I actually ended up writing a lil ficlet of that cursed idea I had the other day
“The feelings weren’t foreign, necessarily. But there was an air of meaning around them, of change. He couldn’t just grab his best friend of twelve years by the shoulders and press his lips to those infuriatingly; seemingly forever chapped ones with no preamble.”
don’t mind me, just using my sick day to work on a fic that’s been in my mind for a few days, inspiration? a tangerine flavored popsicle
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well folks, we got a first look at the cas/crowley fake date to make dean jealous fic, here’s the bitchiest couple you’ve ever seen:
The door is thrown open and Dean’s silhouette stops in the frame. There’s a beat of silence, as each person thinks his confused slow motion thoughts to himself, and then Crowley throws himself on top of Cas, holding onto his lapels so he can’t get away. Cas still tries to squirm, trying to pull Crowley’s arms off, but Crowley bites his lip and he yelps.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Dean shouts. “What the fuck?”
Sam walks past just in time to see Cas haul Crowley up against a wall. “Hey, uh, Dean, why don’t we give them a little space, huh?” His voice comes out squeaky. He drags his brother by the elbow and slams the door shut behind him, trying and failing not to make eye contact with Crowley. Crowley winks.
After the door shuts, Crowley releases his iron grip and wipes Cas’s spit off his mouth. “Sad, feathers. Really would’ve thought heaven’s finest would catch on sooner than that.”
Cas glares. “You kissed me. In front of Dean.”
“I thought you wanted to prompt into action?”
“I do,” Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. He can still taste blood on his tongue from the demon’s impulsive action. Unfortunately, he has to admit, it does get a reaction out of Dean. And isn’t that what he wants? For Dean to finally realize that he wants Cas to be his, not just his best friend.
Crowley is smug. He knows he’s won. He holds up his hands, grin spreading wider in what he’s been told is his Supremely Devious Smile. “Great. A few romps here and there, a date if we’re feeling sentimental, the idiot will explode.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Cas watches as Crowley straightens out his suit and examines his nails.
“No offense, Romeo, but I know what Squirrel wants. And it’s not… Saturday cartoons and missionary style.” Cas is too busy fuming to notice, but Crowley hears the hint of wistfulness peeking from under the disdain.
“You think he’ll choose you.”
Crowley raises his eyebrows at the angel and holds out a hand. “May the best man win.”
Cas’s eyes flicker between Crowley’s face and his hand, considering how this could be a setup. In the end, he decides it is a setup, but not one Crowley’s trying to hide. It’s a disastrous plan, trying to convince Dean that he wants to climb into bed with the King of Hell rather than him. Then again, Dean looked… shocked. Scared. Maybe… maybe a little upset when Crowley kissed him. Because Crowley kissed him. It’s a disastrous plan. It could work. He offers his hand, and Crowley pulls him in to seal the deal how he always does. This time, Cas does his part, and Crowley looks almost impressed when he pulls away. “I’m going to win.”
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Part 3 of whatever this is
(tw: injury, blood, manhandling, referring to tiny as ‘it’ non-maliciously)
“This is it,” Toby thought, reaching a hand out towards his windowsill, “finals hit me so hard that I’ve started hallucinating.”
He wasn’t really thinking as picked the creature up. It felt so... real. It was clear just looking at it that it wasn’t a doll or anything, and the blood was a dead give away that it was a living thing. He gently raised it up, careful not to put any pressure on its delicate wings or probably broken leg, and pressed his finger against its neck. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the thump, thump, thump of a tiny heartbeat. Then he shook his head. No. No, stop, this wasn’t real. No way. He was sleep deprived. It didn’t matter that he could feel the thing’s pulse, or the warmth of its tiny body, or the weight of it laid across his palm.
The hallucination let out a whimper and pressed it’s head into his finger. Toby groaned.
He carried the fairy, because that’s what it was, obviously, a fairy, what else could it be, into his bathroom and laid it on the side of the sink while he retrieved the first aid kit that he knew was in the medicine cabinet. He turned on the water.
“Ok. I know how to do this. I know how to do this on a person my size, but realistically it can’t be that different. Here we go.”
Toby washed the fairy’s leg off, hissing in sympathy whenever the unconscious fairy whined in discomfort. He had to cut away some of its pant leg that had been stuck in the wound. He cleaned the blood away then disinfected the area, realizing pretty quickly the type of injury he was looking at. He hoped Angel was up to date on shots. Toby wrapped the leg, thanking God that it hadn’t turned out to be broken. He didn’t know who was luckier, the fairy or him, since he was sure if he tried to set a bone that small he’d probably end up making it worse. He frowned as he looked at the torn wing on its back. He didn’t know how to fix that. It looked sort of like a dragonfly wing, and Toby didn’t think that they could regenerate. If a bug got its wing torn on off... Toby didn’t want to think about what being grounded meant for a creature like this.
He left the fairy on the sink as he set up his room. He took a large shoe box from his closet and grabbed an old t-shirt, which he bunched into a makeshift bed in the corner of the box. As he was making his way around his room, his eyes landed on the windowsill, where a flower was lying. The fairy had been lying next to that flower, Toby realized, he’d just been so shocked at the creature’s appearance that he’d barely processed it. Is that why the fairy had been in the garden and in the dog’s way? It was trying to get a flower. Were daisies super important to fairies? Toby let out a hum.
He ran down stairs to the kitchen and looked around, finally finding a small jar in one of the cabinets- something hopefully no one would miss. He filled the jar with water and brought it back upstairs, placing it in the shoe box before going back to grab the fairy, who was still dead to the world but whose pulse was still going strong, and lying him inside. He dropped the daisy in the jar, and stared at his handiwork.
Now to wait.
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[fic: the rare firing of wild cannons]
Thanks so much to @clarensjoy for organising and to @efikeff for suggesting I take this prompt! This is prompt #28: ‘Just... talk to me, please’. I’ve kind of played around with it a bit - you’ll see. Hope you like this!
Rating: strong t
Wordcount: 1,289 words
TW: as always with literally everything i write, general post-war trauma i suppose
sometimes, they fight. not often. not always. not like ron and hermione, and their a constant stream of bickering words that does harry’s bloody head in. ‘merlin, what is it, this time?’ ron will say at the height of whatever game the both of them have started and, ‘ron, you can’t say that,’ she will respond, with an air of contempt in her voice that will make their best mate cringe. they will roll their eyes at each other while harry stands there awkwardly, attempting not to count points, loosely remembering the day when hermione sent a flock of angry birds after ron and, ‘merlin, it’s like the bloody house elves again,’ his best mate will say, which will probably send hermione over the edge again. ron will complain about it over a pint, usually the day before she decides to treat harry to lunch, feigning some important, dmle matter to discuss. ‘god, harry, he’s talking to you behind my back, isn’t he?’ she’ll say, rather hypocritically because, well, isn’t that what she is doing? she’ll conclude their chat with: ‘merlin, i’m going to kill him,’ but obviously never will.
that isn’t how it goes, between he and ginny. he finds that out rather quickly: they just don’t - argue, that is. a month passes, six months, a year, and they talk, they have mild disagreements sometimes (about what to eat, or how to get the telly to work in a house full of magic) but mostly, it is her warm laugh that punctuates her sentences, rather than angry shouts. ‘that is odd,’ hermione says, once, and harry arcs an eyebrow at her, because frankly he’s got very little frame of reference for this so is it odd, really, that they don’t argue? she smiles. ‘well, no, i mean, my parents don’t,’ she says. she rarely talks about the grangers, hermione, does she? ‘but i’ve never seen them argue with anybody else either, you know?’ she adds. ‘whereas you and ginny...’
it is a good eighteen months, harry thinks, before he truly finds out what she means by that. how the truth that they don’t argue only exists, because it supposes a difference of opinion on a matter that is somewhat arguable. they don’t argue, you see, they fight. sometimes (most times, actually, thank god), it’ll be nothing for months, sometimes years - for heaven’s sake, at one point in their lives, they have not one, not two, but three teenagers under the same roof and even that is never an issue - but then, one day, he’ll forget to hang up his bath towel or she’ll refuse to pass on a chance to beat the tornados again despite being six weeks pregnant with their first child and she’ll say something like: ‘this is my life, harry, my career, i get to choose.’ and, of course, he’ll think, that’s not what i’m saying, ‘i just wish you’d be a bit more cautious, is all,’ and -
‘yeah? coming from the guy who followed a hunch and got sirius killed,’ she’ll say, seemingly out of nowhere, ‘that’s a bit rich.’
(it takes him a while, in truth, to figure out that these do not, actually, come out of nowhere. having to choose between her career and her family equals her insecurities. guilt over sirius’ death, well, that’s probably one of his.)
let’s just say that they don’t fight until they do and that by then, the gloves come off and all they leave is charred ground in their wake and merlin, god help them.
to be entirely fair: while she is intimately familiar with his weaknesses (just like she was with ron’s in sixth year when she exposed his lack of experience in front of anyone and everyone who was willing to hear it), he is not an innocent party either. once (later - much, much later), the location of their house is leaked to the press. they wake to a sea of journalists trying to spy through their windows and have to evacuate the kids in a hurry, packing only the bare minimum before they manage to make it through the Floo. ‘who do you think told them?’ she asks and he is tired, stressed (scared and vulnerable) and ‘i don’t bloody know!’ he says. ‘i’m not the one with a history of telling someone i barely know all my deepest secrets, am i?’
they never physically hurt each other, but her wand is in his face once or twice.
sometimes, he tries to remember the one piece of advice that molly and arthur gave them the day they got married: never go to bed angry. obviously, because he doesn’t have any frame of reference, harry’s never known that this is somewhat a cliché but regardless, he wonders how applicable that is to them, given that they seem to only fight once in a blue moon. whenever they do fight, they go to bed fucking livid, to be honest, and once, he even sleeps on hermione and ron’s couch for ten nights in a row. by the eleventh, not only is his back hurting but dear lord, he’s still bloody, fucking furious.
‘are you going to apologise?’ hermione says to him (because, to tell the truth, hermione is fearless, and at this point, whatever, she doesn’t even care) and -
‘well, is she?’ he responds.
hermione sets her jaw and crosses her arms. ‘well, you’ve got kids together, harry,’ she says. ‘so get fuck off my sofa.’
(she always knows what will get to him eventually, hermiome.)
so, he sleeps on the sofa at home, for another couple of nights. by then, all the injuries that he ever got as a teenager have caught up with him, back and limbs sore and unrelenting; he is surviving mostly on painkiller potion and ire. lily (who, by now, is fifteen years old), gives him a look that outlines exactly how much she sympathises with her mother’s side of the argument and he rolls his eyes almost all the way back to his skull. in the end, ginny wakes him up at two in the morning, shakes him awake and he groans, slightly disorientated.
‘talk to me,’ she says. no ‘please,’ no ‘just’s - like she is done, like he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. he catches her gaze and sighs, pushes himself up to sit against the back of the couch. she slides in next to him. ‘i hate it when we’re like this,’ she says.
‘yeah, me too.’
she sighs, almost like she’s trying to fight with the giant squid as it’s staring her right back in the face. ‘i love you.’ still, goes unsaid. just like always, and forever.
he nods. ‘yep. me too.’
she smiles. ‘we don’t fight often.’ a neutral observation. in front of him, the tv that dean charmed to work in their home, gives a little, red blink in the dark. ‘so maybe we just, i don’t know, ignore it and move on? i mean, we love each other, maybe that’s all we need to agree on.’
he snorts a bit at that but yeah, maybe. ‘petunia and vernon never argued,’ he observes, for lack of something better or more appropriate to respond, probably. it’s not like either of them is going to apologise, not really. ‘i don’t think they were very happy.’
‘yeah, probably not.’
she doesn’t look at him, then, but he feels her hand against his thigh, warm and there, because deep down, he knows this, right here, is bigger than anything else.
‘come to bed,’ she says.
in the end, he kisses her and agrees. they’ve been through a war together, so god knows they can get through anything.
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[fic: the wolf's just a puppy (and the door's double-locked)]
Thanks so much to @clarensjoy for organising and to @efikeff for suggesting I take this prompt! I've gone back and forth with this one quite a bit because the wordcount got out of control so I thought I would just pull it out of the ficfest and post it on AO3 instead, which I did a few days ago. But now, I'm like, you know what, actually, why not put it up on tumblr as well? I'm the only idiot who imposes stupid word count requirements on myself haha!
So, anyway, this was (kind of) inspired by prompt #27: Harry and Ginny see how long it takes for Molly to realise they are dating after the war but honestly took on a life of its own. I'm really sorry, probably not what you expected, but here it goes anyway.
Rating: strong t for language and a slight reference to sex
Word count: 4,017
TW: general post-war trauma i suppose
Title from: Holes by Passenger.
You can also read on AO3 here.
the wolf’s just a puppy (and the door’s double-locked)
It's a necklace that does it. Gold, discreet; thin, tiny links around her neck - she's always fancied gold more than she does silver, has always liked the way it reflected the sun through the shop windows in Diagon Alley, the way she imagines it would contrast against her skin. Her parents never had much money for anything, of course, let alone jewellery.
There are two pieces that she owns prior, to her seventeenth birthday. The first one is a tiny bracelet. It doesn't fit her wrist, anymore, but she keeps it in the drawer of her bedside table regardless, like a reminder more than an ornament, something that her mother must have tenderly wrapped around her short, chubby limbs once upon a time when they left St Mungo's in '81. It has a little plaque attached to it: soft, cursive engraving (ginevra w., it reads).
Sometimes, Ginny considers enlarging it. The name ‘Ginevra,’ though, has never truly been hers. She would have to change the script, you see, and every time she thinks about it, it feels a bit like trying to erase a memory from someone else's brain. Ginny, herself, doesn't remember that time in her life, the time when her mother picked the name Ginevra, and somehow, that makes the bracelet Molly’s, rather than hers. It's like stuck in a flickering moment in time, back when Ginny wasn't Ginny, and when her world was about to celebrate the end of a war.
In her own early memories, they were stumbling into another one, already.
The second piece is a ring. A war ring, of sorts. It was carved out of whatever Hogwarts had left to offer, that day, when Luna whispered spells that transfigured wood into metal with a precision that rivalled that of McGonagall. The both of them sat on the floor, in the room of requirement, a cautious ear kept to the ground, watching out for sounds of quick footsteps or pained screams, quiet like hope in a windowless room. 'I would like to be seventeen,' Luna said - that slightly dreamy tone of hers, always. Sometimes, all they wanted, back then, was for a moment of peace that never came, for the scared, second-year boy that sat in the corner of the room with his arms wrapped around his knees, to finally stop crying.
'Here, it's for you,' Luna smiled, dropping the ring into Ginny's palm, a piece of gravel charmed to be mounted like a gemstone. It resembled the face of a horse. 'It's after your Patronus.'
Ginny nodded, that night, tried to force a smile over her features, something that meant: thank you. She slipped the ring down the fourth finger of her left hand and thought of her Patronus. Thought of Harry, too.
Later, her brother died. Later still, they won the war. It is a fact, from what she’s told, so she’s not sure why the wizarding world spends so much time and energy, that year, trying to make itself believe it. There are the celebrations, and the memorials being built, the cracks in the castle walls that they fill with mortar, the wave of their wands in the air. It is a fact because the Prophet says so, because they put Harry’s picture on the front page on the 3rd of May and tell everyone that Tom is dead.
They don’t call him Tom, of course.
Sometimes, Ginny wonders how her parents must have felt, back when the chain still fit around her wrist. She wonders if, when Lily and James died, her mother ever truly felt victorious with her own brothers lying buried deep into the cold earth of a graveyard.
In 1998, when Ginny turns seventeen, the celebrations are a rather loud affair. She lets it happen; it makes her parents happy. Mum yells at the boys as they try to put up the tent in the garden and the cake is enormous, full of all different kinds of chocolates like a tray of Easter eggs. George lets out fireworks that roar loud and powerful at the end of the night.
Nature just hates a vacuum.
A few days before the party, Harry asks: 'What do you want for your birthday?' It is still July, back then, and this is the kind of relationship that they have, now, something that is sometimes fearless and sometimes blatantly transparent. They've snuck out of the house, past the wards and the enchantments meant to keep them safe (to keep him safe) and walked down the streets of the village in the late evening sun. An Auror in plain clothes is following them, she can tell, and Harry's hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, where she knows he keeps his wand. Their arms brush as their feet graze the cobblestones of the streets – it is what they get these days, for carrying on with life: a trompe-l’oeil of normalcy.
He never had the opportunity to read that book that Ron gave him about charming witches. When he tells her about it, they laugh. She shrugs at him and points out that his favourite way of garnering information has always been to openly and bluntly ask for it, anyway, until he wears everyone out and gets what he wants. Sometimes, people find that annoying, arrogant or aggressive, but she finds it reassuring. Spent an entire year of her life under the Carrows trying to hide in plain sight, and Harry’s somewhat chronic inability to conceal what he thinks is what makes it easier for her to breathe, whenever his arms wrap around her at night. If he wants to know something, he'll ask her. ‘Gin, what happened last year?’ he’ll say, or ‘Gin, do you think it’s my fault if Fred died?’ At night, she knows that she can just close her eyes and let herself trust him.
Many times, in the years that follow, she hears people suggest that he could have been sorted into Slytherin. To her, it ought to have been Ravenclaw. Sure, Harry’s not as clever as Hermione but his thirst for knowledge, facts (truth) is unrivalled. All he's ever wanted, since the day she met him, was to know: what she thinks, all of it, everything, the questions that don't really have answers. Why me, why us, why this.
Personally, she doesn’t think she minds it much, anymore. Not knowing.
So: 'What do you want for your birthday?' he asks rather bluntly and she laughs, bumps her shoulder against his. They can't kiss, not here. Not with the world and the Auror watching. Her parents don’t know – no one really does. It’s not that she wants to keep it a secret - not forever - but this thing they have, it's like hot glass, about to be blown. Fragile, shapeless, delicate. For now, she's afraid that the noise of the world around them might shatter it.
'My Apparition licence,' she laughs in response, her glance quick, finding the escort behind them. ‘To get the fuck out of here.'
That year, her mother’s present is a dress: green with golden seams. ‘I didn't think you'd want a watch, not like the boys,’ she says. So, under the table, George slips Fred's in her hand when no one is looking. ‘He'd want you to have it,’ he whispers - that and nothing else.
Ginny takes it.
She can't breathe.
Her Apparition licence isn’t something that Harry can do anything about (or else, he would probably have granted himself one, first, seeing as the Ministry never did) so he gets her two, separate gifts instead. First, a public-facing one, a utilitarian one. There is a box on the dinner table labelled with her name scribbled in his messy, tiny scroll. Inside, she finds broom wax and shiny, new footrests compatible with her Cleensweep. ‘Ah, thanks,' she grins. ‘I needed this.’ It’s not a lie; they’d talked about it, about her going pro in a couple of years, and her voice is warm and genuine when she addresses him. She likes the present, will actually use it, not like Percy's ridiculous Twenty Things to Think about when Choosing your Post-Hogwarts Path guide that she only mildly tolerated because, well, Percy. Later, though: 'Close your eyes,' Harry says in her ear. He sits behind her on her bed; she feels the light weight of a golden chain against her neck - she breathes again.
When her eyes open, there’s a pendant and a deep-red stone over her chest, about half a centimetre in diameter. It rests against her skin, flat at the back, set in gold. ‘It’s garnet,’ he provides when she turns to look at him.
Ginny smiles. Almost laughs. ‘It’s too much,’ she says, but not like I can’t, more like: it’s beautiful, and, you’re crazy.
There’s something a bit smug and playful in his look. He winks at her, kisses her cheek. 'Don't worry,’ he smiles. ‘I didn't pay for it.'
She laughs at that, raises a curious eyebrow at his turn of phrase. ‘That why you broke into Gringotts, is it?’ she teases. He bursts out a laugh, shakes his head. Kisses the nape of her neck, just over the chain.
‘Nah, I found it,' he shrugs. She’s curious but knows she probably won’t get a straight answer out of him, not now (he is honest but sometimes, he takes his time) so she doesn’t push. Leans into his chest instead, her head against his heart. He adds: 'Just wanted you to have it.'
There are no diamonds between them, just a chain and a stone. No rings, no nothing (not yet, anyway). Not now. Sometimes, life still feels like a thin layer of ice.
Sometimes, it is like concrete under their feet.
That summer (and even in the months that follow) Harry is nervous about her parents finding out about them. Ginny isn't (not really) but on a purely hypothetical level, she does wonder how long it will take for her mother to figure things out. Catch on to what’s been happening right under her nose, so to speak. She probably won't, though. They’re not ready for a fuss, the both of them, so Ginny won’t let it happen.
'I give it two months,' Harry says, one night - they sit in the sun, out in the orchard at The Burrow. For cover, Ron and Hermione are supposed to be with them. Conveniently, they keep disappearing, these two. Like a tacit understanding that Ron mildly tolerates because of the undeniable advantages he gets out of the arrangement. Under Ginny's shirt, Harry's hand is warm. 'Unless your mum is a legilimens. In which case, I'm already fucked.'
Ginny bursts out a laugh in response, a quick peck dropped to the side of his mouth. 'Trust me, she's not. I know Mum. She'll know when I want her to know.'
Against her chin, Ginny feels his thumb pulling her face back to his, eyes directly set on hers. Slowly, his finger moves up, lightly parting her lips. 'Yeah?' he asks. 'Wanna bet?'
Her tongue just about brushes the tip of his finger. She sees him inhale and hums. ‘Maybe? What are we betting?'
His arm drops to the side, mouth now millimetres from hers. There is a slight blush to his cheeks. She knows that he is shier with these things than he lets on. 'I can think of a number of things.'
She smiles, kisses him. I’m sure you can, she thinks.
(He loses the bet. Obviously.)
That autumn, Ginny goes back to school. That is an odd thing that happens. Most days, she's not sure what to make of it. Sometimes, she picks up her bag from the floor in the Great Hall and underneath, she finds blood. She knows it isn't there (it's in her head) but it feels real, nonetheless. Thick and slippery between her fingers.
She thinks of Fred.
Harry's in London. He belongs there, she can tell, has found a home, a big city that is it, for him. There, he can be everyone and no one, and people don’t look at him twice when he crosses the street. He goes to the pub, has pints with his mates, attends Muggle gigs and settles into being eighteen and alive. He comes up to Hogsmeade to see her, that one time, and they have sex for the first time. She initiates it, hadn't really planned for it to happen but then his hand is on her bum and they’re snogging at the back of the Hogshead and she thinks: why not? Why not book a room, why not do something just because they’re young, just because they’re alive, just because they can? It's probably, objectively not that great, but it’s everything she wanted. He stares up at the ceiling afterwards like she's hung the moon up there in place of the chandelier and she kisses him, and he smiles against her lips - they're her favourite: his smiling kisses. They're a bit rare, still, thus a bit precious.
She doesn't want people to ask, most of the time, so she keeps the chain he gave her under her shirts and jumpers, that year. He's far from her more often than he is near so she also likes it (likes him, by extension) close to her skin. In her head, she protects him from the cold, from Quidditch trainings, from gossip, and through the tiny, gold links, her heart beats against his. They write. It is not his preferred method of communication but he tries. Ginny shares a room with Hermione and when she lies in bed, writing back to him (long, winding letters where she shapes riveting adventures out of her now boring Hogwarts routine), her feet lifted up behind her and crossed at the ankles, her dorm-mate says: 'Say “hi” to Harry for me, will you?'
She's either the worst or the best thing that's ever happened to the world, Hermione.
Once, in the middle of a study session, Ginny runs her fingers over the collar of her t-shirt and there is a look on Harry’s best friend’s face, a 2-AM look of questions that need to be asked. Hermione sighs, leans back in her chair, toys with a mug of tea that’s gone cold too long ago. ‘It’s garnet, isn’t it?’ she asks. ‘The stone. Not ruby.’
Ginny’s necklace is showing, she realises, and it’s just the both of them left looking over class notes in the Common Room. Her fingers automatically run against the gold and Hermione’s one of the only people who have actually seen the stone, this year – it’s not an easy thing to hide in such a small bedroom. Ginny’s gaze lifts to meet hers, jaw set and dark brown eyes. ‘Yeah,’ she says.
Hermione lets out a short sigh when she nods, knowing. ‘January, then,’ she observes. It isn’t a question, so Ginny doesn’t answer, just letting her quill rest at the edge of her middle finger, suspended. Silent, she watches as Hermione smiles, cold, and when her next words come out, there’s a slightly ruthless edge to them, like if you hurt him I will kill you, and that’s a fact, not a threat. 'It probably meant a lot to him, you know,' she adds and Ginny nods again, holds her gaze for a moment, before going back to her potions book.
Harry’s chain remains a secret to everyone else until the summer of '99. The summer after the anniversary, after the tears and the remembrance ceremonies. Then, it becomes a thing, only because Ginny lets it. She stops watching her back, stops hiding it under her jumpers, because they're ready. Harry, herself, her parents – she wakes up one day and figures: it will be okay, if people know. One morning in July, Harry Floos over for breakfast and when he gets to The Burrow, 'Ginevra Molly Weasley,’ her mother suddenly articulates as her eyes narrow over the kitchen table. ‘What in Merlin’s name is that?'
Molly is loud, that morning, pots and pans long forgotten on the stove, fingers already reaching around Ginny's neck. Her daughter pretends to shrug her off.
‘Where on Earth did you get money for this?' Molly roars. 'This is -' her arms are crossed over her chest; Ginny just smiles. This is it, isn’t it? 'This is gold, how did you-?'
That morning, in the soft, earl light, instead of paying attention to her mother, Ginny's glance is focused on Harry's. Do you want me to lie? she silently asks him and he stands awkwardly in the doorway, like fear and courage are fighting each other at the pit of his stomach. She sees him sigh, look to his feet and suddenly, there is the ghost of a smile across his lips, a quiet nod, like Godric Gryffindor is finally awarded a reluctant win. Ginny doesn't think he would have won before, certainly not last summer, and it is a testament to how much they've grown that he does, now.
'It was given to me,' Ginny says, finally turning to face her mother. Molly frowns and looks, if possible, even more aggravated.
'And, who gave this to you, may I ask?'
Determinedly, Ginny's gaze drifts from her mother back to Harry. She sees him swallow heavily (but again, in a this-had-to-happen-eventually sort of way), and she says: 'Well, Harry, actually.'
Her mother’s mouth opens, then. Closes. A few times. Molly’s brain seems to scour her memory for details, facts that might explain this - for a moment (a rather, triumphant moment, as far as Ginny is concerned), they seem to have made her mother speechless.
Nature hates a vacuum, though, as has been previously established, so the next words that file out of Ginny's mouth are said on instinct, without too much thought, just to fill the silence between the three of them, unwarranted. 'It was his mother's,' she says.
And, after (after the yelling, and the speech, and the 'You could have told us!' - although, 'Oh, it was your mother's, Harry dear,' - and, after the stern look that Bill gives them which Ginny knows is fake), her mum bakes pie, that day. When her dad gets home from the Ministry, there is a moment of confusion, then an awkward explanation, and he pauses for a second or two before firmly shaking Harry's hand. By then, The Boy Who Lived has turned into a soft shade of embarrassed and nervous scarlet, and her father, rather solemnly, invites him over to the sitting room with a tumbler of Firewhiskey. George laughs (that is rare - it almost sounds like a memory) and, 'Ah, I bloody knew it!' he says ('Language, George!'). And, that summer, the day when Harry and she become a 'thing,' is the day when sprinkles of the old 'normal' start blending into the new. She misses Fred, that day more than ever, because this is a snippet of their lives that he’ll never get to see, but maybe, they've started to feel a little less scared, recently. She and Harry wanted to see how long her mother would take to figure things out but she couldn't have found out, not before now. They weren’t ready. None of them were.
Late that evening, Harry stands outside, look cast out to the garden - his trainers shuffle the grass under his feet. 'It wasn't that bad,' he admits. The both of them stand close but don't touch; he looks up and finds her gaze. 'I wasn't sure you knew.'
Ginny smiles. The tips of her fingers dance over the back of his hand until he relents, lets them wrap around his. 'How could I not?' she asks.
He shrugs. Sometimes, she forgets that he didn’t grow up here. That he doesn’t know that every kid in their world knows that his mother was born on the 30th of January and died on the 31st of October 1981, that in less than five years, they’ll both be older than she could ever be.
This, right there, is the sad part, Ginny knows. One of the many sad parts, as a matter of fact. Because today, Ginny’s mother found out about them, and she got to yell and to smile, and to give aggravated looks all at once, in a way that Lily never will. His mother, she left a birthstone and a gold necklace behind her, but she’ll never get to hug her son again, never get to watch him, eighteen and shy, as he kisses a girl under the moonlight. And, because of that, that evening, Ginny grips at the chain that rests against her skin harder than she ever has before, like something missing that they’ll never get back. Harry will never have the things she has (her father walking her down the aisle, her mother weeping on Bill’s shoulder, sobbing, ‘My little girl!’) but Ginny, well, she’ll never be anyone’s daughter-in-law. That fact, that simple, tangible fact, makes her heart ache in a way that it never has before. Now that they can touch, she feels her left hand squeezing his fingers in the dark.
'I found it in their vault a few summers ago,' he explains, speaks again, apropos of everything and nothing, to fill the empty space between them. He’s looking at the ground. 'I wasn’t sure you’d want it,’ he admits. ‘If I told you it was hers.'
'Why?' she asks. 'Because she's gone?'
And, that seems odd, in her head. She wonders what he thought. Wonders if perhaps, it was a fear of bad luck. Or if maybe, he thought she’d be scared, scared like people who fear the dead, forgetting that it is always the living who try to kill you. In the dark, next to her, Harry stares straight ahead. Watching the side of his face, she notices his Adam's apple bob in his throat. 'It's a lot, Gin.'
And, ‘Yeah,’ she thinks, says. Maybe, it is. Between them, she gives his hand a little squeeze again. And, in the end, the fact that she agrees does seem to surprise him, surprise him enough that their looks finally meet. 'I wear Fred’s watch, you know?’ she breathes. ‘I chose you, Harry. I can handle this. Past and present, I can handle you. I'm a lot, too.'
He looks at her, then, and something grazes his mouth, something between a sigh and a smile. He looks straight into her eyes. 'I think I'm in love with you,' he says.
And, it's her turn, now, to feel her own look narrow, facing his. They've never talked about it - not really – because their relationship has always been something a bit special, like its own, safe, little bubble that they were afraid to burst. Yet, suddenly, it dawns on her and it’s glaringly obvious: this - this - is what love is, but how could they have known? How do you know to put words on something that you've never felt before, like you're burning a candle and trying to describe its smell for the first time? Harry's rare smile is slightly nervous, watching her, and when Ginny looks at him, she finds that maybe, hers is, too. It's scary - this beautiful, fragile thing that they've both jumped head-first into after the armistice was called. They didn't think about it too much, after the war ended, but here they are, a year later, and the feelings that they've let grow have a name that they can't hold back, not anymore. It's grounding - love - like a frozen mountain lake or a cosy winter fire - peaceful and steady, until it runs wild and tries to kill you.
Well, dear big, scary world, she thinks. Try me. Try us. The whole lot of you against the whole lot of us. We're a fucking lot, too.
That night, Ginny nods at Harry and kisses him in the dark.
'You know what?' she says. 'I think I am, too.'
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[fic: like fire in the rain] - [hinny ficfest may 2021]
Thanks so much to @clarensjoy for organising and to @efikeff for suggesting I take this prompt! I’ve decided to bring back the three-sentence-fic format from 2016 (old school, haha) so this is #78 “truth or dare” in three sentences.
Rating: strong t [i mean, this is slightly steamy what can i say]
Wordcount: 409 words
TW: none that i can think of
Her mouth drags against his skin, slow over the hollow space at the base of his neck, a small dip between the muscles in his shoulders and his collarbone, the raw stubble that tickles her tongue at the sharp edge of his jaw, a drizzle of invisible scars that years spent battling fear and hunger left in their wake. Sometimes, she bites her lip (hard), thinks that she might challenge him, ask about the Ministry or about Dumbledore, or about all the things that he’s being taught and won’t talk about (the ones that Ron and Hermione discuss in hushed whispers late into night); in her head, Ginny explores the scene like she would if she scribbled it on a piece of parchment, the words he’d say and the words she’d say, her tone quick and assertive: ‘Tell me the truth,’ she’d declare like there were no other options, like that day when she glared at him (fourteen years old and brave) and coolly said: ‘Lucky you.’
With her back to the wall, in May ‘97, in a room of requirement that, for once, Harry's only dreamt up as a broom closet, her teeth hover next to his ear and instead she mutters: ‘Truth or -’ like something bold and heavy, like the questions she hides in her silences - he cuts her off with a kiss, one that draws her face back to his, wet and hungry, and grinning, and -
‘Dare,’ he speaks his response in a breath; she feels the air against her cheek and laughs, teasingly draws up the long list of her demands, dirty suggestions that make his pulse quicken when her gaze catches his (’you’re serious -’ he says, swallowing), and Ginny isn’t naive, knows that a war is coming, knows that he is only hers in a time and space that is likely to be finite, so what matters is a movement, the air in her lungs and the touch of his fingers on her hips, the fact that now (right now), she can still feel his heart beat against her palm - she has nightmares, sometimes, nightmares about -
and always, the words, her questions and his confessions don't compare to her truth (her cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die truth), the one that reminds the world that she is a Gryffindor and that while she is courageous, she isn't fearless, so perhaps blaming him would be unfair: if he asked her, she’d choose 'dare,' too.
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He is Tenya Iida. He is 5’8 in bare feet. He is 19. He is a Hero in training. He is in class 3-A.
He is empty.
He is empty until he’s not. Until he’s dying with anxiety crawling like worms in his stomach. These nights he doesn’t sleep much. Discarded the sleeping hat, he isn’t a child anymore. It’s like the days are in his palms. He can count the hours on each finger, will plan accordingly and will still be forever out of time.
He drinks hot, calming tea by the dozen. Hopes it’ll calm him in the wake of a nightmare, where the bridge between fiction and reality is thin like a veil. He sees his monsters in the shadows of the night, teeth flickering and bared in the moonlight slanting through the windows. The kitchen will be empty to any other person, but to Tenya it is loud, and frightening.
“You aren’t like you used to be,” Ochako says. Her fingers flutter over a scar on his chest absentmindedly. soft, light, still. She is everything that’s good, her brown eyes carrying love. The soft flutter of her touch. The salvation that rests between her teeth. The way Jerusalem is to be found in her inner corners.
He loves her, still, though it’s not as fierce as before. Somewhere along the way, his ability to feel anything other than fear, diminished. Like a lightbulb fading out, or hot water cooling down.
He finds not the smile he so desperately hopes to give her. Instead he collapses inwards, like a crumbling building. The screams swallowed by the noise of the debris. He is going to be eaten by this world. Whole and alive. Bone rubbing against teeth. Whose teeth will it be? Which villain will eat and spit him back out mangled and broken and dead?
So he turns from her, crawls underneath his comforter. Lies heavy and still. Imagines being buried by sand so he never has to rear his head again. Imagines being safe. Imagines a world where he can move on without the fear. It’s drowning him. Hard waves flush over him like a wall of bricks.
Tenya hasn’t worn his glasses in two years. Not since the glass broke right into his eye. He wears only lenses now. Nothing's the same anymore. Not his costume. Not the way he styles his hair. Everything is to adapt to safety. To survive gunshots. To survive knife wounds.
He isn’t big on protocol anymore. He used to be, once upon a time, when he believed protocol was still a way of life. It wasn’t until he got older that between saving lives, and saving his own, there is no such thing as protocol. It rotted away under his palms like a plant. Rusted up like an old silver chain. Nothing matters. Nothing matters and he’s afraid.
The soft of his ribs tie itself in knots, his heart rate is always too high. He becomes sick a lot. Trembles in her arms like a shivering baby, fresh from God.
When he takes to cigarettes with shaking hands, everyone is surprised.
“You smoke?” Asks Denki. His nose is bleeding, he’s got a huge bruise on the side of his face, blooming on his skin like an orchid. “I thought you were huge on the,” he air-quotes, “‘your body is a temple’ bullshit.”
The rest of the class, in shambles, bleeding and broken, agree.
He is. He is. He was. He gives Denki an uneasy laugh, one that slips unbidden to his throat as he lights the cigarette and brings it to his mouth and inhales all the way to his lungs. He imagines the smoke fills him up completely, from the top of his head, to the tip of his toes.
“It’s for the nerves.” He says.
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Ficlet: Sleep, and a Rainy Morning
For @gumnut-logic, who wanted Virgil. I may be the newbie, but I am learning that is not too much of a surprise for anyone.
This might be boring - I don’t know are we cool with just following them around the villa for no reason? Hope so. Enjoy this quiet morning/slice of life with some H/C undertones. Also, coincidentally, this is exactly 700 words
Virgil awoke to the sounds of rain tapping against the glass of the broad windowpanes that separated their island villa from the exposures of the tropics. It wasn’t the downpour they were anticipating last night when they closed all of the windows, at least not yet it wasn’t. So, he welcomed the soothing pitter-patter as his lashes fluttered his dreams away to make room for consciousness.
Sleep. Sleep was nice.
The organic progression to awareness was a welcome reprieve from the many days of aggressive transition from asleep to awake, prompted by too-cheerful-for-mornings brothers or by the shrieking of the IR klaxon. Into his pillow, he hummed a few notes of the melody dancing around in is head before he reluctantly rose, leaving the cloud soft comfort of the previous night behind to start his day.
The night’s sleep had quelled the soreness in his strained muscles, but it was hard to ignore the persistent ache that remained in his neck and shoulders from the tropical storm that decided to start an argument with Thunderbird 2 the day before. Hopefully, the incoming storm would be kinder to Tracy Island that she had been with Virgil and his girl.
Turbulence was a bitch.
Gently, carefully, he stretched, holding back the wince before he realized he was alone. Somehow, the groan seemed to help.
Once he cleaned up a bit and dressed, finding a white tee to accompany his pajama bottoms – the grey ones with the piano keys down the side - he made his way to the kitchen where the promise of caffeine lingered in the aroma of nutty coffee, freshly brewed. Scott would have made a full pot a few hours previous once back from his run - or rather, his date with the treadmill due to the rain.
The pot was only half full by the time Virgil greeted it, plenty for Virgil to fill his cup and come back for a second helping. He dug through the cabinet before finding his third favorite mug, which was a gift from John last Christmas. I’m sorry for what I said before coffee. The others must have been in the dishwasher with their dirty dishes.
The warmth of the coffee raced through ceramic to his fingertips, breathing gentle fire into his skin. He continued humming into the delightful, welcoming scent, letting the steam blend with the melody, as he walked into the lounge.
“…coming down on a sunny day,” sang a strained voice from the recliner.
“Huh?” The caffeine clearly hadn’t taken hold yet and the voice surprised him. The lounge had been so quiet he thought it was empty.
“The tune you’re humming.” Ah, so it was. “I don’t see any sun around here, Virg,” Gordon jested lightly. Tired Virgil was; oblivious he was not: the smile never reached his brother’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Virgil’s fingers twitched with the desire to assess and he knelt next to Gordon, running a hand through his hair to hide the fact that he was really checking his temperature. But Gordon was not oblivious either and he knew Virgil’s tricks, better than Virgil probably knew them himself.
“Oh, stop, Virgil. It’s just the pressure system.”
Virgil nodded in sympathy, but he did not fail to notice the heating pad peeking out from behind his brother’s lower back. The storm incoming would be wreaking havoc with Gordon’s sensitive back, probably already had been for a while.
“Do you want anything?”
“A new spine?” It was as close as Gordon would get to admitting the pain he was in and Virgil knew it. “No,” he sighed, “not at the moment. Just sit with me for a bit?”
“Sure thing, squid.” Sitting with Gordon was familiar. He knew the frustrated sighs of boredom, could pinpoint the exact tone of which sounds were signs of larger issues and which ones were exhaustion. Gordon would be ok. Eventually.
By the time Virgil’s cup was empty, Gordon’s occasional winces had eased into the steady breathing of slumber. Virgil checked the recliner’s positioning before nodding his approval, then retrieved a knit blanket from the couch to tuck around him.
Outside the storm had begun to rage. Time for that second cup.
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combo prompts! Rafael with #14 "starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion" & #18 "kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap" but Rafael ends up on readers lap? flip the narrative on the grumpy lawyer 😌 please and thank you.
You were sitting on the couch next to Rafael, files and paperwork scattered on the coffee table. You were working on your own thing, as was he, but you enjoyed the company. Plus, it was nice when you had someone to bounce ideas off of.
You reached across each other, and slowly moved closer and closer. It got to the point where your arms were brushing, and you let out a little laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Rafael asked, smirking.
“You’re almost in my lap, Raf,” you replied.
He chuckled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe I would,” you teased.
He gave you an amused look before giving you a soft kiss. You smiled against his lips, kissing him back. Grabbing his hips, you pulled Rafael into your lap, and he laughed softly. You looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, before you tugged his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. Your tongues danced together as you made out like horny teenagers, breaking apart only to chuckle in giddiness.
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Could you share more thoughts about the intro and the possibility of aftercare?
Hello, nonnie! I like you! XD
Starting off with why this whole moment reeks of aftercare potential: consider the way that Ian's entire focus is on Mickey, watching him – watching over him – with that small, fond smile on his face, while Mickey is, unusually, not paying Ian any real attention, but is seemingly slightly lost in content (un)thought instead, like he's happy but maybe a little bit out of it? (Hello, subspace.) And then Ian's immediate and rather aggressive reaction when We, The Intruder appears; he gets up to physcially chase us out and close the door (protective much, dom top daddy?) while Mickey remains quiet on the bed, uncharacteristically passive. What other possibility is there but aftercare?
… yeah, okay, I'm sure there are ways to read this scene that does not involve Ian taking care of Mickey while Mickey's coming down from a scene, but I'm personally not really seeing it, you know? Terribly limited imagination, me. 😏
Anyway. While the canonicity of the intros is... well, isn't... I think there's quite a bit of potential in blithely ignoring that to instead try to determine exactly when this moment – that absolutely did happen! – takes place. Just makes for some interesting possbilities, you know?
See, we know that they're in their new place and that they haven't switched the air mattress for Ian's old one yet; that gives us only a very few nights to play with. (Bear with me, I'm halfway sure it's worth sorting this out.)
The morning of 11x11 has very strong first morning in a new flat vibes (with Ian wanting to check out the amenities and Mickey wanting to sort out the practical shit) and given Mickey's general unhappiness with moving, I just don't see them getting up to that sort of stuff on the eve they moved in. Then all of 11x11 takes place during one single day and the last we see of Ian and Mickey then is them getting handsy in their old room. Prior to 11x12 I rather thought they'd spend that night at the Gallagher house, but Mickey noting that they came there to get some of Ian's stuff when Ian has the gall to protest him stealing Debbie's potato masher in 11x12 suggests they arrived there in the morning for that express purpose and thus can be assumed to have spent the night (their second on the West Side) in their own apartment. Considering that they pick up Ian's old mattress and the intro happens with them on the air mattress, I'd argue that we can confidently place that sweet scene either on the night between 11x11 or, possibly, on the night after the anniversary party. (Because they'd want to install the proper mattress as quickly as possibly, sure, but if they don't go home between picking it up and the party I doubt they'll be in the right state to get it up and into their bedroom once they finally stagger home that night.)
Of these two options, I'm leaning towards the former, i.e. the night following them making up and agreeing to stay on the West Side. (After the party I see them being very eager and a bit drunk and not really interested in anything advanced – which would admittedly explain why they might, say, forget their keys in the lock and leave the door open, allowing a concerned neighbor to wander into their apartment. Anyway, I imagine a lot of highly enthusiastic but not necessarily very imaginative sex that night.)
And it's just rather easy to picture it right after 11x11, you know? They're in their old room, kissing and kissing; Mickey has shifted to straddle Ian's thighs. After a little while Ian pulls back, just a little.
”Wanna take this back to our place?” he says and Mickey might have asked if they have to do it right now when things were just about to get real interesting, but he sees the hopeful look on Ian's face so he just smiles: ”Sure.”
So they drive back – home – and maybe they don't say all that much to each other on the way? Things are not tense, not anymore, not at all, but there's something between then; something almost shy, maybe; expectant. As they park the car and move up the stairs Mickey can feel Ian sneaking glance after glance at him and the moment they're through the door, Ian grabs hold of his shoulder and pushes him against the wall, kissing him, kissing him, and pouring all of himself and all of his love for Mickey into that kiss.
Mickey smiles widely into it, the way he often does. He has his hands on Ian's arms and after a while he tries to push back, going for that old back and forth they so often engage in, but Ian doesn't budge at all. He holds Mickey in place, gaze steady and sure and intent as he pulls back just slightly to look at his husband.
Mickey raises one eyebrow, because, oh, okay, it's like that, huh? A particular and familiar shiver runs through his body, anticipation mingling with glee and raw desire. Bring it the fuck on.
Ian brings it the fuck on. Maybe there are restraints and long, slow, deliberate but very loving teasing. Maybe there's dirty words and commands and endearments murmured while pale fingers twists sharply in dark hair. Maybe they have fun playing barbarian and put upon husband putting him in his place. Either way, Ian's entire focus is on Mickey and all the things that make Mickey feel good. It's a very particular sort of makeup sex, perhaps, but that's what it is, really. Or... maybe it's less Ian trying to make amends and more him assuring Mickey, in the language they've both always understood perfectly, that Mickey is seen and known and loved for all that he is, and that he'll always be centre of Ian's world. No need to change; no need to hide.
Once they're (un)done, Ian helps Mickey to his feet. (I believe it's @whatwouldmickeydo who noted that they can't well get up to anything very energetic at all on that unreliable air mattress, so they've probably been getting busy elsewhere? In the kitchen maybe, where there are convenient counters. Not like they're unused to fucking in places other than the bedroom, so they make do.) Holds him steady against his chest with one arm while he pours him a glass of water with the other. Runs his hand down Mickey's naked back while he drinks.
”You good?” Ian asks once the glass is empty, but Mickey just grunts something intellligble and buries his face in Ian's shoulder. Not incapable of speech, you see; just utterly uninterested in it at the moment.
Ian smiles, privately, fondly, and presses a soft kiss to his husband's damp hair before helping him into their bedroom (after grabbing a convenient chocolate bar for when Mickey starts coming back to himself). Wipes them both down; brings out two pairs of clean boxers; guides Mickey down onto the mattress, never once breaking physical contact.
If there are marks that need seeing to, they are seen to. There are words of reassurance and praise and love. There are little pecks pressed to Mickey's swollen and slack lips, gentle fingers brushing over his face, a blanket pulled up to cover them both. Ian puts his arm across Mickey's chest in half an embrace and smiles as Mickey's hand shifts to rest on it. They lie there, Mickey still floating on feeling so very safe and sore and cherished, and Ian watching him like he's the only person that matters in the whole world; the only person that exists.
(At least until Mickey blinks a few times and stretches his neck from side to side, giving Ian a very much present look as he notes something along the lines of damn gallagher, couldn't you have pulled this shit last night, I'd've been out like a fucking candle and Ian snorts and retorts that he's not out like a fucking candle now so shut up and have some chocolate asshole ❤️)
Those are some of my thoughts, nonnie. Thank you for asking. <3
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How would you feel about writing something short with Lukanette and Kitty Section? I just love their dynamic so much and you wrote them so well in your LBO AU that I can’t help but want more ☺️
I don’t think this is exactly what you meant, but I did write a piece that fits the description a long time ago (soon after “Silencer”):
For the rest of Kitty Section, seeing Luka and Marinette hanging out one-on-one was both a blessed and confusing experience. It was impossible to describe, but there was something about the two of them that was inherently comfortable.
None of them had honestly seen Marinette so comfortable before. They'd seen headstrong Marinette, fashion-driven Marinette, and “Adrien crush” Marinette, but when she was with Luka, it seemed like a completely different Marinette.
Or, perhaps that wasn't accurate. It wasn't that Marinette acted unlike herself or behaved wholly differently from what any of them had expected. Rather, they could see just herself, in full, when she was with Luka.
They'd heard about what had gone on before Luka had gotten akumatized. That was the Marinette who never backed down; the Marinette who defended her friends to the very end.
They'd seen her get lost in her work, particularly when she was making costumes for them. Every time her drawing speed slowed, she'd glance over at Luka, he'd glance back, and it was like her energy was renewed, just like that.
They'd noticed the way that Marinette would blush around him, and how she'd smile like Luka had just offered her the world. It wasn't like what would happen with Adrien.
She was at peace; happy. She stammered on occasion when Luka had caught her off guard, but she could really talk to him. She could relax around him.
Around Luka, Marinette's positive traits were given center stage.
Rose and Juleka figured that they'd watched too many romantic movies; too much of couples who had to fight to be together and how they had to go through so many conflicts and misunderstandings because that's what was "interesting." That led into how they'd viewed Marinette: a girl who was destined to be with someone and how her stammering and awkwardness proved it, but she just needed to jump through enough hoops to get what she wanted.
Seeing Marinette with Luka though, they thought that this was much more interesting. There was something inherently pure about their relationship, and it made them wish they could understand what Marinette and Luka were saying when they stared wordlessly at each other.
They'd never seen Marinette smile so much. Honestly, it made them feel guilty. They felt guilty for all the time and energy they put into plans that just ended badly for her. In a way, they'd never quite forgive themselves for letting Alya string them along into inadvertently making Marinette miserable.
Not to mention, it'd been a slow road to understanding all of that. They were only teens, after all. They couldn't have been expected to have everything figured out from the get-go.
Ivan had been their first hint that things were wrong. Despite how Marinette acted around Adrien, Ivan was completely oblivious to her crush on the guy until Marinette accidentally blurted it out to him one day. He'd become a close friend to her, what with all the time she spent with them, so perhaps it was inevitable.
Once Marinette had left the room, Ivan admitted to not knowing, and he'd been so sure that she was in love with Luka anyway. Juleka and Rose remember being surprised at the time, baffled at how he couldn't have known.
Yet, as time went on, it made more and more sense, because Ivan had a healthy, comfortable relationship with Mylene. He'd been shy around her beforehand, certainly, but it wasn't like he'd acted as awkward as Marinette, and he'd slowly grown into the steady, stress-free romance that he desired.
So of course Ivan couldn't tell that Marinette loved Adrien; he saw the ease in Luka and Marinette's relationship instead.
And with that, Rose and Juleka started to see it as well.
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6. + 10. if you can for the angst portion of the prompt list! and and!!! drum rolls ARMIN!
send me a prompt and a character !!
a/n: WHY ANGST AND WHY ARMIN- he doesn't deserve any of this ghostie ur getting BLACKLISTED ASDFGHJKMDSS
"change in mind or change in heart?" eren mumbles into your hair, thumb caressing your back mindlessly. you blink hazy, tired, body covered in sweat and you move closer to eren when the fan sends cool air your way- trying to take some of the heat that radiates off his body.
you take in his question only realize you can't answer and only shake your head in response. your eyes start to feel heavy and you try and will your body to move because you shouldn't be here.
however eren's body is so inviting and firm against yours and you can't help the way you fall into his warmth.
you jolt awake, legs kicking out under the sheets and brushing against eren's. you fumble for your phone to check the time and when it reads a bright 1:14AM, the gravity of the situation crashes into your chest.
"fuck!" you leap out of eren's bed and scramble for your clothes, you can't find your sock and you're pretty sure you're underwear is squished between eren and the wall. it's too late to try and fish for it and you're positive that when you open the door, you know what will greet you.
your heart pounds in your ears, a your stomach is caught in your throat, as the door creaks when you enter the living room of eren and armin's shared apartment.
the same sight you predicted is the same sight you fear.
armin sits on the couch, his hair in disarray as if he'd run his hands through it too many times. sniffles fill the air and your heart hurts each time it hits your ears.
"m-min," you start, and you always had so much pride in the fact that you weren't a liar- always one of your shining points, but in this moments you wish you could lie and lie and lie. just to make those blue eyes gleam with anything other than tears. "you weren't supposed to know i-"
he glances at you and you stop dead in your track, voice dying in your throat. you've seen those eyes, look confident, confused, hazy, blissed, happy- you've never seen them full of hatred, especially while being the one on the receiving end.
"i wasn't supposed to know?" he chuckles and it sounds so dark and empty and you don't think it'll ever leave your mind. and it'll ring through your mind like a chapel's bell. "not that is wasn't supposed to happen?" armin pushes himself off the couch, standing up and walking towards you and you've never been scared of him but the feeling inside of you is so close.
armin's voice is so hollow as he looks you dead in the eye, the ice blue freezing you in place and will never let you forget this moment; the moment you broke him. "fuck you."
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Hey lovely 19 kissing prompts with Rafi please
kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing
You were at your desk in the precinct, filling out paperwork by light of your desk lamp. All the other detectives had gone home, except for Olivia. Rafael was also there, at first to work on a case with Liv, but now he was just chatting, waiting for you to finish. Whenever that was.
Eventually, Rafael gets bored waiting for you, and Liv wants to go home. But you’re nowhere near done. Sighing, Rafael leaves Liv’s office and makes his way to you.
“Let’s go home, amor. Eat some dinner and relax,” he says gently.
You huff, not looking up. “I’ve still got work to do.” You glance up at him, giving him a soft smile. “You can go if you want; don’t wait up for me.”
“I’m not leaving without you. Come on; you can bring this stuff home--”
“You know we have a ‘bring-no-work-home’ rule.”
He grins at you. “We also have a ‘don’t-overwork-yourself’ rule.”
“I’m not! I’m fine, promise.”
You go back to work to make your point, ignoring Rafael, who comes around the desk to lean down next to you.
“Don’t you do it,” you warn, trying not to smile.
“Do what?” he asks before moving closer and kissing your cheek. His lips make it to the shell of your ear before you huff.
“Distract me,” you grunt.
Rafael chuckles in your ear before moving to kiss your neck. “I’m not.”
You hate that he has this affect on you--that he knew how to get you to stop working, every time. “Oh my god, fine! Let’s go home,” you groan.
He leans back, smirking at you. “Good, let’s go.”
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Hey love, can I please have 12 and 13 kissing prompts with Nick 🥰
a hoarse whisper “kiss me”
following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck
You were fast asleep when Nick came home from work. He shrugged out of his clothes, then climbed into bed next to you, trying not to disturb your sleep. But you always woke up when you felt Nick crawl into bed with you.
His arm snaked around your waist, and you grunted a hello. You turned your head for a kiss, and he kissed the corner of your mouth. You let out a little huff before rolling over to face him, eyes fluttering open.
“What kind of kiss was that?” you muttered, jokingly.
Nick chuckled in disbelief. “What?”
“Kiss me,” you ordered, voice thick with sleep. “A real kiss.”
He laughed again before leaning in and kissing you tenderly, his lips soft on yours. You tugged him closer, your mouths molding together perfectly.
Nick trailed his lips down your jaw until his lips were by your ear. “Was that a good enough kiss?” he whispered. You hummed in response. “How about this?”
He kissed the spot under your ear, then moved down your neck, licking and leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin. You let out a soft moan, rolling over onto your back and pulling Nick on top of you.
“I like those kisses,” you breathed, and Nick smirked against your neck. He continued kissing your neck and shoulder until your grabbed his face, pulling him back to your lips.
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Phantom of The Office - The Specter Delfector™
Dwight walked into the office, swaying his hips in a way that was definitely very manly. He paraded to his desk clump, confidently propping a leg on his chair with all the confidence of a peacock in heat, proudly showing off his latest acquisition.
"Aaahhhhhh, I feel so good today," he said loudly, pushing his pelvic forwards. "There’s nothing like a wardrobe change to lighten up a man’s mood."
Jim finally looked up from his paperwork, eyeing Dwight’s new belt doubtfully. The accessory was made entirely of metal, slightly glowing and overall very futuristic looking; a sharp contrast with Dwight’s austere 80’s office worker attire.
"I’m not going to ask you what this is," Jim said flatly.
Dwight chose to hear what he wanted.
"Very good question, thank you Jim. This is a Specter Deflector™," he explained with a very haughty tone, grasping the belt in both of his hands. "It’s specifically conceived to protect its wearer from a ghost’s touch in a very painful way."
"Hold on. Is it supposed to hurt you, or the ghost?"
"The ghost, you dumbass. Try to follow a bit, will you?"
"Are you sure? Because the way you put it, it sounds like you would be the one getting hurt."
"Pfff, of course not, why would it hurt me?" Dwight looked at the camera and shook his head, displaying an almost confident smile. "Idiot."
Discreetly, he turned the button at the center of the buckle, dampening the glow of the belt. Jim smirked at the camera.
Danny emerged from the lunch room not long after, sipping at a steaming cup of coffee. Despite his exhausted state, he caught Dwight’s pointed look rather quickly. Noticing the Specter Deflector™, he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Hey Dwight, what’s up?" He greeted awkwardly.
"Nothing," the salesman feigned nonchalance, giving a small shake to the device to make it catch the light. "Nothing at all."
Danny shrugged and resumed walking to his desk, his pace a bit stiff.
"Nice belt by the way. Where’d you find it? Etsy?" He asked conversationally.
"Fenton Works Online," Dwight gloated.
"Obviously," the temp grumbled, plumping down on his chair.
— — —
"Of course I’m not scared of Dwight and his stupid belt," Danny told the camera, his annoyance poorly contained. "This thing is a scam. In fact, everything from that shop is a scam, because ghosts don’t exist."
— — —
It took a few seconds for Danny to register Dwight’s shadow looming over his desk. He let out an involuntary scream as he jumped to his feet, quickly getting away from the salesman.
"Wh-what are you doing here?" He stammered.
“Just making sure you’re crunching those numbers correctly. Why, is there a problem with me being right here, so close to you?” Dwight asked with an obnoxious smirk.
Danny backed off as far as he could, oblivious to Meredith’s pleasure to his bumping into her.
“No, all good," Danny gulped. "Why don’t you go over what I just worked on while I go grab a snack?” He suggested, slowly edging away, bending in awkward ways to get out of the narrow space without so much as brushing against Dwight.
His efforts were painful to watch, and Dwight seemed to enjoy every second of it. When the door closed after the temp, Dwight shot an ominous smile at Jim.
— — —
“Wow. I’m really, really impressed,” Jim confided to the camera. “I didn’t think Danny would get so invested in the prank. Where did he learn to act that well?”
— — —
Jim found Danny busy fixing himself a peanut butter sandwich in the lunchroom. He looked through the window, making sure that Dwight was busy with a phone call before addressing the temp.
“I didn’t know you were that good of an actor,” Jim complimented as he reached for the cupboard above Danny to grab a mug.
Danny scooted a bit to the side to get out of the way. He didn’t look up, too busy applying a good, thick coat of paste on his bread.
"What do you mean?”
“What you did just now, with Dwight,” Jim clarified as he headed towards the coffee pot.
The younger man looked at him quizzically before realization hit him.
“You’re good, you’re really good," Jim complimented, oblivious to Danny’s confusion. "And the FentonWorks Online idea? It’s genius. I didn’t think you would get as far as making a fake website to sell him fake ghost hunting equipment,” he went on as he filled his mug.
“Yeah well… I didn’t expect him to find it that fast,” Danny muttered.
If Jim heard him, he didn’t show any sign of it.
“Where did you get the idea for the ‘Specter Deflector™’?" He kept on praising, swirling his freshly served coffee. "When I asked you to join me to prank Dwight I thought we’d use ouija boards and cheap tricks. But that much initiative? Astounding.”
Danny laughed awkwardly.
“Er… We’re a step ahead in Amity Park on all the ghost stuff, you know? Gotta cash in on the tourist trap and all. My folks got a lot of crazy ideas like that,” he explained, rubbing his neck.
“So pranking is a family trade? Amazing. I’m so glad the temp agency sent you to spice up life in here. Can’t wait to see what he’ll get next from your website!”
Jim taped Danny on the shoulder before returning to the open space area.
“Well I can,” Danny grumbled once the door had closed after him. "I could wait until way after that contract is over."
— — —
Danny looked very bored at his desk. Staring up in space, he was absentmindedly balancing a pencil on the back of his index finger when a wisp of condensation escaped his lips. The pencil clattered on the wooden surface as a shiver made him go rigid with alarm. Danny looked around, surveying his surroundings, before swiftly getting to his feet. Hands in his pockets, he crossed the open space at a brisk pace, heading for the door.
Dwight immediately caught on his strange behavior. Evidently delighted at the opportunity he was just offered, he ran to the entrance and managed to cut Danny’s path right before he reached the door.
"Where’re you going?" He asked smugly.
"I got a phone call," Danny answered matter of factly.
"Why don't you take it here? You’re allowed to take private calls," Dwight argued, very well aware it was just an excuse.
Danny’s tone became very serious, the underlying threat evident.
"I’m not letting you go anywhere on office time without a valid reason," Dwight ignored him, unfazed. "Unless you’re ready to admit to everyone that you’re a ghost?" He continued louder, making sure to catch everyone’s attention.
"I really don’t have time for this," Danny frowned, reaching forward to shove him aside.
However, he wasn’t accounting for Dwight’s years of martial art practice and lightning fast reflexes. While Danny’s hand was still on his upper arm, Dwight turned back on the Specter Deflector™.
Danny jerked back with a cry.
"What the fuck Dwight?!"
The salesman ignored him. Instead, he turned to Jim:
"Told you it hurts the ghost and not the wearer!" Dwight gloated, pointing a finger at his colleague, before addressing Danny. "And you— Hey, where are you going?"
Evidently not ready to try to bypass Dwight a second time, Danny was already half way trough the open space when Dwight gave chase.
He pursued Danny all the way to the bathroom. The camera stayed fixated on the closed door, not allowed to follow inside. Beyond it, clatter could be heard as stalls after stalls were violently opened. Dwight finally emerged after half a minute, stomping back to the open space.
"It’s empty," he proclaimed, victoriously. "Again."
— — —
"I knew it! This was the very proof I needed! You recorded it all, right?" Dwight bragged excitedly to the camera. "Have you seen how he jumped? And how he vanished? No one can say he’s not a ghost now. No one!"
— — —
"Why are you all so fixated on wether or not Danny is ghost? He said it himself, those ghost stories from Amity are all fake," Angela brushed the question aside. "Why don’t we talk about more important subjects? Did you know that there’s an estimated 70 million feral cats in the US? Huh? 70 million homeless balls of love who deserve all the petting in the world? Why does no one talk about that?"
— — —
"Which one is Danny again?" Creed blinked at the camera.
— — —
Jim shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, a bemused smile lighting up his features.
"Gotta say the kid’s good. He’s really good."
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Whumpay day 8- waking up
a continuation for the day 7 prompt
Anakin could feel consciousness tugging at his mind, but he resisted, squeezing his eyes shut instead of opening them. He reached out with his other senses, reached out into the force to learn more about his surroundings.
The first thing that he noticed was that everything hurt. And while some spots hurt more than others, there wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache in some kind of way.
The next thing he noticed was that he was cold. The ground that he was laying on was damp, cold, and clammy. As was the air, which managed to be both humid and cold, and made his chest feel heavy. Judging from the scent, he figured that he was probably in some kind of cell again, but he didn’t dare to open his eyes.
If he opened his eyes, then Maul would know that he was awake and he would come back. He would come back and drag Anakin out of the cell, kick him, throw him against the wall when he didn’t comply, bring the blade of his saber up to his neck to threaten him into silence and submission.
He could hear footsteps coming from down the hallway. They were getting closer. And Anakin made sure that he was as still as possible.
But his face changed slightly when he realized that it wasn’t Maul that was approaching him. There wasn’t a warning from the force, but he couldn’t be sure who it was.
At first he thought it was Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan had never felt... so dark in the force before. Cold. He wasn’t sure, but something didn’t seem right.
The door to the cell opened, and Anakin lay there, perfectly still, hoping that he would soon be dragged back down into unconsciousness instead of having to wait, wait until Maul did it for him.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispered as he rushed into the cell and knelt down by his side.
Anakin’s eyes finally opened, and he tried to push himself up, but Obi-Wan pressed him back down with a concerned look on his face.
Or, at least Anakin thought he looked concerned, but he mostly looked blurry, and Anakin tried to blink several times to get his eyes to focus.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin whispered in shock, waves of relief washing over him.
“We need to get you out of here,” he replied as he eyed the blood that was staining Anakin’s robes.
“Do you think you can stand?” He asked and Anakin didn’t answer, but instead tried to push himself up again on shaky limbs, moving to his knees and then finally being helped up by Obi-Wan, who gripped his arm and waist tightly when he swayed to the side, dark spots clouding his vision.
Anakin whimpered. And he would have been more embarrassed if he wasn’t in so much pain, and so dizzy that he didn’t know which way was up.
“How much blood have you lost?” Obi-Wan asked as he moved to adjust his grip on Anakin.
“What?” Anakin whispered, doing his best to breathe slowly and evenly, his head resting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“Too much, it seems,” Obi-Wan muttered and began to walk forward, supporting Anakin with each step that he took as they slowly made their way out of the compound that Maul had tried to trap them in.
“Where’s-” Anakin began but then swallowed thickly. “Where’s Maul?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Obi-Wan replied, looking over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“Just focus on getting out of here.”
“‘m trying,” Anakin muttered, but his body felt heavy, and his head was pounding, and his ears were ringing, and his legs felt as if the weren’t attached to him at all.
And then with a soft groan, Anakin swayed again, his eyes fluttering shut as he lost consciousness again, the last thing he heard was Obi-Wan begging him to stay awake.
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Day 5: Future (41 A.D.)
As he drains the last of his wine, Crowley is surprised by the realisation that he has been cold for a good while. He fights against a shiver, glances upwards, and… no, surely not. It feels like only a moment ago the sun was blazing, high in the sky—but now, it’s dipped below the horizon, the herald of twilight. The other outside tables have been vacated, and there’s the background noise of the bar being tidied—the floor being swept, the clink of glasses being put away—in anticipation of the fast approaching closing time.
Crowley moves from his seat with reluctance. “’Spose we’d better head, angel.”
The very obvious pout on Aziraphale’s face is a delight to witness. After Petronius’s, they had rambled on to other bars, conversation flowing with just as much ease as the wine had; throughout the day, Crowley noticed with growing glee that Aziraphale became less and less adept at diluting his feelings—whether ranting about the bureaucracy of Upstairs or enthusing about the latest human discovery—so that his every expression was illuminating. (Beautiful.)
“Good Lord,” Aziraphale exclaims, squinting at the sky like it’s playing tricks on him, “it can’t be that time, surely.”
Aziraphale blinks repeatedly. “Well,” he says. “My goodness.” Then, faintly, a dumbstruck undertone: “Time flies…”
Another realisation comes just as they’re leaving—Crowley glances back at their table, at the money they’ve left, and can’t shake the feeling that something is missing…
“Oh, bollocks,” Crowley says stupidly. “My glasses.”
Aziraphale looks at Crowley in initial bemusement, then snorts. “You did insist on wearing them on your head, my dear,” he says, through giggles. “I’m not surprised they fell off.”
“Oi, they looked good like that! Reckon it’ll catch on.”
“That remains to be seen.” Aziraphale’s eyes scan the path they took with diligence. “It’s still light enough, we could go back and check.”
“That’ll take ages,” Crowley argues, nevertheless silently touched at Aziraphale’s care shining through the tipsiness. “Don’t trouble yourself, angel.”
Aziraphale has one last look back, then nods. “Well, it’s not as if you need them right now, anyway,” he says, matter-of-fact, stepping closer so their arms brush together as they walk. “It’s just us.”
Crowley manages to make a vague noise of agreement through his heart abruptly skipping a beat.
“Now, there’s no hope of you getting a free room at this time,” Aziraphale continues. Crowley gets the impression that he’s speaking briskly so that his words won’t falter and grind to a halt. “And we can’t…” He gestures to their weaving gaits. “Well, you know, we can’t miracle properly like this. And I’ll—I’ll not have you oust some poor soul from their lodgings through a shoddy miracle you—wily. Something. Ah. So. You can—well, I already have a room if you’re… amenable.”
Crowley smiles. It’s a transparent excuse; he knows they could quite easily sober up and go their separate ways. But Aziraphale’s arm is warm against his and Rome is… undeniably pretty in the dusk.
“All right,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale beams. “O-oh! Jolly good, then. You know,” and he links arms with Crowley, directing him towards the hotel, “there’s a market nearby. We could visit tomorrow, get you a new pair of glasses.”
Tomorrow. Crowley is struck by how Aziraphale says it: the certainty, the joy that they’re seeing each other again.
“Tomorrow,” Crowley echoes, and keeps smiling for the rest of the walk.
also on ao3
Good Omens Celebration 2021 Theme Calendar
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cutting away memories
here, i wrote a thing about claire (317 words)
read on ao3
It was a rash decision, buying the hair clipper. Grabbing it on her way to get some antiseptic. Paying for it at the register. Antiseptic, a can of soda and the hair clipper, all in a plastic bag. That’s what she left the store with. And she wasn’t thinking about it.
It wasn’t until she was standing in the motel bathroom, her wounds tended to, that she remembered it. The hair clipper. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, determined and scared at the same time, the long blonde curls weighing her down. It was a conscious decision, taking her pocket knife and cutting off a handful of hair. Holding it in her hand, staring at it and letting it fall down to the floor. She would have to clean that up later, but that wasn’t the most pressing concern now. The most pressing concern was getting rid of her hair.
She didn’t know when the tears stared flowing down her cheeks. She didn’t know when the memories started flooding her mind. Didn’t know when, with every cut, she started seeing her mother braid her hair, seeing her father ruffle through it, hearing their voices, about how she looked like an angel, their little angel. Before they’d met an actual angel. She was cutting them away, all of them, all of the memories, all of the hair, until there was nothing left to cut.
She looked like a mess. She felt like a mess. The hair clipper wouldn’t clean that up, the mess inside her. But it cleaned up the mess on her head, leaving only few millimetres of hair, the buzz vibrating on her skin, and then it was done. Her hair was gone. She stared at her reflection in the mirror again. The determination was gone. Only the small, scared girl was left.
This wasn’t as cathartic as she’d hoped it to be.
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Sunday-Funday: Destiel Baby!Jack ficlet
Happy Mother's Day everyone!!!💕
Dean was expecting to have a nice, normal Sunday. Hopefully sleep in a bit, then make some pancakes, and later run to the hardware store so he can get some work done on the new bookshelves he's making Cas. What he wasn't expecting was to be awoken by the clang of pots and pans hitting the kitchen floor, at six thirty am.
And so Dean was out of the bed in a flash, weapon in hand, creeping towards the bedroom door. As he reached for the handle he heard the sound of laughter, followed by hurried shushing, drift down the hall. He instantly relaxed, shoulders drooping, weapon resting at his side.
Cas and Jack.
Dean released the breath he was holding with a laugh, as he tucked the knife back into his nightstand drawer. He glanced over at the clock on the wall.
Six thirty-five a.m.
What the hell where they doing up?
(read the rest under the cut)
Slowly, he padded towards the door, pulling it open an inch more.
"Jack we have to be extra quiet, so we don't wake up Daddy" he heard Cas warn, slightly muffled through the half closed door.
"Why?" Jack all but shouted, completely ignoring Cas' words. Dean chuckled fondly to himself.
"Because we're going to surprise him, remember? And if he wakes up before we finish, then the there's no surprise " Cas answered quietly, amusement dancing in his voice.
"Oh yeah! Shhhh" Jack whisper-shouted, earning another soft laugh from Dean.
And without the imminent threat of six am monsters or intruders breaking into his kitchen, he shuffled back to bed, flopping face-first onto his pillow. Dean tried to fall back asleep, but his brain had other ideas, so with a sigh he rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.
A surprise? What where they even surprising him for? It's not like anything extraordinary has happened lately, and it's definitely not his birthday.
Besides Dean is always the one who cooks breakfast, considering Cas is pretty much dead to the world until he gets at least three cups of coffee in him.
Not that Dean's not grateful for whatever they're planning, but it is six am on a Sunday and he was planning to sleep in a bit. Especially after the night he and Cas had yes-
But that thought was cut quickly short, by the sound of footsteps and whispers, carrying down the hallway.
Quickly, Dean threw the comforter back over his head, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Hey kid wanted to surprise him, who was he to deny him that joy?
Under the blanket, a smile spread across his lips, as he listened to the door creak open. There was some muffled whispers, followed by a moment of silence. And then
"Jack don't ju-"
And Dean would never know if Cas finished that warning or not, because suddenly there was a three year old flinging himself onto Dean's back.
So Dean shot up with an exaggerated "roar", squeezing Jack against his chest, which turned him into a laughing mess. He pressed a kiss to his hair, and glanced up at Cas who was smiling softly, holding a tray in his hands.
"Dee are you awake?"
"Yeah buddy, I think I'm awake now" Dean laughed, throwing a wink at Cas.
"Jack aren't you forgetting something?" Cas noted with a purposeful look.
"Oh!" And with that Jack leapt off the bed, running back into the kitchen. The two shared a laugh as Cas placed the tray on the nightstand, moving to sit on his side of the bed.
"Good morning" Cas smiled, pressing a sweet kiss to his husbands lips.
"Oh happy six am to you too, early bird" Dean teased with no real heat behind it, which only earned an eye roll from Cas.
"Sorry, we probably woke you up earlier, I dropped the a pan. And Jack ripped me out of bed at five am because he was too excited to wait until the sun came up apparently" Cas sighed begrudgingly causing Dean to pull his husband into his chest. Cas was a lot of things, but a morning person, he was not.
"Alright Sunshine, you'll get your coffee soon. And not that I don't love whatever this, but what's this all about, exactly?" Dean questioned, as Cas pulled away to look meet his eyes.
"You'll just have to wait for Jack to explain" Cas shrugged with a wink, tapping Dean on the nose like a little shit. What a dork
And as if on cue, Jack was barreling back into the room, scrambling across the comforter and into Dean's lap.
"Happy Mother's Day, Dee!" Jack cheered.
In his hands, he held out a little purple gift bag, with what looked like a pink heart scribbled on the front.
It's a Mother's Day present.
Dean froze. Unable to move everything but his eyes, which flicked from the bag, to Jack and finally landing on Cas, who gave him a wide smile.
Dean swallowed thickly, pushing down the emotions threatening to bubble over.
"Don't worry, you still get things for Father's Day too" Jack stage whispered causing them all to burst into laughter, effectively kicking Dean's brain back into gear.
"Thank you, buddy" Dean smiled, hoping it looked sincere, but he figured he was in the clear because Jack beamed back. So he slowly took the bag from Jack's hand.
"We made Mother's Day stuff at school, and I told Miss.Jones I didn't have a Mommy. But she said that's okay and that I could just give it to my Daddy instead" Jack explained excitedly, urging Dean to open the bag.
So with a slightly shaky hand, Dean reached inside, producing a very glittery card. Dean felt something rise in his throat as he surveyed the crayon covered paper.
"It's fishing! Look that's you and me!" Jack said, pointing to the drawing of what was supposed to be Dean and Jack sitting by the water, judging by the pound of blue glitter.
A few weeks ago, Dean brought Jack to a nearby lake to teach him how to fish with the little pole he bought him a while back. They didn't actually catch anything, but Jack didn't seem to mind, as he cared much more about the frog they saw jump into the water. The frog of course, made an appearance on the card too. Dean carefully unfolded the card, mindful of the glitter of course, and he felt tears prick in his eyes.
Happy Mother's Day, Daddy. Love Jack.
It was written on the inside, first part obviously by his teacher, but Jack had written his name by himself in purple crayon. With his signature backwards K, and a messy heart scribbled next to it.
And a warmth blossomed in his chest, quickly washing over him.
"I love it Squish, it looks incredible" Dean gushed with a watery smile, and Jack just pushed the bag closer to Dean in response. So he dug his hand back in, pulling out the green tissue paper.
And what he found inside was a little yellow flower, in a bright blue pot, clearly painted by Jack himself.
"Da already has lots of flowers outside, so you should get some too! So you get the Mother's Day gift! Oh! And Da helped me make pancakes and bacon too! Are you surprised?" Jack questioned, jumping in his lap.
And with that, Dean let the tears in his eyes fall freely, and pulled Jack close to his chest.
"I'm very surprised! I love it so much, thank you baby" Dean choked out, pressing a kiss to Jack's head. He glanced over at Cas in time to see him snap a picture, noticing the tears in his eyes too.
"Baby, why don't you go grab your milk, and we can all have breakfast in bed?" Cas suggested, causing Jack to bolt from the room again.
With his kid out of sight, Dean let the emotions take over. He dug his palms into his eyes to stop the tears. Cas just silently pulled him into his chest, resting his chin on Dean's head.
Out of all the things the "surprise" could have been, he never would have guessed it was a Mother's Day present. But now here he is, sobbing over a flower, at six am.
And yeah he isn't technically a "Mom" and yeah it's just a little flower and a card. But it's a gift made by his kid, a gift that his kid gave him for Mother's Day. And Dean's never received anything remotely like this, in his life. So as far as he's concerned, this is the best present he's ever gotten.
Love like he's never felt before rushes over him. Love for his son. His husband. Their house. Their little life. And this tiny little flower in his lap. And it's too much, it's overwhelming and it's the greatest Dean's ever felt.
"So I take it you were surprised, then?" Cas teased softly, and all he got in response was a watery laugh.
Once Dean pulled himself together, he turned in Cas' arms to gently kiss his husband.
"I love you, so damn much. And you woke up early and you cooked-thank you for this I just-I don-" Dean pulls away rambling, only stopping when Cas pressed their foreheads together. He always knew what Dean needed.
"On Father's Day, just remember how early I woke up today" Cas whispered against his lips, causing Dean to shove his face away with a laugh.
"Whatever you say, Dad of the year" Dean teased, as Jack raced back into the room, practically launching himself onto the bed.
They spent the rest of the morning in bed, eating Cas' slightly burned pancakes, and surprisingly well cooked bacon.
And yeah maybe Dean didn't have the Sunday he expected. He didn't sleep in, he didn't make the pancakes, and he didn't run to the hardware store or work on the shelves.
But he did watch cartoons on the couch with Jack, and he did soak up the spring sun as they all played in Jack's sandbox, he did help Cas in the garden, and he did make burgers for dinner, which they all ate out on the back deck.
So as far as Dean's concerned, it was the best, unexpected Sunda-Mother's Day, ever.
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