vomitello

I WRITE FOR:

Harry Potter

Avengers

Squid Game

What I DON'T write:

Smut

Gore

Fandom x Fandom

Poly

Incest

RULES:

I only write for the fandoms that were mentioned.

Please specify the gender you want me to write, otherwise I will put female!reader.

If you want it to be headcanon or fic style, please specify.

If I feel uncomfortable with your request, I won't do it.

ALWAYS BE POLITE!

Masterlist TMNT (i don't write for them anymore)

Masterlist Harry Potter

Masterlist Avengers

Summary: Y/N is staring contentedly at herself in the mirror, until Mikey decides to compliment his beloved.

You were in his room, a place that was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything that made Mikey, well, Mikey. Colorful surfboards leaned against a wall next to his nunchucks. Comic books were stacked in teetering piles that defied gravity. The smell of pizza and spray paint filled the air. You loved it here. It felt like home.

You were standing in front of his full-length mirror, the one with a few cracks in the corner that he’d covered with rad skate stickers. You’d just pulled your soft t-shirt up to your ribs and were staring intently at your stomach, a deep frown on your pretty face.

Mikey was lounging on his battered beanbag chair, sketching a new design for his skateboard deck. He glanced up, his bright blue eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. “Hey, whatcha doin’? Practicing your superhero pose? ‘Cause you definitely look super, Y/N.”

You didn’t smile back. You poked at your belly, which was perfectly flat and soft. “Mikey,” you said, your voice serious. “Do I look pregnant?”

The pencil in Mikey’s hand froze. His brain, which was usually a whirlwind of cartoons, pizza toppings, and ninja moves, screeched to a complete halt. “Uh,” was the only sound he could manage. He blinked, his head tilting like a confused puppy.

You sighed, still staring at your reflection. Right now, all you could see was your stomach.

“I feel pregnant,” you continued, your tone dramatic. You let your shirt drop and turned to face him, crossing your arms under your chest. “My stomach looks like a five-month pregnancy. I’m serious. I look like I’m hiding a little melon in there.”

A wave of relief so powerful it almost made him dizzy washed over Mikey. He finally understood. This wasn’t a real question. This was a girl question. One of those mysterious moments where the love of his life saw something in the mirror that absolutely no one else on the planet could see.

He scrambled off the beanbag, his large frame moving with a surprising grace. He walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. Both of you looked into the mirror now.

“Whoa, hold up,” he said, his voice gentle. “Pregnant? With what? A food baby? ‘Cause the only thing you’re full of is that huge slice of pepperoni and mushroom pizza you stole from me like, an hour ago.”

You elbowed him playfully in the plastron. “I’m being serious! Look.” You pulled your shirt tight against your front. “See? It’s all… round. And puffy. Ugh.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated with your own body.

Mikey squeezed you tighter. “Okay, first of all, that’s not puff. That’s just you. And you’re awesome. Second of all,” he said, turning you around in his arms so you were facing him instead of the mirror. “If that’s a five-month pizza baby, then what does that make me?” He patted his own flat, muscular stomach. “I ate, like, the whole rest of the pizza. I must be having triplets. We can name them Pepper, Oni, and Mushroom.”

You couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” he insisted, his eyes wide with mock concern. “We need to build a bigger crib. And buy way more diapers. Do they make pizza-shaped diapers? They should.”

He was being so silly, so completely Mikey, that your bad mood started to melt away. You leaned your forehead against his chest. “I just… I don’t know why I feel so bloated and gross today.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. He used one finger to lift your chin so you were looking up at him. “You are the least gross person in the whole world. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Like, ever. In any dimension. Even the ones Donnie talks about that I don’t understand.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I get to say that,” he corrected you, his smile warm and genuine. “And it’s the truth. Your stomach is perfect. Your everything is perfect. Especially these.” He poked your side, right where you’re most ticklish.

You squealed and tried to squirm away, but he held you fast, his laughter mixing with yours. “Mikey, stop!”

“Nope! Can’t stop! Gotta prove to the beautiful lady that she is not, and I quote, ‘puffy’!” He started a full-blown tickle attack, his fingers expertly finding all your weak spots.

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “Okay! Okay! I surrender! I’m not pregnant! I’m just full of pizza!”

He stopped immediately, grinning triumphantly. “See? Was that so hard to admit?” He pulled you back into a hug, and you nestled against him, your earlier anxiety completely forgotten.

“My big, strong ninja,” you mumbled into his neck.

“The biggest and strongest,” he agreed. “Especially when it comes to eating pizza and tickling my awesome girlfriend.”

You both stood like that for a few minutes, just holding each other in the middle of his messy, wonderful room. You felt safe and loved and silly, all at once.

“You wanna know what I see when I look at you?” Mikey asked after a while, his voice quiet.

“What?” you asked, pulling back to look at him.

“I see my best friend,” he said, “I see the girl who isn’t scared of us, who actually thinks our home is cool. I see the person who laughs at my jokes, even the really dumb ones. I see the one who held my hand when I was nervous about that art show. I see the most beautiful, kind, smart, and totally rad person I’ve ever met.”

He wasn’t just saying it. You could see the complete honesty in his face. He really meant every single word.

“I don’t see ‘puffy’ or anything else you were worrying about,” he continued. “I just see… you. And I really, really like you.”

Your eyes got a little watery. “I really, really like you too, Mikey.”

He smiled that goofy, lopsided smile that made your heart flip. “Good. So, can we officially retire the ‘food baby’ talk? It’s kinda freaking me out. I’m not ready to be a dad to a mini-calzone.”

You laughed, swatting his arm. “Yes. It’s retired.”

“Awesome.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “So… you’re probably not hungry yet, right? Since you’re so… full?” He wiggled his eye ridges.

You grinned. “Well. I could maybe share a little something with you.”

“Yes!” he punched the air. “I knew I kept you around for a reason! Besides your stunning beauty and killer personality, I mean.” He grabbed your hand and started leading you out of his room toward the kitchen. “I think there’s some of that weird pineapple and jalapeno pizza left that Leo won’t touch. Our taste buds are about to go on an adventure!”

Heeey love, I'll still write more TLOU fic, don't worry! As soon as the ask box is open again, feel free to send your request. 🥰

Heeeey, thanks for that! And i'm really sorry for taking so long to write your request. But here we are! I hope you like it ~ ♡

Pretty in Pink .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: What happens when the school’s golden girl starts to notice that the funny, chaotic Fred Weasley can’t seem to form a sentence around her — and realizes you kind of likes that?

fred weasley x f!reader

It all started with a smile.

Yours.

It wasn’t like Fred hadn’t seen you before. He’d seen you plenty — strutting through the Great Hall in your pastel-pink hair tie, surrounded by admirers, hair shimmering in the morning light. You had that aura about you: confident, composed, dazzling. Everyone liked you. Even the portraits seemed to perk up when you passed by.

But one day, something clicked. You laughed — really laughed — and Fred’s entire world tilted on its axis.

You were walking across the courtyard, your arms full of books, the wind gently tousling your hair. You looked like a dream. A pink, glittering, heart-shaped dream.

And that’s when Fred realized:

He was in trouble.

George noticed almost instantly.

Fred froze mid-sentence while talking about a new joke shop idea, eyes glued to you like you were the most magical thing he’d ever seen.

“Fred? Hello? You’ve gone weird again,” George said, snapping his fingers in front of his brother’s face.

Fred blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’ve just seen Merlin himself,” George said, following his gaze — and when he saw you, realization dawned. “Oh. Ohhh. You’ve got it bad, mate.”

Fred tore his eyes away and tried to play it off, though the flush creeping up his neck gave him away. “I do not.”

George grinned. “You absolutely do. The great Fred Weasley, struck down by a girl in pink. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“She’s not just a girl,” Fred muttered, half to himself. “She’s— she’s like— I don’t even know— sunshine and perfume and—”

“Merlin’s pants, you’re making me sick.”

Fred prided himself on confidence. He could walk into any room and make everyone laugh within minutes. But the first time you actually spoke to him, every ounce of that confidence evaporated.

It happened in Potions class. You sat two rows ahead, and Professor Snape had (as usual) decided to pair students at random.

“(L/N) and Fred Weasley.”

Fred’s heart stopped. George patted him on the back like a man sending his brother to war. “Good luck, lover boy.”

He tried to keep cool as he walked over, but then you looked up at him and smiled — that perfect, kind smile that made his stomach do somersaults.

“Hi, Fred,” you said sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Looks like we’re partners!”

And that was when Fred’s brain completely malfunctioned.

“Hi, uh — yes, I mean, obviously we’re… together— I mean, not together-together, unless you— well, no, not like that, Merlin, ignore me, I’m fine, totally fine.”

You blinked, amused, while Fred fought the urge to throw himself into his cauldron.

You blinked. “Are you okay?”

“Yep! Fantastic! Just thinking about… potions! Love potions. Not that I love potions— I mean I do— but not in a— Merlin help me.”

You giggled. Giggled. And Fred, poor soul, was done for.

By the end of class, he’d managed to spill powdered bicorn horn across their desk, set his sleeve on fire, and somehow still make you laugh through it all.

When George found him later, singed and starry-eyed, he just shook his head. “You’ve lost it completely.”

Fred grinned, dreamy and unashamed. “She laughed at my joke, George.”

“You nearly blew up her potion.”

“Yeah, but she laughed.”

By the time spring rolled around, everyone had noticed.

Fred Weasley — fearless, loud, unstoppable Fred — couldn’t form a coherent sentence around you.

He’d drop his quill when you passed by. He once tried to wink and accidentally blinked with both eyes. During a Quidditch match, you waved at him from the stands — and he flew right into the goalpost.

“Fred’s got the Y/N effect,” Lee Jordan joked one afternoon.

“She’s got him bewitched,” Seamus added.

“Or he’s just dumb,” George said cheerfully.

Fred didn’t even deny it. He was too busy daydreaming about your smile.

Everyone thought you was perfect. And in many ways, you are. But what no one saw was that perfection was exhausting.

The makeup, the constant smiles, the expectations — it was all part of the image. People didn’t see the effort behind the sparkle. They didn’t notice the small moments when you just wanted to breathe.

But Fred did.

He’d caught yoy alone in the courtyard one evening, sitting by yourself, your pink cloak draped over your shoulders, your usual bright expression faded.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting beside you. “Didn’t think perfection took breaks.”

You smiled weakly. “Even perfection gets tired, Weasley.”

For once, he didn’t crack a joke. He just looked at you, his usual playful grin softening into something gentler. “You know, I think you’re allowed to be human. You don’t always have to shine.”

That was the first time you looked at him differently — not as the class clown, but as someone who saw you. Really saw you.

You tilted her head. “You’re not as ridiculous as people say.”

“Don’t ruin my reputation,” he said, smirking. “I’ve worked hard to earn that.”

It was a Hogsmeade weekend when things really shifted.

Fred had a plan: casually bump into you outside Honeydukes, make a few jokes, maybe charm you into grabbing a butterbeer. Easy.

Except George yelled, “Go get her, Romeo!” across the street — and Fred turned to glare at him — and promptly tripped over a snowbank, face-planting right at your feet.

Right. At. Your. Feet.

“Oh my Merlin, are you okay?” you asked, laughing as you knelt to help him up.

Fred blinked up at you, face covered in snow, grin wide. “Totally fine. Meant to do that.”

You giggled. “Of course you did.”

As you brushed snow off his shoulders, your eyes met his, that's when he noticed.

You were blushing.

You.

“Fred Weasley,” you murmured, smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Took you long enough to notice.”

The Yule Ball glittered like a dream. You looked radiant — pink satin dress, sparkles catching the light, hair perfectly styled. Fred nearly fall his when he saw you.

He wasn’t your date (some Ravenclaw had beaten him to it), but every time you glanced his way, his heart raced.

After the final dance, you stepped outside to get some air, the night crisp and quiet. Fred followed, nerves buzzing.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned, smiling. “Hey, troublemaker.”

He hesitated. “You look beautiful tonight. Not that you don’t always— I mean, Merlin, ignore me, I’m malfunctioning again.”

You laughed. “You really are hopeless around me, aren’t you?”

“Completely.”

There was a pause — then you stepped closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I think I like you that way.”

Fred blinked. “The bumbling idiot way?”

“Yeah, exactly that way,” you said softly.

And before he could say anything else, you leaned in and kissed him — soft, sweet, and everything he’d ever dreamed.

When you pulled away, Fred grinned, cheeks pink. “How can you be so perfect?”

But then it all went wrong.

Her heel caught on the hem of her gown. She stumbled. The next second, she was falling — crashing down the last few steps, the sharp crack of her head hitting the marble making the entire room freeze.

“(Y/N)!” Tony’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.

He was at her side in seconds, kneeling beside her crumpled figure. Her body was limp, a deep gash on her temple bleeding slowly down her cheek. Her eyes were closed, skin pale, breaths shallow.

Tony gripped her shoulders, his voice already shaking. “No. No, no, no — sweetheart, come on.” He shook her. Once. Twice. Harder.

Haha... Heeey? Guys, please don't hit me! I know it's taking me ages to respond to requests, but please be patient 😭😭 I'll respond to them all, don't worry! Life's been so busy, I barely have time to log into Tumblr, but I'm dying to write for you. I'm coming back, slowly, but I'm coming back! 💞

The Fall .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: In the glittering ballroom of Stark Tower, laughter and music die, replaced with dread and the sound of Y/N’s shallow breaths.

peter parker x f!reader

The ballroom of Stark Tower had never looked more alive.

Golden chandeliers sparkled high above, spilling warm light across rows of tables draped in silk cloths and decorated with flowers. The air was filled with the sound of clinking glasses, the gentle hum of music from the live orchestra, and laughter that carried across the glittering room. Cameras flashed constantly—reporters and photographers eager to capture every moment of the evening, every celebrity and hero that walked through the doors.

The Avengers’ annual gala was more than just a party. And tonight, everyone was watching.

And then she appeared.

You, Y/N Stark, stepped onto the marble staircase at the top of the ballroom, your pale blue gown flowing like water with every step. The diamonds sewn into the fabric shimmered when the light hit them, and the fitted bodice accentuated your figure perfectly. Your hair had been styled to perfection, delicate pieces framing your face in a way that made you look like you’d walked out of a dream.

You held yourself with elegance, chin high, shoulders back, even though your heart pounded. This was your father’s world—the flashes of cameras, the whispers of journalists, the constant spotlight. You’d grown up surrounded by it, but it never truly got easier. Still, tonight, you were determined to walk down those stairs with confidence.

Peter followed a few steps behind, his suit crisp, tie slightly crooked the way it always was no matter how many times Aunt May fixed it. His brown eyes never left you, wide with awe and admiration. He wasn’t sure if it was the lights or you, but he swore you outshined everything else in the room. His palms were sweaty, his chest tight, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

“So beautiful,” he muttered under his breath, the words more to himself than anyone else.

The world seemed to slow as you descended. Guests turned, necks craning, the whispers spreading like wildfire. "Stark’s daughter. Look at her. She’s stunning."

Then it happened.

Your heel caught the hem of your gown.

It was subtle at first, a small tug, your ankle bending the wrong way. Your eyes widened, but before you could grab the railing, gravity took over.

The next second, the sound cut through the entire ballroom—your body crashing down the last few marble steps. The sharp crack of your head hitting the floor silenced the music, silenced the laughter, silenced everything.

The talk stopped.

“Y/N!”

Tony’s voice ripped through the silence like a whip.

He was on you in seconds, shoving chairs, and startled guests out of the way. He dropped to his knees beside your crumpled figure, his hands already reaching, trembling as they brushed your shoulders.

Your eyes were closed, your chest rising shallowly. A deep gash split across your temple, blood already trickling down your pale cheek, staining the silk of your dress.

“No. No, no, no—sweetheart, come on,” Tony’s voice broke, raw and desperate. He shook you once. Twice. Harder. “Open your eyes. Please. Wake up.”

His hands pressed against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. His heart raced in his chest, his mind spiraling.

Peter stood frozen halfway down the staircase, his stomach twisting violently. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was heavy, and guilt slammed into him like a truck. He should’ve been closer. He should’ve caught you. He should’ve done something.

“Move back!” Tony barked at the crowd forming around you, his voice sharp and commanding, though it trembled with panic. “Give her space! FRIDAY, call medical, now!”

“Yes, Mr. Stark. Emergency response en route,” FRIDAY’s calm voice echoed through hidden speakers, a cruel contrast to the chaos unfolding.

Peter finally jolted into motion, stumbling down the steps, his knees nearly buckling as he dropped beside you. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t—” His words came out in fragments, his throat tight, vision blurring with tears.

“Peter!” Tony snapped, his voice cracking. “Don’t just stand there—help me keep her steady.”

Peter’s trembling hands reached for yours, clutching your fingers tightly. “Y/N, please, please wake up,” he begged, his voice breaking. “It’s me, it’s Peter. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Your lips didn’t move. Your eyes stayed shut.

Tony pressed harder against the wound, his mind a whirlwind of equations, protocols, and memories. He wasn’t Iron Man right now. He wasn’t the genius billionaire. He was just a father, on the floor of his own gala, begging his daughter to breathe.

“She’s not waking up,” Peter’s voice cracked, his shoulders shaking.

“She’s breathing,” Tony snapped back, though his voice was thin, strained. “Shallow, but she’s breathing. Stay with me, baby girl. Please.”

The gala, once filled with glamour, was now a scene of horror. Guests whispered frantically, some gasping, others pulling out their phones. Flashbulbs went off, though most reporters were too stunned to react. Steve Rogers pushed through the crowd, his face grim, kneeling opposite Tony.

“Tony,” Steve said firmly. “We need to keep her head stable until medics arrive.”

“I know, I know,” Tony snapped, though his hands were shaking so badly it betrayed him. “She’s losing blood.”

“I’ve got her neck,” Steve said, gently supporting you, careful not to move your spine. “Just keep pressure.”

Peter’s tears blurred everything. His hands clutched yours desperately, his thumb stroking your skin like it would wake you up. “C’mon, angel. You’re stronger than this. Just open your eyes. Please—just once. Look at me.”

Still, nothing.

Your chest rose faintly, each breath weaker than the last.

Tony’s breath hitched. His throat burned. For once in his life, he couldn’t fix it—not here, not with just his hands. His genius, his suits, his tech—none of it mattered. He was just a man watching his daughter bleed.

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder.

“Hold on,” Tony whispered, his forehead pressing against your hair, his voice breaking completely now. “Hold on for me. Don’t leave me, baby girl.”

Peter leaned over, pressing his lips to your knuckles, his tears dripping onto your skin. “Stay with us. Stay with me. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.”

Time blurred. Seconds felt like hours.

Finally, medics rushed in, pushing through the crowd with equipment in hand. “Step back! We need space!” one shouted.

Tony’s hands didn’t move until they physically had to pull him away. His palms were stained red, your blood smeared across his fingers and tuxedo. He staggered back only far enough to let them work, his eyes locked on you, unblinking.

Peter stayed on his knees, his breaths sharp, shallow, his entire body trembling. Pepper appeared at his side, her hand firm on his shoulder, her face pale. “She’ll be okay,” she said softly, though her own voice wavered.

The medics worked quickly—checking vitals, applying pressure bandages, securing your neck, lifting you onto a stretcher. Every movement felt like it took a lifetime.

“Pulse is weak, but steady. We need to move now.”

Tony’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m coming.”

“Sir, we can’t—”

“She’s my daughter,” Tony barked, his voice hoarse but commanding. “I’m not asking permission.”

Peter’s chest heaved. He looked at you one last time as they wheeled you toward the exit, your head strapped, your temple still bleeding through the white gauze. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling after them.

The gala was chaos—guests whispering, cameras flashing again, panic in every corner. But Peter didn’t see any of it. All he saw was you, fragile on that stretcher, being wheeled into the night.