavering love you showed him time and time again had Bruce wondering where you had been all this time. You were so...You.

Bruce is the husband and lover who lets you kiss his countless amount of scars that litter his body that has been sculpted to fight and endure anything that comes its way. A body that held strength in every fiber of muscle and yet he turns to putty within your loving hands. Mind, body and soul, wholly yours.

Bruce had no idea of what he was missing when you weren't in his life and now that he has you, there is nothing on this planet or universe that would ever take you from him.

Bruce is someone who will die for You, and any one of the people he loves.

I could fix him but I kinda like him a little murderous and psychotic tho

Year of the Snake!! 🐍

i think adrien is his own friend group tbh

luka is the missing person because they wrote him out of the show please give me my wife back

katsuki who gets fucking heated when you won’t let him do stuff for you..except it’s always the stupidest shit ever. he’s glaring at you, jaw set tight and you can practically see veins popping and he’s huffing n just so mad. he’s looking at you like you just killed his mother.

..and it’s all because you threw away the wrapper for a sweet treat he got for you instead of letting him do it.