valbella

I'm 29, bi and a mom of 3

[geekmom3]

Ashes and Embers

Draco x fem reader

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

Not to them.

She was just another student—a Gryffindor with fierce opinions, ink-stained fingers, and hair the color of a dying star. But somehow, she’d turned Hogwarts upside down without even trying.

Draco noticed her first.

Noticed how she hexed a Slytherin for bullying a first-year, then handed the kid a sugar quill with a wink.

Harry noticed her next.

How she laughed like she hadn’t seen war. Like hope wasn’t something to be afraid of.

They both fell—quietly, then all at once.

And she?

She noticed everything. The way Harry softened around her. The way Draco became someone else when she smiled—less mask, more boy.

One evening, in the shadows of the dungeons, Draco stood with his fists clenched, eyes locked on a bubbling cauldron, when Snape’s voice cut through the silence.

“You’re distracted,” Snape said coolly. “A liability.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “I’m fine.”

Snape stepped closer, cloak rustling. “She has your attention.”

Draco looked up sharply. “What?”

“That girl,” Snape said, tone unreadable. “The one Potter watches like a dying man watches light. The one with the fire-colored hair.”

Draco swallowed. “What about her?”

Snape paused. For once, there was no sneer—only something… regretful.

“Don’t lose her like I lost Lily.”

The words hit harder than any spell.

Draco stared at him, shocked. “You… what?”

Snape’s eyes darkened. “I loved her. Deeply. Stupidly. And by the time I realized how much, it was too late. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Draco didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The Astronomy Tower had always been quiet after curfew.

Tonight, it was anything but.

She stood there—hair glowing like copper in moonlight, arms crossed, and heart thudding so loud she swore they could hear it.

On one side: Harry.

Noble, brave, full of history and haunted eyes.

On the other: Draco.

Cold fire, sharp tongue, but a softness behind his walls that she had glimpsed—and couldn’t forget.

Neither of them had planned it. But somehow, they’d both ended up there at the same time. Both ready to say what they hadn’t dared until now.

Harry spoke first.

“I like you. A lot,” he said, voice low but steady. “You make things feel… normal. Good. Like maybe after all this, there’s something to look forward to.”

She blinked, stunned. Before she could respond, Draco cut in—his voice quieter, but it cracked a little on the edges.

“I don’t have the right words like he does. But I think about you constantly. You make me want to be better. And I never thought I’d want that.”

Silence.

She looked between them—two boys broken by different battles, both offering her pieces of their hearts.

But only one had been there in the quiet moments. Had listened, without judgment. Had seen her, not as some idea to chase, but as a person with scars of her own.

“I care about you,” she said to Harry, voice soft.

His breath hitched.

“But I love him,” she finished, turning to Draco.

Harry looked like she’d knocked the wind out of him—but he nodded. Brave, even in heartbreak. “Then I hope he deserves you.”

Draco looked like he didn’t know whether to breathe or run. “You… mean that?”

She stepped into his arms, pressing her forehead to his chest. “Every word.”

Behind them, Harry turned and walked away, shoulders tense but head held high.

And Draco—Draco clutched her like a lifeline, like he couldn’t believe she’d chosen him.

Because for once… he’d won something good.

And he wasn’t letting go.

[geekmom3]

Wild Hearts and Firelight

Charlie Weasley x fem reader

It started at the Burrow.

You were there for a few days during the summer holidays, invited by Fred and George for one of their increasingly chaotic “product testing retreats.” You’d come mostly to see the garden gnomes, the chickens, and that one ornery toad who lived near the shed and didn’t mind being pet.

You hadn’t expected Charlie to be home.

He was sitting on the back steps when you walked out with a handful of leftover scraps for the chickens. Hair tied back, arms sun-browned and freckled, dragon bite scars peeking from the sleeves of his shirt. He looked up as you passed, offering a quiet, polite nod.

You smiled. “They’ll mob you if you stand too close.”

He tilted his head. “The chickens?”

You held up the bowl of scraps. “They’re vicious.”

He grinned—a flash of warmth and teeth. “I wrestle dragons, you know.”

“They’re worse.”

You scattered the food, and sure enough, the hens charged in with the ferocity of tiny feathered beasts. Charlie let out a low whistle, clearly impressed.

You sat on the steps beside him, watching them peck and squabble. After a moment, he asked, “You like animals?”

“I trust them more than most people.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

There was a pause. Comfortable.

Then you added, “Fred and George say you’re the calm one.”

He smirked. “They’ve clearly never seen me chase a rogue Welsh Green through a Romanian thunderstorm.”

You laughed—bright and real—and Charlie turned just enough to catch the way the sunlight lit up your face. Something shifted in his chest.

And that’s when it began. Just a little flicker.

But fire always starts small.

It happened two days later, in the orchard behind the Burrow.

Fred and George had just set off something labeled “Fizzing Fairy Fire – HANDLE WITH REGRET”, which resulted in a swarm of sparkling purple puffskeins taking over the garden.

While Mrs. Weasley screamed and the twins fled, you stayed behind, hands out, voice soft.

“It’s okay, little ones,” you cooed, guiding the frantic fluffballs into a conjured basket with the calm of someone who’d done this sort of thing before.

Charlie appeared a minute later, wand out and expression tight. “What in Merlin’s name—?”

Then he saw you kneeling in the grass, hair full of puffskein sparkles, gently rocking the basket like it was full of infants.

His heart actually skipped.

“They’re scared,” you explained, not looking up. “Too much noise, too much light.”

Charlie crouched beside you, watching you stroke one particularly jittery puffskein behind its ears.

“You’re really good at this,” he said.

You gave him a shy smile. “Animals are easy. They don’t pretend.”

There was something raw in that, something honest.

Charlie reached out, and one of the puffskeins curled into his palm. “You ever worked with dragons?”

You blinked, surprised. “No. But I’d love to.”

He chuckled. “You might be the only person who’s ever said that with actual sincerity.”

You met his gaze then—deep, unguarded—and Charlie felt it again. That flicker. That quiet, steady warmth.

“I could show you sometime,” he added, voice softer than usual.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And in that field, surrounded by purple puffskeins and fading chaos, Charlie Weasley began to fall.

[geekmom3]

Wild Hearts and Firelight

Part One: The First Spark

Charlie Weasley x fem reader

It started at the Burrow.

You were there for a few days during the summer holidays, invited by Fred and George for one of their increasingly chaotic “product testing retreats.” You’d come mostly to see the garden gnomes, the chickens, and that one ornery toad who lived near the shed and didn’t mind being pet.

You hadn’t expected Charlie to be home.

He was sitting on the back steps when you walked out with a handful of leftover scraps for the chickens. Hair tied back, arms sun-browned and freckled, dragon bite scars peeking from the sleeves of his shirt. He looked up as you passed, offering a quiet, polite nod.

You smiled. “They’ll mob you if you stand too close.”

He tilted his head. “The chickens?”

You held up the bowl of scraps. “They’re vicious.”

He grinned—a flash of warmth and teeth. “I wrestle dragons, you know.”

“They’re worse.”

You scattered the food, and sure enough, the hens charged in with the ferocity of tiny feathered beasts. Charlie let out a low whistle, clearly impressed.

You sat on the steps beside him, watching them peck and squabble. After a moment, he asked, “You like animals?”

“I trust them more than most people.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

There was a pause. Comfortable.

Then you added, “Fred and George say you’re the calm one.”

He smirked. “They’ve clearly never seen me chase a rogue Welsh Green through a Romanian thunderstorm.”

You laughed—bright and real—and Charlie turned just enough to catch the way the sunlight lit up your face. Something shifted in his chest.

And that’s when it began. Just a little flicker.

But fire always starts small.

[geekmom3]

“Stained Fingers and Stolen Hearts”

Anthony Bridgerton had always known the world to be made of straight lines. Duty. Reputation. Order. Everything was meant to fall into place, like soldiers in rank or letters on crisp, white paper. That was until she arrived — like spilled ink across the pages of his carefully written life.

She was introduced at a ball, though introduced was a generous term. More accurately, she had been dragged in late, her dress smeared with what looked suspiciously like paint, her gloves missing entirely, and her hair styled more by wind than any maid.

“Miss Evangeline Moore,” Violet had whispered, her tone dancing between disapproval and intrigue. “An artist. Quite... bohemian, they say.”

Bohemian was an understatement.

Evangeline painted things no one asked for. The side of her carriage. A Viscount’s lapel. Once, a dog. She laughed too loudly, danced barefoot once (scandalous), and spoke of colors as if they were people she’d met and deeply loved.

Anthony had every intention of ignoring her.

That lasted precisely one evening.

He found her in the Bridgerton gardens, barefoot again, charcoal on her fingers as she leaned against a tree, sketching one of his mother’s prized rosebushes—but upside down.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he said, more gruffly than intended.

She glanced up at him, wide-eyed and amused. “Am I?” she asked. “Or is the world simply too afraid to tilt?”

He should have walked away. Instead, he sat beside her.

She infuriated him. Challenged him. Called him Tony even after he told her not to—especially after he told her not to. She teased his rigidity like a cat batting at a curtain, but with every smile, every wild idea, every flash of unpredictable brilliance—he fell.

And one night, under the stars, covered in smears of blue and gold from a “portrait experiment,” he kissed her. Not carefully. Not respectfully. Desperately.

“I’m chaos,” she whispered against his lips. “I’ll ruin your perfect little world.”

He smiled for the first time in what felt like years. “Then ruin me completely.”

And she did—beautifully, brilliantly, completely.

Anthony had never known softness until her.

Not truly. Not the softness that made your chest ache and your hands tremble. Not the kind that crept in quietly and stayed, even when logic begged it to leave.

Evangeline Moore did not fit into his world. She burst into it, unapologetically vibrant, trailing color and laughter like perfume. She challenged the rules of society and, more dangerously, the rules he'd written for himself. And she did it all without ever asking for his permission.

He tried, for a time, to resist her. To remind himself that love was not his to have. That his duty came first. That passion was fleeting.

But then she touched his hand one evening—just a brush of fingertips, stained with ochre and wine—and he knew.

He was already hers.

It was on a quiet afternoon, far from the noise of a ball, that he let the words slip.

They were in her art studio, tucked in the back of her aunt’s country house. Sunlight spilled through the wide windows. She had a streak of blue across her cheek and was humming a song he didn’t recognize, barefoot again, spinning in lazy circles.

“Evangeline,” he said softly.

She turned, head tilted. “Yes, Tony?”

He should have scolded her for the nickname. Instead, he crossed the room and gently cupped her paint-splattered face.

“I love you,” he said, as if the words had been waiting his entire life to be spoken.

Her lips parted, surprise flickering in her wild, storm-colored eyes.

“I love your chaos,” he whispered. “I love your crooked paintings and your untied shoelaces. I love that you make the world brighter just by existing in it. And I love you even though you’ve made it impossible to breathe without you.”

She stared at him, eyes glossy, mouth trembling into a smile. “That may be the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in, letting the peace of the moment settle between them. “Stay with me, Evangeline. Not as my obligation. Not as my responsibility. Just… as the woman who makes me feel alive.”

“I will,” she whispered, kissing him like the promise it was. “I’d paint our life together in every color I know.”

And when he kissed her again, he tasted a future unruled by duty—but defined, finally, by love.

[geekmom3]

Set Fire to the Wild

*Set during the showdown with the voltari*

The field was tense with silence — the kind that crept under your skin and made your heart pound.

The Volturi stood in a straight, menacing line. Opposite them, the Cullens were ready — family, friends, allies from every corner of the world.

Among them stood Ember Swan — Bella’s older sister — all wild curls, black leather jacket, and a glint in her golden eyes that practically dared anyone to start something.

She wasn’t technically a Cullen.

But she was Rosalie Hale’s best friend. And Rosalie didn’t trust easily.

Ember cracked her knuckles, sizing up the vampires across the clearing. "You know," she said loudly enough for the nearest few to hear, "for a so-called unstoppable death squad, they look pretty constipated."

Rosalie smirked, hiding her laugh behind her hand. "Behave," she whispered.

"Where’s the fun in that?" Ember grinned, shifting her stance. "I came dressed for a brawl, not a staring contest."

That's when she felt him.

A ripple in the air. A shift in the tension.

Eyes burning into her.

She turned her head slightly, catching sight of a tall vampire standing apart from the others. Wild hair. A cocky grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes — red, but oddly amused — locked on her like a hunter spotting something rare and precious.

Garrett.

She knew his name without needing to ask.

He nodded at her — a little salute, like they were old friends about to cause chaos together.

Ember arched a brow, smiling slow and dangerous.

Well, hello trouble.

---

After the Volturi fled like cowards, the clearing erupted into movement — hugs, laughter, shaky relief. Ember took a breath, finally letting the tension seep out of her bones.

"You're a firecracker," a rough voice drawled behind her.

She turned, finding Garrett leaning casually against a fallen log, arms crossed, smirking at her.

"And you're a stalker," Ember shot back, folding her arms. "First you eye-fuck me across the battlefield, now you're following me?"

Garrett laughed, low and rich. "Guilty as charged, Red."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "You’re a little old to be using pickup lines from the 1800s, cowboy."

He pushed off the log, sauntering closer. "And you're a little young to be so good at breaking hearts."

Ember shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Natural talent."

He circled her like a wolf, hands tucked into his pockets, studying her with open admiration. "You fight?"

"Better than I flirt," she said with a wink.

Garrett whistled under his breath. "Now that I’d pay to see."

Ember stepped into his space without hesitation, tipping her chin up. "Careful, old man. I might put you on your ass."

He grinned wider, sharp teeth flashing. "I’m counting on it."

Their chemistry was instant — thick and electric, pulling them together like gravity. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t delicate.

It was wildfire.

"Rosalie’s warned me about guys like you," Ember said sweetly, poking his chest with one perfectly manicured finger.

"Yeah?" Garrett asked, trapping her hand against his chest without trying to hide his amusement. "What’d she say?"

"Something about charming assholes with a thing for chaos."

Garrett leaned down, brushing his mouth barely a breath away from her ear. "Sounds like we’re a perfect match."

Ember shivered, grinning like a wicked little devil. "You wish, cowboy."

"You have no idea," he said, laughing low.

Without thinking — without caring about the dozens of vampires nearby — Ember grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss that scorched the air around them.

Garrett groaned, fisting her jacket in his hands, kissing her like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

She bit his bottom lip playfully, making him growl.

God, he thought, I’m ruined.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder even though they didn’t need to, Garrett cupped her face in his calloused hands and said, deadly serious:

"You’re mine, Red."

Ember smirked, twining her arms around his neck. "You’re gonna have to keep up, old man."

"Sweetheart," he said, spinning her once before dipping her low with dramatic flair, "you’re the only thing in this world that could ever make me slow down."

Rosalie, passing by with Emmett, rolled her eyes. "Get a room, you two."

"Working on it!" Ember chirped, tossing a wink over Garrett’s shoulder.

Garrett laughed like a man who had just won the lottery — a rough, giddy sound that made Ember’s stomach flip in the best way.

He set her down gently, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. "Come with me," he murmured.

"Where?" she asked.

"Everywhere," Garrett said, with that wild, reckless honesty she already loved.

Ember grinned.

"I thought you'd never ask."

And just like that — between the wreckage of a nearly-ended world and the promise of forever — two wild hearts found a home in each other.

Not quiet.

Not perfect.

But real.

And blazing.

Exactly the way they liked it.

[geekmom3]

Pockets Full of Starlight

The joke shop was quieter than usual.

For once, George Weasley sat behind the counter, not tinkering, not scheming — just thinking. Fred’s absence still echoed in the corners, loud and painful, but today… today, something different stirred in the air.

A small chime above the door announced a customer.

George looked up — and there she was.

Lyra Lovegood floated into the shop like a summer breeze, her long silvery-blonde hair tied loosely with a ribbon, wearing a patchwork cloak peppered with tiny embroidered moons. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets, her gait bouncing slightly as if she heard music no one else could.

"Morning, George," she said brightly, as if they were old friends.

He blinked. "Er — morning."

She wandered between shelves of Skiving Snackboxes and Fainting Fancies, occasionally picking something up, inspecting it with wide, curious eyes, then setting it down. George couldn’t help but stare. She was beautiful — but more than that, she was different. She didn’t move through the world like most people. She floated through it, with her own strange gravity.

"Looking for anything?" he asked, forcing himself to sound casual.

She tilted her head. "Actually, yes. I heard you might have… Pygmy Puff dust?"

George grinned, heart lightening a little. "Depends. What’s it for? Starting a magical petting zoo?"

She smiled mischievously. "I’m enchanting my cloak. I want it to sparkle when I twirl."

George laughed — a real, proper laugh he hadn’t felt in too long. "Well, in that case, come with me. Special stock’s in the back."

He led her through a curtained doorway into the storeroom, where colorful boxes and odd contraptions crowded every surface. Lyra paused beside a broken Jack-in-the-Box that occasionally shot out clouds of glitter. She tapped it with her wand absently, fixing it without a word.

George gaped at her. "You fixed that?"

Lyra shrugged. "Things that are broken just need someone to believe they can be whole again."

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

"Right," he said roughly. He rummaged through a dusty crate and pulled out a small velvet pouch, handing it to her. Their fingers brushed — a static shock of something electric passing between them.

Lyra tucked the pouch away and leaned against a barrel, looking at him thoughtfully.

"You know," she said softly, "the stars told me I would meet someone with laughter in his blood but sadness on his skin."

George stared at her. "The stars?"

"Mmhmm." She smiled dreamily. "They said he would try to hide it with jokes, but inside, he would be a little bit broken. Like a cracked mirror."

He swallowed. "And what — you’re supposed to fix me?"

She shook her head, hair shimmering like moonlight. "No. I’m just supposed to remind you that even cracked mirrors reflect light."

For the first time in months, George felt something loosen inside him — a stitch coming undone, but in a good way.

He stepped closer. She didn’t move away.

"Stay for tea?" he asked, voice hopeful.

"I’d love to," she said simply.

And so they sat together behind the counter, sharing cups of too-strong tea, pockets full of starlight and smiles stitched back together by hands too gentle for this world.

Maybe, George thought as Lyra laughed at one of his terrible jokes, broken things didn’t need fixing at all.

Maybe they just needed someone who saw the beauty in the cracks.

[geekmom3]

Clearly, She's Crazy (About You)

Neville Longbottom had accepted long ago that some things were just... impossible.

Becoming a hero? Ha.

Being good at dancing? Double ha.

Winning the heart of Abbie Potter? A laugh so loud Peeves might join in.

Abbie — younger sister of Harry Potter, Quidditch prodigy, occasional rule-breaker, and overall goddess walking the Earth — was out of his league. Not that she was mean about it. Oh no. She was nice to him. Said hello in the halls. Shared her Chocolate Frogs. Once even hexed Draco Malfoy when he called Neville a "squashy toad."

Neville treasured that memory.

But still, he wasn't stupid. Girls like Abbie didn’t fancy boys like him. They liked blokes who were charming, confident, who didn’t trip over their robes or kill cacti by looking at them funny.

So he tried to ignore it. Tried very hard. Which worked about as well as Filch trying to catch Fred and George.

Today, however, fate had other plans.

It started in the Gryffindor common room, where Neville sat, pretending to study. Really, he was sneaking glances at Abbie, who was laughing with Hermione and Ginny. Merlin, she had the best laugh. Warm and bright, like sunshine and lemonade. He sighed so loudly he knocked over his inkpot.

Ginny noticed. Ginny always noticed.

She whispered something to Abbie, who flushed and smacked her with a cushion. Neville groaned and tried to shrink into the couch.

Then — disaster struck.

A loud POP rang out as a Weasleys' Wizard Wheeze exploded in Seamus’s hand. Purple smoke filled the room, and suddenly, a huge banner unfurled from the ceiling.

In bright golden letters it read:

"ABIGAIL POTTER IS IN LOVE WITH NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM."

The entire common room froze.

Neville, mid-sip of pumpkin juice, choked so violently he nearly launched himself into the fireplace.

Abbie went bright red. Ginny howled with laughter. Harry looked like someone had hexed him into a statue. Ron just stared like the words were written in Parseltongue.

Neville opened his mouth. No words came out. Only a strangled squeak.

"I—uh—you—WHAT?!" he finally managed.

Abbie groaned, buried her face in her hands, and then — to Neville’s amazement — started laughing. Loud, uncontrollable, musical laughter. She staggered over to him, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Well," she said breathlessly, "I was going to tell you normally, but I guess the universe had other plans."

Neville blinked. "You—you're serious?"

She grinned — that wide, radiant grin that made his knees wobbly.

"I've fancied you for ages, Nev," she said, punching him lightly in the arm. "You're sweet. And brave. And adorable when you’re nervous."

Neville's brain short-circuited.

In the background, Seamus yelled, "KISS HER, YOU IDIOT!"

Neville, cheeks flaming, turned to Abbie.

"I—erm—may I?"

Abbie answered by grabbing the front of his robes and yanking him down into a kiss.

The common room erupted into cheers. Someone (probably Dean) started singing "Neville and Abbie, sitting in a tree—"

When they finally broke apart, Neville was certain of three things:

1. He was very much not dreaming.

2. He was going to murder Seamus (later).

3. He had just become the luckiest bloke at Hogwarts.

Maybe some things were possible after all.

[geekmom3]

"Dreams and Disasters"

Fred Weasley x Abbie Potter

The air inside Hogwarts was tense.

Harry Potter had just burst into the Gryffindor common room, eyes wild and hair even messier than usual, yelling something about “Voldemort—he’s with Wormtail—he’s planning something—Dumbledore needs to know!”

Within seconds, Ron, Hermione, and a handful of concerned Gryffindors had raced after him, barefoot and pajama-clad, sprinting through the castle’s torch-lit corridors like a stampede of very anxious hippogriffs.

But while half the school seemed to be losing its collective mind…

Out on the Quidditch pitch, things were... a little different.

"Fred," Abbie Potter giggled, lying flat on her back in the center of the field, arms flung wide as if trying to hug the sky. "Do you ever think about how brooms are just... wizard skateboards?"

Fred Weasley, hovering three feet above her on his Cleansweep, stared at the stars with a serene expression. "I do now," he said dreamily. "Also, the moon is definitely judging us. Look at it. All smug."

Abbie snorted, waving her wand lazily. Pink sparkles popped in the air like sleepy fireflies. "We should be in Astronomy, but honestly, this is so much more educational."

Fred slowly spiraled downward until he rolled off his broom and landed beside her in a soft whump.

"You reckon your brother is okay?" he mumbled after a pause.

Abbie blinked slowly. "Probably not. But I’m vibing too hard to care right now."

Back in Dumbledore’s office, chaos was reigning.

"He was laughing, Professor! And he said something about a ritual and blood and—"

Snape sneered. "Potter, are you sure this wasn’t just another one of your overactive imaginings fueled by too much treacle tart?"

"I saw it!" Harry insisted. "It was real!"

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though not with amusement. He turned to McGonagall. "Please find Abbie Potter. We may need both twins for this."

McGonagall returned twenty minutes later, winded and red-faced.

"They’re—on the Quidditch pitch—stoned out of their minds," she managed.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Dumbledore sighed, massaging his temples. "Fawkes, be a dear and bring some hangover potion. I fear we’re going to need it."

Fred and Abbie were still lying on the grass, watching the stars do “interpretive dance,” as Abbie called it, when they heard the unmistakable click click click of Professor McGonagall’s heels approaching like an approaching doom cloud.

“Potter. Weasley.” Her voice could’ve frozen a Hungarian Horntail mid-roar.

Abbie lazily propped herself up on her elbows. “Professor! You’re just in time for the star show. Orion’s about to do a cartwheel.”

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Get. Up. Now. Your brother had a vision involving You-Know-Who and the Headmaster requires your presence. Immediately.”

Fred blinked up at her. “Are we under attack? Or is this like... a future problem?”

“Both!” she snapped.

Abbie groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the grass. “Ugh, can’t we fight dark lords after breakfast?”

Within minutes, Fred and Abbie stumbled into Dumbledore’s office, smelling faintly of grass and whatever dodgy sweets George had smuggled into the Gryffindor common room.

Harry stared. “Abbie, seriously?”

“I was outside,” she defended, swaying slightly. “Touching grass. You should try it sometime.”

Fred raised a hand. “Can I speak to the dark wizard? I have questions.”

Snape muttered something about “absolute lunacy,” while Hermione hissed under her breath, “You two are the worst-timed disaster duo in the history of Hogwarts.”

“Thank you,” Fred said proudly.

“Abbie,” Dumbledore said gently, “Did you feel anything strange tonight? Any magical echoes or interference?”

She looked thoughtful, then said brightly, “I think the moon winked at me.”

Harry dropped his head into his hands. “We’re so dead.”

Dumbledore sighed and handed them both hangover potions. “Please. Drink. Then sit down and try to focus. The fate of the wizarding world may depend on it.”

Abbie chugged hers, made a face like she’d just swallowed a banshee, then leaned toward Fred and whispered, “If we survive this, let’s prank Voldemort.”

Fred grinned. “Deal.”

[geekmom3]

Daggers and Dagger Eyes

Everyone thought Klaus was torturing them.

Caroline had sworn she'd find a way to save them. Damon had already packed a flamethrower and a bottle of bourbon. Even Elena, ever the diplomat, had looked ready to snap the Original Hybrid’s neck — not that she could.

But the truth?

The truth was that Madeline was the one doing the torturing.

“This is the fifth time this week!” Klaus bellowed, yanking yet another silver blade out of his abdomen. “What is your issue, woman?”

“You looked at me,” Madeline replied flatly, wiping her bloodstained hands on a cloth. “Like I was one of your Renaissance paintings. Again.”

“I WAS ADMIRING YOU!”

“Unsolicited admiration is stalking.”

Across the room, Stefan sat slumped on a Victorian loveseat, rubbing his temples like he was praying for the sweet release of death. Or at least temporary deafness.

“Can’t we just go back to the torture chamber? At least that was quiet.”

Klaus whirled on him. “I’m not torturing anyone! I invited you both to stay with me. For your safety.”

Madeline scoffed. “You threatened to kill everyone we’ve ever met if we didn’t come.”

“I said I might kill them. There’s nuance.”

She rolled her eyes, flicking another dagger between her fingers like a bored assassin. “Nuance? Is that what we’re calling kidnapping now?”

Klaus turned his gaze on her — intense, frustrated, and just a little bit desperate.

“You are utterly insufferable.”

“And you’re obsessed with me,” she said, tossing the dagger point-first into the floor inches from his foot. “Let it go, Elsa.”

Stefan groaned. “Please, someone let something go. Preferably me. Off a cliff.”

Klaus ignored him. “Do you not feel it, Madeline? The connection? The chemistry?”

She smirked. “That’s the compulsion I broke with vervain tea, sweetheart.”

“You’re maddening.”

“And you’re stab-able. Which I’ve proven, repeatedly.”

Klaus looked down at his shirt, already stained red. “You’re lucky I find this attractive.”

Madeline blinked at him. “You’re lucky I haven’t shoved one through your heart.”

“I’m beginning to think that is your love language.”

In the corner, Stefan stood up abruptly. “You know what? I’m done. I’m going outside. If I’m lucky, I’ll walk into sunlight and forget to wear my ring.”

Klaus clapped him on the back as he passed. “Cheer up, Ripper. Love is in the air.”

Stefan gave him a dead-eyed stare. “That’s blood loss and rage, Klaus. From you. Because she’s been stabbing you.”

Madeline blew Klaus a kiss as Stefan left. “We’re just getting started.”

Klaus grinned, despite the gaping hole in his side.

God, he loved her.

[geekmom3]

Moony’s Gonna Kill Me or Busted at Grimmauld Place

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

Sirius should’ve known better. But her legs were draped across his lap, her hand tangled in his hair, and that laugh of hers—gods, that laugh—made him forget how completely dead he was about to be.

“Are you ever going to tell him?” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

“I’d rather face a Dementor,” Sirius muttered, pressing a kiss to her wrist.

Naturally, that’s when the door creaked open.

And Remus Lupin walked in.

At first, he just blinked.

Then he saw. The tangled limbs. The soft smiles. His daughter in Sirius Black’s lap.

And the air froze.

“…Sirius,” Remus said slowly, voice terrifyingly calm. “Is there a reason my daughter is sitting in your lap like that?”

Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it.

“…No?” he tried.

From behind Remus, James Potter wheezed.

He was clutching the doorframe, tears in his eyes. “Oh Merlin, this is better than I imagined. Moony, remember when you said, ‘Sirius, stay away from my daughter’? This is like poetry.”

“James,” Remus growled.

“Right, right—shutting up,” James said, clearly not shutting up as he doubled over laughing.

Sirius cleared his throat, still holding her hand. “Look, Moony. I know how this looks—”

“Like you’ve been snogging my daughter in my house?” Remus snapped.

“Okay, yeah, it looks exactly like that.”

His daughter stood, face flushed but chin lifted. “Dad. I’m not a kid. And I love him.”

Remus’ eye twitched. “You love Sirius Black?”

“I’m right here, mate,” Sirius mumbled.

Remus took a long, deep breath. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t hex you into next week.”

Sirius stood too, holding her hand tightly. “Because for the first time in years, I want something good. And it’s her.”

James, now eating popcorn from thin air somehow, mumbled around a mouthful, “Ten galleons says he lets them live.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose.

“…I need a drink.”

[geekmom3]

Bats, Bruises, and Baby News

The inside of Eddie’s trailer looked like a crime scene. Blood-streaked towels. A broken table leg used as a weapon. Steve yelling at Dustin to find more gauze. Robin pacing. Max holding a flashlight like it might somehow help stop the bleeding.

And Eddie—grinning, half-conscious, and being his usual unhelpful self.

“Guys,” he slurred, blinking up at the ceiling, “I think I saw my soul leave my body for a sec. Pretty sure it flipped me off.”

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve snapped, pressing harder on the gash across his side. “You lost a lot of blood.”

Eddie hissed, teeth clenched. “Worth it. Those bats are dicks.”

Just then, the front door slammed open so hard it shook the trailer—and then she was there.

His girl.

Disheveled. Breathless. Eyes wide with terror.

“Eddie?!”

Everyone froze.

She pushed past the others, dropping to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as they hovered over his bloodied chest.

“Oh my god, oh my god—what did you do?!”

“Hey, hey, sweetheart…” Eddie tried to lift his head. Failed. Grinned anyway. “You should see the other demonic flying creatures from hell.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she cupped his face, brushing damp curls from his forehead. “This isn’t funny, Eddie—what if I lost you? What if—”

He cut her off with a wheezy chuckle. “If I’d known you’d come crashing in like that, I’d have let the bats finish the job.”

“Eddie!”

He smirked, eyes fluttering. “Kidding, babe. I’d rather fight those freaky vampire chickens again than miss seeing your crazy beautiful face…”

Robin blinked. “Did he just say—vampire chickens?”

Max muttered, “That tracks.”

His girl leaned closer, voice trembling. “You’re such an idiot. You weren’t even supposed to go this time—what about me? What about the baby?”

The room fell silent.

Dustin choked. “The what?”

Eddie managed a weak wink. “Guess the bat’s outta the bag…”

She smacked his chest—gently—but the fear and love on her face was unmistakable.

“I swear to god, Munson, if you die on me now, I will bring you back just to kill you myself.”

He smiled, bloodied but glowing.

“Guess I better stick around then, huh?”

[geekmom3]

Here is the final part to my first mini-series please let me know how you liked it and if you have any requests don't hesitate to message me.

"Pack Babysitting Survival Guide

Or Trust No Wolf with a Diaper Bag"

It started because I wanted a nap.

Just one. A small one. Twenty minutes, tops. But Paul had patrol, and I was running on caffeine, goldfish crackers, and the sheer willpower of a woman who hadn’t slept through the night in eight months.

Enter: Jacob and Embry.

“We got this,” Jake said, puffing his chest like he was auditioning for Wolf Dads of La Push. “You two deserve a break.”

“You literally burned spaghetti last week,” I said flatly.

Embry grinned. “That was one time.”

“You boiled it dry.”

“Water’s overrated.”

Paul was skeptical, but honestly? The desperate twitch in my eyelid probably helped my case. “Just an hour,” I begged. “Please.”

He looked between me, the baby, and the human disaster duo standing in our living room. “If she has one scratch—”

“Bro, we’ll bubble-wrap her,” Jake said. “She’ll be safer than Sam’s feelings at a group therapy session.”

Paul did not laugh.

I kissed him, whispered a please don’t kill them, and dragged him out the door.

---

Two Hours Later

Paul’s phone rang.

I was mid-stretch, savoring the first decent nap in weeks, when he answered.

His face went from relaxed to oh my god they set the baby on fire in .2 seconds.

“What?” I sat up, fully awake. “What happened?”

He hung up, grabbed the keys, and muttered, “Your daughter is naked. There’s peanut butter on the ceiling. And apparently, Embry tried to teach her how to howl.”

---

When we arrived at Emily’s (because of course they relocated babysitting to snack central), the scene was... haunting.

The baby was in nothing but a diaper, cheerfully stacking Tupperware like she was building a temple to toddler chaos. Embry had peanut butter in his hair. Jacob looked like he’d fought a bear—and lost.

“She’s fast,” Jake wheezed. “Like... freaky fast.”

“She bit me,” Embry added, holding up his hand. “I tried to change her diaper and she—she growled, man.”

Paul stormed in, snatched her up, and checked every inch of her body like he was scanning for booby traps.

“She’s fine,” I said, honestly kind of impressed. “You, though? You look like you’ve been through war.”

Jake flopped on the couch. “She’s built like a mini-you. It’s terrifying.”

“She climbed the pantry shelves like a spider monkey,” Embry added. “At one point, we thought she phased.”

“She hasn’t phased,” Paul snapped.

Jake shrugged. “Still not convinced.”

I took my daughter back, kissed her peanut-buttery cheek, and smiled down at the two wrecked wolves.

“You lasted almost two hours. Honestly? That’s a record.”

Paul muttered, “You’re never doing this again.”

Jake and Embry didn’t argue.

---

That night, as Paul tucked her in and double-checked every window like someone might try to steal her at 2 a.m., I wrapped my arms around him from behind.

“She’s lucky,” I whispered.

He turned to me, eyes soft now. “We’re all lucky. But next time? You nap, I babysit.”

I smiled. “Deal. But for the record… she did growl.”

Paul looked horrified.

[geekmom3]

Here's part 5 of my mini series just one more part to go I'm so excited everyone is liking this mini series.

"Teething and Territory"

No one warned me that teething was a contact sport.

Our daughter—our sweet, beautiful, apple-cheeked menace—had turned into a drool-soaked, chew-happy gremlin who gnawed on everything. Her fists. The coffee table. One of Paul’s training boots. She even tried to bite Jacob once. (Honestly? Fair.)

But the moment that nearly started World War Pack?

The cookie.

We were at Emily’s house. The whole pack was there, which meant loud voices, endless food, and a running count of how many muffins Embry could eat before someone cut him off. Our daughter was sitting in Paul’s lap, gnawing happily on a teething ring, while Paul tried to have a normal adult conversation with Sam.

Then Seth—sweet, oblivious, baby-faced Seth—walked by and said, “Hey, can she have a cookie?”

Without waiting for an answer, he held out a piece of one to her.

She took it. Bit into it.

And Paul froze.

The air changed. Subtle, but instant. His jaw clenched. His arms wrapped tighter around her like she might suddenly evaporate. And his eyes—those sharp, feral eyes—locked onto Seth like the poor kid had just challenged him to a duel.

Seth laughed. “What? It’s just a cookie—”

“She doesn’t take food from anyone but me or her mom,” Paul said low and tense.

“Dude, she’s literally got cookie on her face—”

“Seth.” That was Sam now, raising an eyebrow. “Back off.”

Seth held up both hands and backed away slowly, like Paul was a wild animal. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off right then.

I sighed. “Paul, she’s fine.”

“She’s teething,” he growled. “She’s vulnerable. Her scent’s all over the house. That means she’s claiming things. And now his scent’s on her food—what if she thinks he owns it?”

“...Are you saying our daughter’s imprinting on baked goods?”

Paul didn’t answer. Just glared at the half-eaten cookie like it had offended his ancestors.

Later, when we got home, he carried her to the bedroom, still gently rocking her even though she’d already fallen asleep with a crumb stuck to her cheek.

“I know I overreacted,” he said quietly, tucking her into her crib. “I just… I don’t want anyone confusing her. She’s mine.”

“She’s ours,” I corrected gently, leaning into his side.

He nodded. “Ours. I just… I feel everything when she hurts. Even teething. And I never want her to look at someone else and think that is what safety feels like.”

I reached up, brushing a bit of cookie from his jaw. “You’re her entire world, Paul. Cookie or no cookie.”

He leaned down, kissed me slowly, and whispered, “Good. Because you’re mine, too.”

[geekmom3]

Here's part 4 of my mini series only 2 parts left

"Wolf, Baby, Blanket Burrito"

There are exactly three things Paul Lahote is afraid of:

1. Me when I’m hungry.

2. The baby when she’s too quiet.

3. Swaddling.

He will face down a newborn vampire without flinching, but ask him to wrap his daughter in a blanket burrito and suddenly he’s sweating like it’s defuse-the-bomb hour.

“She’s too small,” he muttered, staring at the pink blanket like it might bite him.

“She’s literally the size of a loaf of bread, Paul.”

“That’s not comforting!”

I sat on the couch, watching him gently (and clumsily) fold the corners of the fabric like he was handling a sacred artifact. Our daughter blinked up at him, tiny fists flailing in protest.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, you got this. Just like the video.”

He lifted one corner. Tucked it.

Lifted the other. Paused. Panicked. Looked at me.

“You sure this isn’t gonna, like… cut off her circulation?”

“She’s fine, babe.”

He frowned. “She blinked weird. That was a stress blink.”

I tried to hold in my laugh, but failed. He glared at me—but not really. His eyes were soft, even as he gently rocked our daughter in his arms like she was the most fragile, important thing in the world.

And to him, she was.

To both of us, she was.

“You’re doing great,” I said, and meant it.

He looked down at our daughter—now finally, successfully, swaddled—and smiled that rare, quiet smile he only ever gave to me and her.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “You think she knows how much I love her?”

“I think she’s already got you wrapped around her tiny, wrinkly pinkie toe.”

He grinned. “She gets that from you.”

I leaned back into the couch, heart full, body healing, and soul stupidly in love with the two wolves curled up beside me.

Family. Messy. Loud. Chaotic.

Ours.

[geekmom3]

Here's part 3 of my first mini-series get ready Little baby she wolf is on her way.

"Tiny Wolf Incoming" (Baby’s Arrival)

The contractions started at 3:17 a.m.

I knew because Paul had been timing everything for the last two weeks like he was prepping for a NASA launch instead of a birth. He flew into action the moment I said, “Okay, I think it’s happening.”

Jake broke a speed record getting to the house.

Emily showed up with snacks, wet towels, and the calm of someone who’d seen three wolf pack births and was ready for round four.

Me? I screamed at Paul to shut up every time he tried to tell me to breathe. Breathing was a betrayal at that point.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly between contractions, brushing damp hair from my face. “You’ve fought harder battles than this.”

“Oh really?” I panted. “Name one.”

He looked me dead in the eye. “Loving me when I didn’t think I deserved it.”

Yeah. That shut me up.

Our daughter came into the world an hour later, all squalls and squishy cheeks and a cry that somehow made everything—every ache, every fight, every fear—worth it.

Paul held her like she was made of starlight. Looked at me like I was.

“You did it,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

“No,” I said, exhausted and sore and stupidly happy. “We did.”

[geekmom3]

Here's part 2 of my mini series, it's a flashback to when Paul and his imprint first met. I'll try and post the rest of the series tonight or tomorrow, if you want to be tagged please let me know and don't be afraid to leave feedback.

"The Moment" (Flashback)

I hadn’t planned on going to La Push that day. I was just trying to escape the chaos of Forks, clear my head, and maybe steal a quiet moment by the water before the rain started again.

But then he walked out of the trees.

Tall, shirtless—naturally—and radiating heat like he carried the sun under his skin. His eyes locked on mine like he’d been looking for me his whole life and had just found the missing piece of a puzzle no one else could see.

I froze.

So did he.

“...Oh, hell no,” he muttered, blinking like he’d just been slapped with divine intervention.

“Excuse me?” I snapped, instinctively stepping back. Who even says that when they meet someone?

His eyes softened instantly, like he regretted every cell in his body for that reaction. “No—wait—I didn’t mean that how it sounded. It’s just... you.”

I frowned. “Me... what?”

He took a careful step forward, like I was a wild animal he didn’t want to spook. “I think... I think I just imprinted on you.”

I stared at him. “You think you what now?”

And that was the beginning of everything. Him trying to explain something he barely understood. Me trying to pretend like I wasn’t already falling into the gravity of him. Us—accidentally building a life on something neither of us had seen coming.

[geekmom3]

Hi there! Welcome to my very first fanfiction. I’ve always loved getting lost in the worlds created by my favorite books, shows, and movies—and after spending so much time daydreaming about alternate scenes, new characters, or "what if" scenarios, I finally decided to take the leap and write my own. This story is a mix of love, imagination, and pure fun. It’s my way of exploring characters I adore, giving them new paths to walk, and adding a bit of my own twist along the way. I'm still learning and growing as a writer, so thank you for taking the time to read and join me on this creative journey. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Summary:

When a fiery imprinting bonds Paul Lahote to a fiercely independent woman, their lives are turned upside down—fast. Through late-night arguments, an unexpected pregnancy, pack drama, and the chaotic joy of raising a half-wolf toddler, they learn that love is more than fate… it’s a wild, messy, beautiful choice. Follow Paul, his imprint, and their daughter as they navigate parenthood, pack dynamics, and the deep, sometimes hilarious bond of imprinting. From cookie-based territory battles to pack babysitting disasters, this mini-series delivers heart, humor, and heat.

"Full Moon Fiasco"

POV: Paul’s Imprint

It started with a growl. Low, guttural, and vibrating through the walls like a warning from the forest itself. I blinked awake, momentarily forgetting I was not only the size of a small moon, but also halfway entangled in the fluffiest comforter La Push had ever seen.

For one blissful second, I thought maybe it was a dream. That maybe the baby hadn’t just kicked my kidney like it owed her money and the house wasn’t shaking like a Marvel final battle was happening outside.

But then I heard the voice that could shatter peace treaties: “Don’t start with me, Jake. Not tonight.”

Paul. Of course.

I groaned and rolled—well, attempted to roll—toward the edge of the bed, which now felt like a cliff I had to scale in reverse. My feet touched the floor with all the grace of a whale disembarking from a hammock.

“Stay in bed,” I muttered to myself, mimicking his usual lecture. “You need rest,” I grumbled as I waddled to the door. “Let me handle it.” Classic Paul. Always ready to throw hands and never ready to admit he’s the reason I don’t get eight hours of sleep.

I made it to the porch just in time to see Paul and Jake squaring off like it was Round 3 of Alpha Male Nonsense. Shirtless, obviously. Because why would anyone in the wolf pack own a full wardrobe?

“Seriously?” I called out, one hand on my hip, the other balancing on my poor, aching back. “You two are fighting again? It’s 2 a.m. I am one contraction away from unleashing a whole different kind of monster, and you’re giving me werewolf WWE on the lawn?”

Jake immediately looked guilty. Paul didn’t flinch.

“She started it,” Paul said.

“She?!”

“I meant he,” he corrected, pointing at Jake. “But our daughter kicked when he showed up, so technically—”

I held up a hand. “Finish that sentence and I will waddle you into next week, Lahote.”

Jake tried to suppress a laugh and failed.

Jake backed up a step, still chuckling. “Sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like a kid caught stealing cookies. “Didn’t mean to wake the queen.”

Paul glared at him. “She shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

“And yet,” I said sweetly, “here I am, breaking up what I assume was a philosophical debate over who has the better abs.”

Jake shrugged. “I mean, if we’re being honest—”

“Jacob.”

He zipped it. Paul still hadn’t moved, chest rising and falling like he was fighting the urge to phase right there in the yard. His jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists, and his eyes—his stupid, beautiful, angry wolf eyes—flicked toward me.

That’s when I noticed the slight tremble in his shoulders. Not from rage. Not really.

“Paul,” I said, softer now. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at Jake, then at me, then down at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“He was talking about the imprint bond,” Paul finally said. “Asking what happens if... something goes wrong.”

The baby kicked again—hard this time—and I grabbed the porch railing to steady myself. Jake winced.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he added quickly. “I just—there’s no manual for this, you know? And with the baby coming, I thought—”

“You thought I needed reminding of how dangerous this all is?” Paul snapped, stepping forward. “You thought I forgot she’s fragile?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

“Enough!” I shouted, which took both of them by surprise—and honestly, me too. My voice cracked somewhere between hormonal fury and exhausted sob.

And just like that, Paul was beside me. All the tension from before bled out of him like someone had flipped a switch. He crouched beside me, hands hovering at my waist like he wasn’t sure if he should touch me or shield me from the world.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I blinked down at him, and even in the moonlight, I could see how scared he was. Not of Jake. Not of a fight. Of me. Of us. Of what he could lose.

“I’m not made of glass, Paul,” I said, voice shaking but firm. “I’m carrying your kid, not on the brink of death.”

He gave a weak laugh and pressed his forehead to my belly. “Feels like both some days.”

Jake cleared his throat. “I should go.”

“No,” I said, surprising them both again. “Stay. You’re family too. Just—maybe next time, try using your inside voice when discussing existential crises, okay?”

He gave a small nod. “Got it.”

Paul helped me back inside, one hand protectively around my waist, the other resting over the bump like a silent promise.

As we crawled back into bed, he wrapped himself around me like a shield. Warm, solid, and a little overprotective, but mine.

“You really would’ve waddled me into next week, huh?” he whispered.

“Absolutely,” I murmured. “And the baby would’ve helped.”

If you enjoyed this I'll add the rest of the mini series, please be kind and I'm open to suggestions for other stories, thank you.