Hello 👋,

taking kakashi out for drinks and having him complain about his students and how tired he is then he’ll get drunk and invite you to his place but the second his body hits the bed even before you can take your top off he’s snoring so you try to make him comfortable removing his vest and headband thinking he’s deep asleep, yet before you can turn away he grabs you and pulls you down to lay with him.

“you mislead me with promises of sex” you complain but let him spoon you, “turns out you just wanted to cuddle.”

“what a jerk i am” he nuzzles on your neck.

“such a jerk” you pull the duvet higher.

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.

maybe if he’d come back earlier everything would have been fine.

it wasn’t even in the middle of the night, like you’d read in the stories, or how you’d see in the films, where the long-lost lover finds their way back to the one they’d left behind and shows up on their doorstep at two in the morning, rousing them from their sleep.

no, it was a regular saturday afternoon, two p.m. instead of two a.m, and he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and the only thing that had visibly changed about him was the fact that his hair had gotten longer–and there also was a scar on his cheek. and one at the base of his neck. and another one cutting through his hairline. you wondered how many more old wounds his clothes hid.

Keep reading

Grandmas were so right about puzzles and knitting and crocheting and solitaire and reading slow and slippers and baking and watching deer in the backyard send post

huge, intimidating men who relax their posture and soften their voice whenever they speak to you 😔

katsuki's never really noticed you before. but it's nothing personal. he's barely noticed some of his closest 'friends' in class too. however, that changes when kirishima plops down on his bed, and chuckles and tells him all about your not so little not so secret crush on him. and suddenly you're all he's noticing.

you're walking into class that day, smiling with your stupid big pink tumblr in your hands, and his eyes are widening because suddenly his ears are warming up and his chest is tightening. and oh god, you're looking at him now and he doesn't know what to do. he feels sick and embarrassed. because you're looking back at him the same way he's looking at you. and he wants to be his usual bakugo self, and scoff and look away. but goddamn woman, when he looks at you, he feels like katsuki.

IM SORRY I THINK THIS IS MY MOST FAVOURITE THING EVER BCZ WHAT

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

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.6

FORGOT TO POST THIS HERE NAURRRRR

Mike who admires you from the couch while you prepare dinner before walking up behind you to leave small kisses behind your ear and neck while letting his hand travels up your shirt and you press against the counter with your back against his chest.

here's a thought:

tsukishima kei is mean. he complains that you talk too much, laughs when you flunk your tests, and insists that you're clingy. others wonder why you're even with him.

but they don't know that when he tsks at your rambling, he shifts one side of his headphones away to hear your voice. they don't know that even though he teases you for your low test scores, he would stay up late at night just to tutor you till you'd get it right. they don't know that after rolling his eyes at your affection, he places a chaste kiss on your forehead and hides his red face in your hair.

so when they say you deserve better, you laugh at their cluelessness and state with a smile, "he's more than everything i could ever want." and he falls in love with you all over again.

I have such bad Matt Holt brainrot! It’s literally been 4 years and I still wake up thinking about him! HEELP!!