#shortfic

But Lucifer ordered Mammon to stay close to you, and slowly, things changed. He started hanging around without complaining as much even to the point where he helped you with the TSL quiz willingly.

And then strange things began to appear in your room. A shirt that was definitely not yours, a D.D.D. charger you never bought, a small stack of Grimm on your desk and even a deck of cards tucked into a drawer. Sometimes he even let you keep the grimm which shocked you.

As time passed and you grew closer, a random gifts start to appear outside of your door. You thought it was a prank the first time until you opened it. Inside was a real gift. Another time, it was jewelry, and you froze because it looked far too expensive to be random. Sometimes it was just Grimm.

What you didn’t know was that Mammon watched every time. Hiding just out of sight, peeking around corners, heart racing as he waited to see your reaction. He didn’t understand why he cared so much, only that he did. He laughed quietly when you stared at the jewelry in shock. When he won tons of grimm from gambling, his first thought is about what he could bring for you on the way home.

. 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ♡ 𖥻 your weird heteroerotic friendship with dick grayson. ꗃ dick grayson x fem!reader .ᐟ

──── you'd known dick since you two were just preteens and by the time you were twenty-something, the two of you had become inseparable in so many ways that made people around you very, very uncomfortable. your room was his room. your closet had his shirts and boxers. his dresser had your sleep shorts and panties. you'd see him naked constantly. scars and all. you'd stepped into his bathroom once while he was shaving, towel slung low on his hips. his abs were still slick from the hot shower. on the bathroom shelf, you noticed your pads, some of your favorite painkillers, and even products from the skincare routine you both shared.

you made a noise of disapproval and reached over to fix the way he was holding the razor.

"you're gonna nick yourself, pretty boy."

"then fix it, dove."

so you did. you reached up, cupped his jaw, and carefully guided the blade against his skin, the intimacy of it heavy in the steam-clouded mirror. he kept his eyes on you the entire time, those soft, pretty blues watching you with quiet trust.

"thanks. you always take care of me."

"of course i do," you whispered, brushing your thumb along his cheek. "you're fucking useless without me."

you said it with a teasing smile, like he hadn't been leading teams and saving lives since he was thirteen. he smiled anyway. but your closeness didn't stop at helping him shave. you'd eaten from the same fork, shared water bottles, gum, deodorant—even a toothbrush. you literally farted on him once when he tickled you too hard during a sparring session. you'd seen him throw up more times than you cared to.

and it gets weirder.

one time, during a particularly rough mission, you lost all your clothes. literally everything, including your underwear. so you borrowed his. every last piece. shirt, pants, even his boxers. you walked around the block wearing fabric that had been in direct contact with his dick and sweaty balls, and you didn't even blink. yikes, girl.

and when people asked what you were to each other, you'd both laugh. loud. like the question was fucking ridiculous. you were best friends. duh. but then he'd hand-feed you fries across the table while hanging out with your mutual friends. you'd adjust his waistband before going out and he wouldn't even flinch when your fingers brushed too low. he'd adjust the strap of your bra in public, and people would act like it was some kind of spectacle. for some reason.

one time, after a shower in the batcave locker room, you walked out drying your hair. dick was there too, getting dressed after some random training session. and he looked. really looked. right at your uncovered boobs. then, completely unfazed, he just went back to putting on his pants and belt.

"you know your left titty is bigger than the other, right?"

"it's not like your balls are very symmetrical either."

"touché."

---

The door clicked softly behind him.

You looked up from your spot on the couch, a blanket around your shoulders, book resting on your lap. Pedro shuffled in like a kid who missed bedtime, hair a little messy, hoodie too big, eyes already half-lidded.

"Hi, cariño," you said gently.

He gave you a pout. An actual pout. "Baby..." he mumbled, dropping his bag by the door. "Can you—" he yawned mid-sentence, then blinked up at you like a sleepy puppy, "—can you put me to sleep?"

You blinked, smiling before you could help it. “Like… rock you back and forth? Read you a bedtime story?”

“Yes,” he nodded seriously, padding over and throwing himself into the couch like a man dramatically surrendering to gravity. “All of it. I want the full experience. I’m a baby now. Take care of me.”

You laughed softly as he collapsed into your lap without waiting for permission. His arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’d been waiting all day just to do that.

“You’re such a baby,” you teased, fingers instinctively sliding into his curls.

He hummed, already melting under your touch. “Your baby,” he whispered, almost sleepily, lips brushing against your shirt.

"That you are," you said, heart way too full for how long you'd known him. But somehow, this wasn’t new. This version of Pedro—the soft one, the one who clung to affection like a blanket—felt familiar. Like home.

You kept carding your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just breathed. Heavy and slow and safe.

“Want me to sing to you?” you whispered after a few minutes.

He nodded against your belly. “Mhm. Something cheesy.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately and began humming some old 70s love song your mom used to sing while cleaning the house. Pedro’s grip on your waist tightened, like he was anchoring himself to you.

“You smell like home,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Your chest physically ached. “Pedro…”

“Hm?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Only if you promise not to move. Ever.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After a while, when his breathing had evened out and he was just on the edge of sleep, you whispered, “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get you into bed.”

Pedro groaned in protest, clinging tighter. “Nooo… the couch is my bed now…”

You laughed under your breath and tugged gently on his arm. “You’re gonna have back pain for a week. Come on. I’ll tuck you in.”

That got his attention.

“You’ll tuck me in?” he looked up at you with the most pitiful, sleep-glazed expression.

“Yes,” you smiled, standing up and reaching for his hands. “Like a little burrito.”

He let you pull him to his feet, slow and clumsy, his arms immediately winding around your waist like he needed to keep contact at all times. You walked him to the bedroom like you were guiding a toddler after a sugar crash — steady, soft steps, occasional yawns, and one moment where he stopped in the hallway just to rest his head on your shoulder.

When you got to the bed, you pulled back the comforter and patted the mattress. “In you go.”

He flopped down dramatically, arms wide like a starfish. “Okay. I’m ready. Tuck me.”

You giggled and kneeled beside him, pulling the blanket up over his body. He watched you with half-lidded eyes, the tiniest, dopiest smile on his lips as you gently tucked the edges around his chest and shoulders, smoothing them down like you were wrapping a gift.

“There,” you whispered. “Perfect.”

He reached up with both arms and made a little grabbing motion. “Now you.”

You crawled into bed beside him and the second you were within reach, he latched on — arms around your waist, face in your neck, a heavy contented sigh escaping his lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, already slipping.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you too.”

And just like that, Pedro Pascal — world-renowned actor, internet’s favorite daddy — fell asleep in your arms like a big, clingy baby, breathing in sync with your heartbeat.

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader 

Summary: Caught in the middle of a Weasley prank, you’re blamed and sent to detention. Only to discover none other than George Weasley is there as well. What should be a short punishment turns into an adventure to the Forbidden Forest.

Content warnings: Flirting, mild tension, unjust detention, George Weasley being charming

Wc: 1.4k

Authors Note: This is my first published fic, any suggestions or comments lmk :)

Some days, Hogwarts was quiet.

Today was not one of those days, thanks to Fred and George Weasley.

On the way to charms, you take the long route, practicing wand motions taught in the previous lesson. But unknowingly, the hallway you’d chosen had been claimed for the prank of the week. 

Hidden around the corner were the Weasley twins. They hadn’t noticed your footsteps down the hall, and you hadn’t cared to notice the unusual silence, or even the bucket in the middle of the hall. 

From the flick of a wrist by Fred Weasley, an ungodly amount of frogs accompanied by green slime like fluid erupt from the bucket. 

Summary: After coming back from the blip, Bucky is fine. Totally fine. He just… doesn’t like Steve’s new friend (And if anyone asks, it’s definitely not because he refuses to wonder why)

Word count: 1.5K

Masterlist

It's weird coming back after the blip.

It's not exactly as if Bucky hasn't been professionally trained in slipping in and out of consciousness several times a decade for the past seventy years, yet this time it's different.

At least when he was with Hydra, ten years easily slipped by without Bucky really taking much notice of it apart from changes in the officers commanding him to kill, but now he's barely been gone five years, and everything's changed.

This was so sweet, I loved receiving something for the twins, especially as someone who's so big on physical affection, and especially with my friends <33 Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!!

If it makes you smile-

Read on AO3

Pairings: Sylus x Reader, Luke and Kieran & Reader

Wordcount: 1,031

Sylus was more than aware that the twins could be childish.

More than aware.

And he knew they would oftentimes drag you into their shenanigans- no matter what said shenanigans were. It could be something on a grander scale, such as when you all… pranked, a local, low-ranking crime lord, unbeknownst to Sylus himself until long after the act had been committed. Rigged explosives of confetti and dynamite were what he had heard about, through the grapevine of Elysium. Other times it could be quite innocent, like when he had heard about the time the three of you had gone through his list of trustworthy informants and ding-dong ditched every single one of them, like going through a hitlist with so much less bloodlust.

It was because of the damned ball, the bloody Yule Ball.

Well, no. It wasn’t really the ball’s fault.

It was Prongs’ fault, with his absurd obsession with Evans, trailing after her everywhere like he were the dog, drooling after her robes like some damp mutt whining at the doorstep.

It was Lupin’s fault too, for managing to get a date with that insufferable Ravenclaw girl who did nothing but pull a sour face whenever he suggested something remotely fun. And Peter’s, for falling ill at the last minute and abandoning Sirius without a wingman, left to watch his remaining friends shed their dignity on a crowded dance floor full of idiots who clearly couldn’t spell “second-hand embarrassment,” let alone feel it.

But in the grand scheme of things, yes: it was the ball’s fault.

The ball, with everyone laughing and dancing while Sirius simmered, friendless for once, with even his weirdo of a brother smugly escorted by a date.

It wasn’t that Sirius wanted one, he’d received more than enough invitations and more than enough hints. That was precisely the issue: he didn’t want to go with anyone. Balls weren’t for dates. Balls were for getting drunk, sneaking a bit of weed without McGonagall catching you, for slipping into dark corners to grope whoever you pleased while plotting how many more mouths you intended to kiss before sunrise.

A ball was meant to be a party. And parties meant freedom.

But Peter was ill, Remus and James were slaves to convention, and so Sirius was alone —nursing pumpkin punch heavily laced with Firewhisky— staring with profound boredom at the sea of dancers.

Everyone was dancing.

Everyone except Snivellus.

It didn’t surprise him at first that the greasy-haired bastard had turned up alone. Who would willingly spend an evening with someone who seemed allergic to shampoo? That pathetic, twitchy snake. He’d arrived with Avery and Rosier, who had quickly vanished with their dates, leaving him standing awkwardly in dress robes far too big for him, making him look even more spindly and uncomfortable.

Sirius watched from across the hall with the same sharp, involuntary attention Snape always managed to provoke in him— an intensity that swallowed up his thoughts until the only thing left to do was to track him with his eyes. The alcohol warmed Sirius’ cheeks as Snape’s discomfort grew, and eventually the Slytherin slipped out into the corridors.

Sirius grinned.

A canine, predatory thing.

Blame the ball, or the drink, but when Sirius came back to himself, he was already following Snape at an easy pace. And before he had truly thought it through, he’d seized him by the front of his robes, holding him close, thinking about the greasy hair, the ridiculous nose, the hand-me-down fabric, the crooked teeth.

Thinking how perfectly believable it was that no one had asked him to the ball —that perhaps no one ever would— and how that, strangely, suited Sirius just fine. Because it meant no one else would have him.

And he couldn’t say whether it was the ball, the alcohol, or simply the way Snape’s pathetic loser face always made him think about how obscenely gorgeous he’d be on his knees— but by the time he realised it, he had shoved him against the wall and was kissing him hard enough to swallow his breath.

Snape didn’t react at first. And when he did, he certainly didn’t look pleased— but he yielded soon enough. Sirius wasn’t surprised he kissed like someone inexperienced, hesitant and unsure, and instead of irritating him it made something hot curl low in his stomach. Because he knew he was being the first. Not literally, of course, but the illusion of it clung to Snape like his oversized robes.

When Sirius finally broke away for breath, brushing the dark hair from Snape’s face, a low, feral growl slipped out before he could stop it:

“You look good in black.”

Snape didn’t have time to respond— Sirius cut him off with another bruising kiss.

He hadn’t planned to leave five hickeys and a bite mark on Snape’s neck.

He hadn’t planned to drag him into a shadowed alcove and make him come with nothing more than a firm hand. He hadn’t planned to admit —out loud— while Snape kissed him again, harder, deeper, that his face was the hottest thing Sirius had ever seen, and that mocking him had always been the only way to keep himself from fucking him senseless any day of the week.

He hadn’t planned to come again from the sound of Snape’s moans.

Or to discover just how pliant, how shockingly willing, the long-nosed bastard could be.

That hadn’t been his intention when he’d come to the ball.

But it was the ball —or the drink— or the loneliness, the drunkenness, the heat simmering under his skin, and the months spent thinking, every time he looked at Snape’s crooked teeth:

Act I: Gloom at the Bar

Adam—the First Man, former commander of the Exterminators, and now the universe’s most embarrassing example of a Winner turned Sinner—sat at the counter of the Hazbin Hotel’s newly rebuilt lounge. He was currently trying to drown his massive ego in a glass of cheap booze. Despite the fact that he had tried to slaughter everyone in the room only a months ago, Charlie had insisted on giving him a room, provided he didn't cause any trouble. With absolutely nowhere else to go, Adam had begrudgingly accepted. He still deeply hated everyone here, especially Lucifer, Vaggie, and Charlie, but free lodging was free lodging.

"Hey, Cat Boy," Adam grumbled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Give me another round."

Husk didn't even look up from the glass he was wiping down. "I'd prefer it if you didn't call me 'boy,' old man."

Adam let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Old man? Kid, I lived to be 930 years old on Earth and I've been chilling in Heaven for ten thousand years. All of you are toddlers to me! The majority of you modern losers can barely make it to a century before your hearts give out. I had my son, Seth, when I was 130, and I was still in my absolute prime. So pour the drink, kiddo."

Husk’s ears twitched in pure irritation. Under his breath, he muttered, "For that remark, I'm spitting in your next one."

While Adam waited for his fresh glass of misery, his eyes drifted down the counter. A small, pink, demonic pig was sitting on the edge of the bar, happily crunching on a pile of bar nuts. Adam hesitated, eyeing the creature warily. This was Hell, after all. On Earth, wild animals were unruly enough, so he figured demon pigs and whatever other animal would be ten times worse.

A wave of actual homesickness hit him. The animals in Heaven always reminded him of the original state of nature back in Eden—complete harmony, no fear, where creatures would just stroll up and eat right out of your palm. Despite a voice in his head telling him to keep his guard up, a desperate part of him just wanted a normal interaction with something alive that didn't immediately want to stab him.

Slowly, reluctantly, Adam stretched out a clawed hand. "Alright, porker. Let's see if you're gonna bite my finger off or what."

He gently tapped the pig's head. Instead of snapping, the little creature leaned into the touch, letting out a blissful, rumbling snort. A genuine smile broke through Adam's usual miserable scowl. He began scratching behind the pig’s ears, his tough-guy facade completely melting away.

"Gosh, you are so freaking cute," Adam squealed, his voice dropping an octave into pure baby talk. "I almost want to steal you away and figure out a way to get you un-demonized when I find a way back upstairs."

Husk walked back over with the fresh drink—having fully followed through on his promise to spit in it—but stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the First Man happily petting Fat Nuggets' head, showing more genuine warmth to a farm animal than he ever had to any sinner soul.

"What the absolute fuck?" Husk muttered. He rubbed his eyes, genuinely wondering if he was looking at the same homicidal rockstar who used to brag about mass slaughter.

Adam actually picked Fat Nuggets up, cradling him in his upper arms. "Aren't you a cute little piggy? Yes you are! Yes you are!"

Husk let out a heavy, soul-tired sigh, reached behind the bar, and grabbed an entire unopened bottle of top-shelf rye. "Bottle, please save my fucking sanity."

Act II: The Interruption

"Fat Nuggets, no! Come to daddy!"

Angel Dust came skidding into the lounge, his four wide with panic as he spotted his beloved pet in the hands of a certified lunatic. He rushed forward and violently snatched the pig out of Adam's arms, hugging Fat Nuggets tightly to his chest while glaring daggers at the fallen angel.

"What the fuck, man?!" Adam shouted, his hands still shaped like he was holding a basketball.

"Stay the hell away from my pig, you psycho bastard!" Angel snapped, backing away.

Adam rolled his eyes, quickly trying to dust off his jacket to look casual. "Relax, legs. I wasn't doing anything to him."

"Oh, right, because I can totally trust the guy who spearheaded a yearly massacre," Angel scoffed, highly suspicious. "You killed Dazzle, so how do I know you're not trying to turn my baby into a pork chop?"

Adam blinked, looking genuinely perplexed. "Who the hell is Dazzle?"

"Razzle's twin!" Angel yelled. "The little dragon guy Lute killed! The surviving one still misses him, you prick."

"Oh, that thing," Adam shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "Kid, that overgrown lizard was actively trying to rip my face off. It's a little different from this cute little guy who wouldn't hurt a fly."

Angel’s defensive posture melted for a split second, his face glowing with pride. "You... think he's cute?" He quickly shook his head, remembering who he was talking to. "Ugh, not the point! I already have to keep a constant eye on Alastor because that creepy smile-factory keeps talking about bacon. I don't need you eyeing him for some unholy barbecue."

Then, a slow, incredibly mischievous grin crept onto Angel's face as he realized exactly what he had just witnessed. Adam noticed the look and instantly froze.

"Oh, this is some incredibly juicy gossip," Angel purred, pulling out his phone. "The big, bad, metal-shredding Dickmaster doing baby talk to a pink piggie? I cannot wait to tell Cherri about this."

Angel turned on his heel, cradling Fat Nuggets in his lower arms while his upper hands started furiously texting as he walked toward the elevators.

Adam’s blood ran cold. "Get back here, you overgrown lint ball!" He scrambled over the bar stool, nearly tripping over his own boots as he gave chase. "Delete that! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

Behind the bar, Husk didn't even look up as the two went screaming down the hallway. He just tipped the bottle of rye back and took a massive, unbothered swig.

Act III: The Hallway Chaos

Angel Dust was strutting down the second-floor corridor, his thigh-high boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards.

"Oh, it's too good, Nuggs," Angel cooed, bopping the pig's snout. "We have leverage on the alpha-douche. I'm gonna hold this over his head until he cries tears of holy gold—"

"I WILL FLAY YOU ALIVE, SPIDER!"

Angel smirked, turning around to walk backward just so he could fully appreciate Adam's misery. The former leader of the Heavenly Host looked ridiculous. His halo was gone, his wings were mismatched, dark Sinner appendages, and his face was flushed bright red with a mixture of rage and pure, unadulterated embarrassment.

"Aw, what's the matter?" Angel taunted. "Scared the mean old Radio Demon's gonna find out you're a softie? Or maybe you're worried Vaggie's gonna laugh her other eye out?"

"I am the First Man!" Adam bellowed, pointing a dramatic, clawed finger at Angel. "I named every goddamn creature on Earth! Lions, tigers, bears, fucking platypuses—I named 'em all! It is my literal genetic right to appreciate a cute animal, you multi-limbed freak!"

"Yeah, well, this 'cute animal' belongs to a Sinner," Angel said, stopping right outside Cherri Bomb's room. He raised a boot and gave the door a loud, obnoxious kick. "Hey, Cherri! Get out here! You gotta hear what the granddaddy of humanity was doing to my—"

Before Angel could finish the sentence, Adam lunged.

He didn't use angelic power—mostly because he didn't have much left—but pure, desperate weight. He tackled Angel's midsection, sending both of them crashing onto the carpeted floor in a chaotic mess of limbs.

Fat Nuggets was tossed safely through the air for a split second, landing perfectly on a nearby plush armchair. The piglet let out a happy snort, thoroughly enjoying the sudden circus.

"Get off me, you heavy piece of shit!" Angel wheezed, six arms flailing as he tried to push Adam away. "Do you know how much this fur coat costs?!"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" Adam yelled, desperately trying to plant a hand over Angel's mouth. "I will give you whatever you want! Heaven weed? Holy water? Upgrades for your stupid guns? Just don't tell anyone!"

The door to the room swung open, revealing Cherri Bomb holding a half-empty bottle of cherry-flavored moonshine. She looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor, her single eye blinking in total disbelief.

"Uh..." Cherri raised an eyebrow, looking from Angel, to Adam, to Fat Nuggets. "Am I interrupting a family therapy session gone wrong, or are we finally beating up the choir boy?"

"Cherri! Tell this dickhead to get off me!" Angel gaspsed, finally shoving Adam’s face away. "He was doing baby talk! To Fat Nuggets! He called him a 'cute little piggy'!"

Adam's face went completely pale. He slowly let go of Angel's jacket and sat back on his knees, staring at the floorboards as if he wished the hotel would collapse on him a second time.

"You're joking," Cherri said, a massive, wicked grin spreading across her face. She looked down at Adam, thoroughly amused. "The guy who tried to wipe out the whole population got soft for a pork chop?"