#i want the twin periwinkle sofas

[kenjikutie]

Back to the Future [Tamaki Amajiki]

summary: when your future child with your boyfriend arrives on the doorstep of the 3-a dorms, fluff, chaos and general panic is bound to ensue word count: 2k pairing: tamaki amajiki x fem!reader warnings: none!

most days, tamaki would thank whatever being there was above him for the mere fact that he was able to hold your hand anytime he wanted to, not that he did, of course. he was constantly overwhelmed by any little affectionate action send his way, whether it was a peck on the temple or a steamy makeout session in one of your dorm rooms. it truly didn’t matter what it was, if it involved your lips, he was sure to be a blushing puddle on the floor

however, this didn’t mean that tamaki wouldn’t cuddle with you of his own volition. the last thing he ever wanted to do was make you feel like you were carrying the weight of the entire relationship. tamaki loved you and he had to make sure you knew, even if he couldn’t untie the knot in his throat anytime he wanted to say it out loud

so, instead of that, he would let his love be expressed through how tight of a hold he had on you during the night. his arms would wrap around your waist while his face was buried in your chest, the adorable indigo tips of his hair settling on your collarbone. you swore that even if something tried to take you from his grasp, they wouldn’t be able to move you more than an inch without him waking up with a whine

but, this clingy nature only existed in the confines of your dorm rooms, due to tamaki’s shyness. because of this, the two of you were sitting next to one another on the common room's sofa, shoulders touching as the rest of the class paid close attention to the famous pixar film, up, playing on the tv. your eyes were also glued to the screen due to your childhood love of the movie, but tamaki was focused on playing with your fingers, trying to distract himself from how many people were gathered in the room

every time a joke was told, you giggled, turning to nejire to laugh some more at her comments on the scene. tamaki, however, would be too concentrated on the small crinkles on your eyes when you laughed and how beautiful your smile was. sometimes, he would overwhelm himself and turn bright red, despite you not even doing anything

a knock on the large front doors of the dorm building caused tamaki to let go of your hand and look up at you, silently wishing that you wouldn’t go answer it, just because he didn’t want you to move. his wish was granted when mirio happily ran to the doors and the rest of the class turned around to see who had paid them a visit. when mirio opened the door, his bright smile fell as he looked around before something tugged on his pant leg

when you heard the sniffling of a child, you immediately jumped off the couch, followed closely by nejire, who cut in front of you to coo at the young visitor. you stood behind your blue-haired friend, not being able to see over both her and mirio. tamaki was beginning to slowly lift himself from the couch to walk over to you, quickly realizing that none of his friends were around him anymore

“u-uncle miri! w-w-where’s m-mommy?”, every jaw in the dorm dropped and no one moved a muscle, besides your happy blonde friend

mirio awkwardly knelt down to look at the young boy, “uncle miri? have we met before? im sorry if i forgot; im not the best at remembering things!”

despite his laughter, you could tell that mirio was just as confused as everyone else. tamaki had taken his spot behind your back, resting his forehead on your shoulder to distract himself from how loud the child was crying. mirio placed a hand on the boy’s back and led him into the room while you, nejire and tamaki backed up to let them inside, still hidden behind the periwinkle of her hair

you could tell that the boy was overwhelmed but before you could say anything, he had closed his eyes and darted for the wall, burying his face into the hard surface, whispering something to himself. tamaki’s eyes widened at the familiar sight of indigo hair tucked into the corner of the room and you did the same. mirio took a step forward to comfort him, as he usually did with tamaki himself, but you beat him to the punch

resting a hand on the little boy’s back, you began to stroke his hair, “hey, i know it’s kinda scary being in here with so many older, taller strangers, but you don’t have to worry. we’re heroes in training; we’ll help you in any way you need!”

the boy tensed under your hands and for a second, you panicked, afraid you might have made the whole thing worse. but, before you could move, he had turned around and buried his head in your stomach, gripping onto your shirt so tightly you thought he might rip it. you gasped, connecting your gaze with tamaki, who looked just as shocked as you did

“mommy! i-im so sorry! i didn’t mean to touch i-it! im so sorry!”, he was sobbing now and you could feel his tears stain your shirt

“m-mommy?”, tamaki mumbled, slowly approaching the two of you, setting a shaky hand on your shoulder

you shrugged at him and lowered yourself down to the boy’s height, doing your best to lift his face from your abdomen to get a good look at him. he was a near mirror image of your boyfriend. with his indigo hair and facial structure, you were convinced the two of them could be twins in another life. meanwhile, tamaki was marveling at the child’s eyes, the same ones he loved to admire every day when you looked at him

“amajiki! y/n! you two never told me you had an adorable baby!”, nejire bounded over to the three of you, taking the boy into her arms, squeezing him close to her cheek and you resisted the urge to laugh at the shocked face he pulled

“w-we do not. i-i-i-”, tamaki’s words were stuck in his throat again and you quickly pulled his head into your shoulder, letting him breathe in the scent of your shampoo to calm down

“im gonna go get mr.aizawa. but for now, i think you two better look after him, doesn’t look like he’s gonna leave y/n’s side for a long time.”, mirio pulled nejire out of the dorm, despite her pouting and whining about how she wanted to take care of the cute baby too

within a second of being let go, the boy was attached to your leg, burying his face in it. suddenly, you were very aware of the two amajiki’s resting on your body. the rest of the class had gone back to the film, seeming unfazed by the recent occurrence

gently, you lifted tamaki’s head from your shoulder and pet the boy’s head, “what’s your name, honey?”

“a-a-akihito. akihito ama-jiki.”

                                                          ---

after mr.aziawa had informed you that it was a side effect of a quirk, you were somewhat relieved. this meant that akihito would probably be back to his own time period in a few days, but, you couldn’t help feel a little disappointed. akihito was attached to your hip, not even able to go into a different room without you by his side

tamaki understood completely. the little boy had given him a hug as well when he recognized him as his father, apologizing to him as well, before immediately falling back into his mother’s arms. apparently, his son thought the same thing about you as he did. you were a safe space to him, just as you were to tamaki

but, whenever he saw his son begin to panic, he felt guilty. he was the reason why his son was so easily overwhelmed and frightened. why couldn’t he have been just like you? you were brave, passionate, and outgoing, almost shining as brightly as mirio in his mind. however, his son, just like him, was cursed to live out his days as the moon

the three of you were currently in your dorm room, all of you silently eating takoyaki that you had ordered earlier. akihito suddenly gasped, causing both heads to turn to him with concern. tamaki felt tears reach his eyes as the boy held up his hand, each finger having a small tentacle appearing out of them. you grinned. this was exactly what tamaki needed to see

the rest of the night was filled with akihito cheering at how cool his quirk was and his eyes shining at the sight of his father perfectly using his to perform all sorts of tasks. tamaki was beginning to feel better about their similarities and knew that, like himself, his son also had a sun to watch out for him. this sun, however, took the form of his mother

you went to bed that night with akihito attached to you like a leech and you laughed at the pout at your boyfriend’s face, “aww, tama, did he take your spot?”

tamaki’s face went bright red at your teasing and he quickly glanced away from you, “n-no! i, i was just thinking about h-how sad it’ll be when h-he goes back.”

you smiled and sat up, careful not to disturb akihito as you rested your head against your boyfriend’s chest, feeling his heartbeat speed up, “yeah, but just think how happy the future us’s are gonna be!”

future. that word knocked the air out of tamaki’s chest. the two of you were married. he was a pro-hero and you were currently pregnant with your second child. you two were perfect in the future. did he really deserve that? would you have been happier with someone else? someone who wasn’t as withdrawn as he was

his question was answered when you hid your face in his stomach, resting on your side while he laid on his back, akihito still on top of you. tamaki didn’t need to think about all of that anymore. because, if he kept going like this, then everything would be just fine. he turned off his bedside lamp, and pulled the blanket over the three of you, resting his hand on his son’s back, placing a gentle kiss to the top of your head

akihito was gone the next morning and were sure you’d never felt worse, but, tamaki smiled and pulled something out from his bed. you furrowed your brows then beamed at the handwritten letter from akihito, who wrote about how much he loved you and how he would miss you so much. you gave tamaki a kiss, trying not to notice his squeal of surprise but smiling when he relaxed and kissed you back

                                                           ---

meanwhile, future you and tamaki were both panicking. tamaki was trying to console you but he was just as scared as you were. where had your precious son gone? was he in trouble? did he need the both of you to hold and comfort him? what if you never saw him again? it was too much for the both of you to handle

suddenly, there was a harsh pop and blindingly bright flash, tamaki quickly jumping to cover your eyes with his hand. you lowered your husband’s arm and shrieked at the sight of your son, standing perfectly safe in your living room

you raced forward and scooped him into your arms, nearly crying when you buried his face in your neck for a second then pulled back to rest his chubby hands on your cheeks. tamaki joined you shortly, placing a light kiss to his son’s head, then putting a matching one on yours

akihito began to ramble on about how he saw you, daddy, uncle miri and aunt nejire, discussing the food you ate, the note he gave you, and how cool his dad’s quirk was. you listened intently with a grin while tamaki glanced over to the framed piece of notebook paper above your mantle

the same note your son had given you seven years ago

#bnha x reader #bnha imagines #bnha fanfiction #bnha #tamaki amajiki imagine #tamaki amajiki x reader #tamaki amajiki #amajiki tamaki imagine #amajiki tamaki x reader #amajiki x reader #tamaki x reader

[adenei]

Day 31: January Word Challenge

a/n: It’s the last one! Wow, I can’t believe I managed a drabble a day! Thanks for reading these. I leave you with a Romione AU during GOF - thanks @darkwizard1207 for the ask that inspired this one!

Oh, and since this is AU, Ron gets nice dress robes, too!

******

Glow

Hermione twirled around in the soft glow of the candlelight in the dormitory. The periwinkle blue dress glittered as the light caught the sparkles that were laid within the fabric. Lavender was a lifesaver in helping her tame her hair and adding just the right amount of makeup to accentuate her features.

She looked nothing like her day to day self, but she didn’t mind. This was a special occasion, and for the first time in her fifteen years, she wanted to prove that she was indeed a girl. Hermione had been head over heels when Ron asked her to the Yule Ball. Of course, she couldn’t tell if it was a pity invitation or the easy way out to go with a friend. 

She’d been nursing the feeling of fancying him for quite some time, but wasn’t sure if he felt the same way. Sure, he’d invited her to stay at his house over the summer. That had to mean something, right? Hermione desperately wanted him to see her as a girl instead of one of his friends, and if tonight didn’t do that, she was resolving to forget any hope that something more could happen between them.

It was almost time to go. Lavender and Parvati left about fifteen minutes ago, but Hermione was stalling. She was more nervous than she’d ever been before, and her feet felt like lead in the delicate heels she was wearing. It’s now or never, she thought as she made her way to the stairwell.

~o~

“Harry, you’re a lifesaver,” Ron said as he gave himself another once over in the mirror. “How’d you know I needed these?”

“Ginny may have tipped me off about what the ones your mum sent. No one deserves to wear something that ancient and dreadful.”

“Well, thanks, I owe you one,” Ron said gratefully. 

“No, you don’t. It was a Christmas gift,” Harry insisted, but Ron waved him off.

Ron was wearing dress robes the shade of deep navy blue. It complemented his flaming red hair nicely and brought out his blue eyes, not that he was overly concerned about that. He was excited to have something new that he could call his own. Not to mention they actually fit!

At least Hermione won’t be embarrassed as my date now I’m wearing these, he thought. Date. The word rang in his mind as he extinguished the glow of the candle with his wand. He needed to get to the common room to meet her. 

Ron wasn’t sure what possessed him to ask her that day in the library. It was probably because Viktor Krum had been lurking in the shadows and he wanted to protect her from the Quidditch star’s potential charm. She didn’t need to be involved with a bloke who was three years older. Yeah, that was it. He was being protective, not jealous. 

Besides, they’d have fun together. They were friends, and there wouldn’t be as much pressure when it came to dancing and whatever else you were supposed to do at a ball. But then why was his stomach in knots and his heart fluttering uncontrollably? They were just friends. Best friends. Right?

Ginny was already waiting for Harry in the common room, but Hermione wasn’t there yet. Ron checked his watch. 

“Any sign of her?” he asked his sister.

“Not yet,” Ginny said as she shook her head.

“Maybe you could go up and check on her?” 

He was getting nervous. She was never late. What if she found out about the old robes and decided she didn’t want to go with him, after all?

“She’ll be here, don’t worry,” Ginny reassured him.

Sure enough, they heard movement coming from the girl’s staircase seconds later, and Hermione emerged. At least, he thought it was Hermione. She looked so unlike herself, yet he knew it was unmistakably her. He felt his mouth open against his control. She was stunning. 

“Wow, you look great, Hermione! We’ll, er, meet you both downstairs,” Harry said quickly as he escorted Ginny through the portrait hole.

Hermione walked over to Ron. He knew he needed to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.

“Your robes look nice,” she offered. “They really bring out your eyes,” she added as her cheeks tinged pink.

“You, you look—wow,” was all Ron could manage.

Hermione smiled as she looked up at him shyly. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then? I know it’s probably too much, but—”

“No!” Ron cut her off. “Not at all. I mean, not that you need to look like that all the time. You look great every day! It’s just—” He had no idea what he was trying to say, and he felt like he was only making it worse.

“You do?” she asked.

“Well, yeah. You don’t need to do all this extra stuff to prove a point. Those Slytherin prats don’t know what they’re talking about anyways,” Ron said. 

His ears were on fire, but he was proud of himself for admitting that to her after he saw the smile grow into a wide grin on her face. “Er, shall we go, then?” he asked, holding out his arm awkwardly for her. That’s what he was supposed to do, right?

She nodded as she laced her arm in his and they made their way down to the Great Hall.

~o~

The night flew by in an absolute whir. They’d received so many compliments, and Hermione was simply glowing from all the positive attention. Even though other blokes had come and asked her to dance, she’d remained faithful to Ron the entire evening. 

It turned out that Ron wasn’t as bad a dancer as he thought he was. Either that, or Hermione was just being nice. They were one of the last couples on the dance floor when the Weird Sisters played their last song. Ron and Hermione reluctantly left when it was over and headed back up to the Common Room. Most everyone else had already gone to bed, so it was quite empty by the time they’d returned.

“I had a really great time tonight. Thank you for asking me,” Hermione said as they stood awkwardly, neither really knowing how to say goodnight.

“I did, too,” Ron said through his lopsided grin. “So…”

“We should probably get to bed,” Hermione offered, though neither moved.

Suddenly, there was a tinkling sound, and they both looked up to see magical mistletoe hanging above their heads. The candlelight in the room seemed to dim as well. If Ron was being honest with himself, a part of him wanted to kiss her all night, but he wasn’t sure how or when. Now, it looked like fate was trying to tell him he should.

He looked at Hermione, who was watching him carefully and almost...expectantly? Her eyes glanced down at his as she bit her lip softly before looking back up at him. This was the moment, Ron thought, as he steeled himself to make the move.

He leaned in gently, placing his hands tentatively on her waist. Her eyes fluttered shut and his followed as he felt his lips connect with hers. They felt soft against his as he pressed into her more. Ron was pretty sure she was kissing him back as her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

As far as a first kiss went, it was perfect. Nothing like the horror stories the twins told him. He pulled away after what simultaneously seemed like hours and also seconds. Ron was sure the blush on her cheeks matched the scarlet of his ears as they both managed a smile. Neither wanted to move.

Finally, it was Hermione who pulled away first. “Goodnight, Ron,” she said. 

He watched her walk away in frozen silence. She stopped briefly when she got to the staircase and turned back toward him. She looked as if she were steeling herself to say something.

“I—I hope you still feel the same way when I’m back to looking like myself again tomorrow.”

Before he could respond, she’d disappeared up the stairs. He couldn’t stop the goofy grin that spread across his face as he collapsed on a nearby sofa. “Of course I’ll feel the same way! Is she bloody mental?” he said to himself as he punched the air. Sure, things would be different now, but he knew deep down that it was going to be a good thing. A very, very good thing.

#romione #ron x hermione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #hp gof #adenei answers #31 days of January Word Challenge

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 7 - Stuck

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

Could two friendships on the rocks result in two new ones? 

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note: Posting a tad early this week. Hope you enjoy! 

I update every week before midnight on Sundays (US MST)! Please feel free to like, comment, and reblog! xoxo

Masterlist

<<Chapter 6

I'm sitting here stuck And plastered to my seat I th i nk up a reason to leave When you finally stop speaking I'll take a long slow Walk down Washington Street Half asleep on my feet Half aware if I'm dreaming

  Hermione managed to stow herself away in the library for nearly sixteen hours, one of her personal bests, before Madame Pince kicked her out. The grave woman nearly threw her from the premises, claiming she was closing the library early and that despite her biases Hermione should spend some time away from the stacks of books. So now she wandered the castle, lost in thoughts of tournaments, legislature, hidden agendas, and friendship. The castle held the same familiar chill as her feet chose her destination, eventually leading her to a part of the castle only recently familiar to her. At the end of a long corridor, illuminated by two torches placed on either side, hung a painting. Mechanically, Hermione sat on the cold stone, tucking her robes around her, and stared at the landscape that drew her in the first time she saw it three days ago.

Like most paintings in the wizarding world it was enchanted, but instead of some historical witch or wizard as the focal point, the only movement in the frame was the soft sway of long grass and leaves that rustled in the wind. The sun peaked in and out of the clouds, casting ever changing rays of light across the meadow. She felt a calm envelope her as she looked at the bright yellows and peaches of the Adonis and honeysuckle dispersed throughout the grass. Several bees visited the flowers before disappearing from the frame. Hermione followed one as it zigzagged towards the edge of the field near the trees. It stopped on a small patch of zinnias and Hermione felt herself hit with a wave of emotions that had been threatening to capsize her all day. A single tear ran down her cheek as she thought of Ron and Harry. While she was quite familiar with solitude, having grown up an only child and often alienated by her peers, here, sitting on the floor of an empty corridor, she felt for the first time utterly alone.

And despite Harry and Ron’s cruel treatment towards her, she still felt responsible for fixing it. She spent all afternoon trying to figure out how to get her two best friends to cease being angry with each other and how to keep Harry alive this year. By the end she felt no closer to a solution for either problem. Tears continued to fall silently down her face. Hermione’s vision blurred over white gardenias and blue periwinkles, and she remembered the last time she encountered the painting. Her thoughts had been stupid – trivial ramblings questioning her worth as a woman and whether any boy would ever like her. That time the field had been nothing but white heather. What a lovely bit of magic, thought Hermione.

Eventually, when her joints were stiff and backside sore, Hermione stood and made her way back to Gryffindor tower. She walked through the threshold of the portrait hole, thankful that she hadn’t been caught out of bed by Filch or a teacher. Looking around the empty common room, Hermione realized that despite the emotional drain of the day she wasn’t tired. So, she picked up a nearby book left on a table and sat down on the sofa in front of the fire. It hurt to read, her eyes red and puffy from the crying she’d done earlier, but still she pushed on. She had only been there a short while when the sound of the portrait hole opening took her by surprise. Who could be getting in this late? she wondered. Her question was answered when a pair of shaggy red-headed hooligans walked through the opening. Hermione willed herself to be as small as possible. The last thing she needed was the two of them making fun of her in a rare moment of weakness. Much to her dismay the pair noticed her immediately. They walked towards her with large impish grins and Hermione desperately tried to think of how she could get them to go away. Despite her bright nature her brain did nothing for her in that moment and she was left to sink further into the couch, hoping it would swallow her whole.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here Freddie?”

“Why it looks to be our favorite fourth year Georgie.”

The twins seated themselves on either side of her. Hermione hid further into her book, hiding her red eyes and splotchy face. So much for being the brightest witch of her age. She couldn’t even figure out how to escape two bumbling Weasleys.

“Burning the midnight oil Granger?” Fred asked, shaking his hair out of his face.

“You should really give it a rest there,” George teased, nudging her shoulder.

“Yeah, give everyone else in your class a chance. They’ll never come close to your marks if you’re staying up this late studying every night,” added Fred. Hermione remained silent, hidden behind her book. When they received no response, they tried another approach.

“As you can see our grey hair and wrinkles have completely faded,” George pointed out.

“Yes, except I don’t remember the bags under George’s eyes being quite so bad. You better hope that wears off mate or I will definitely be the more handsome twin.” Fred received a smack on the back of the head from his brother for his cheeky remark.

“What Granger? No, ‘I told you so’?” Fred directed his attention back to the little witch between them as he rubbed the back of his head.

“No, ‘you should have listened to me’?”

“No, comment on our dim-witted attempts at fame and fortune?”

They wagged their eyebrows at her, but Hermione remained behind her book, hoping they would consider it a calculated and obvious sign that she was ignoring them. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect, her lack of response only fueling their desire to investigate further. Fred reached over and tugged at the top of the book.

“Hey, what’s this then?” Fred asked, getting a peak at her complexion. He reached towards her face and swiped a thumb across the reddened skin under her eyes. “Why are you crying Granger?”

Hermione shied away from the contact and cursed herself for not doing a glamour spell or at least a disillusionment spell on herself.

“It’s nothing. Um, sad book is all,” she lied, trying to feign indifference. Sad book? Of all the excuses, Hermione berated herself. George grabbed the book from her hands and inspected it.

“I never knew Charms could be so heart-wrenching…we’re not idiots Hermione,” George stated plainly.

“Are you alright?” Fred asked as he lifted her chin. For a second time that night, Hermione felt the weight of the past twenty-four hours fall on her. This time, it was as though her body had been waiting for some sign that it was okay to fall apart, and the twins’ kind gestures had been just that. A short sob escaped her throat and her eyes began to sting as fresh tears welled, daring to spill past her lashes.

“Alright, alright. Come here,” Fred cooed, scooting closer and pulling Hermione onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in tight. George followed suit, draping her legs over his lap, and giving her calf a reassuring squeeze. Hermione buried her face in Fred’s chest and continued to sob harder than she’d ever cried before. The two silently comforted her, George rubbing a hand up and down her leg and Fred stroking her hair. They sat like that for a while, never saying a word – simply acting as figures of stability. Finally, when her body was no longer wracked with little tremors and her cries subsided into sniffles, Hermione pulled away from Fred and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve.

“Feel better?” Fred asked, brushing her smothering hair from her face. Hermione nodded, realizing in horror that not only was she currently on top of the twins, but she had ruined Fred’s sweater. Scooting off of their laps, she sniffed and mumbled a meek apology.

“It’s just a few tears. Now, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?” Fred asked.

Hermione shook her head.

“Did someone step on one of your books?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Did you do poorly on an essay?”

Hermione shook her head again and scoffed at the idea.

“Is it…girly problems?” George made a face at the thought.

This caused Hermione to let out a short giggle and shake her head again.

“Then what is it?” Fred pushed.

“You’re going to think it’s ridiculous,” Hermione said, wiping her red and swollen eyes. She knew she must look an awful fright. When they didn’t say anything, she took it as her cue to continue. “It’s Harry and Ron; they’re mad at me. Harry, because he’s convinced that everyone’s against him even though I’m not, and Ronald, because I’m not angry with Harry. I know they’re both under a lot of stress what with the tournament and Ron’s jealousy, but I guess I just feel like neither of them really care how I feel.” She sniffed, shaking her head at how pathetic she must sound.

George looked at his brother. “I should have known that our thick-headed little brother had something to do with all of this. First of all, we don’t think it’s ridiculous,” George stated firmly.

“And secondly, you have every right to be upset,” added Fred.

“Really?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Of course! They’re being selfish gits and I have half a mind to put itching powder in all their clothes,” Fred fumed.

“But because we know that’s probably the last thing you want us to do—” started George.

“—we won’t. Instead we will remind you that you’re Hermione Granger and absolutely too good for either of those imbeciles.”

“So, next time you see our little Ronikins…”

“—you can tell him exactly where to shove his attitude.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you. You really don’t have to be this nice.”

“Nonsense, you may be our idiot baby brother’s friend, but we’ve grown quite fond of you,” said Fred with a friendly nudge of her shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re like a second sister to us. No one gets to mess with you but us and that includes our brother and the Boy Who Lived. It’s sort of a rule.” George leaned across Fred and tapped a finger to the end of her nose. Hermione let out a small laugh that turned into an overwhelming yawn. Realizing she was utterly exhausted, Hermione waited for the small bit of anxiety that now came with the thought of sleep these days. To her surprise, it never came.

“Alright Fred, looks like we’ve worn her out.”

“I think you’re right George. Up we go! Time for bed!” Fred decreed, hooking his arms under Hermione, and lifting her into the air.

“Frederick Weasley! Put me down! I am entirely capable of walking. I’m tired, not paralyzed! Hermione crossed her arms and gave the boy a disapproving look. Fred merely smiled politely before placing her down at the base of the stairs leading up to the girls’ dormitories. Hermione let out a little huff and ran her hands over her mussed hair, attempting to flatten it.

“Goodnight you two…and thank you. I suppose I owe you. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll tell you why your aging potion didn’t work, and how you could have actually gotten your names in,” Hermione stated with a small smile.

“I’m calling you on that one Granger,” scoffed George.

“Even you’re not that brilliant!” the twins exclaimed in unison.

Hermione raised a brow and with a twinkle of mischief in her eye, she shrugged her shoulders and began to walk up the stairs.

“I guess you’ll just have to find out,” she threw back at them as she disappeared around the bend.

It was a strange day at Hogwarts that following Monday morning. The weather outside was dark and gloomy once again, but the mood of the students was quite the opposite. The first challenge of the tournament was only three weeks away and the school was abuzz over what it could be, and who would come out on top. Hermione heard whispers in her morning classes of Viktor Krum and Cedric Diggory; it seems they were everyone’s bet. Then of course there were the harsh words and accusations toward her best friend. It hurt her heart to hear such dreadful things about someone she cared for, even if he was being a complete jerk. Malfoy was the worst, with his open mocking and constant bullying in Care of Magical Creatures. Many times, Hermione fantasized about wiping the stupid smirk off his face like she had the year before. But instead she ended up taking her frustrations out on two second year Hufflepuffs gossiping in the library that afternoon.

“It would do you two well to not talk about things you know nothing about—" she seethed, sliding her things into her bag “—and no talking in the library. Or else I’ll be tasked to inform Madame Pince.”

She regretted the way she spoke to the younger students. While it certainly taught them a lesson on gossiping, she shouldn’t have been so harsh – they were still young. She didn’t even have her usual excuse of sleep deprivation to blame either. Much to her surprise, after departing to her room, she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. In fact, she slept so deeply and so peacefully that she missed her alarm and had to rush to make it to her first class on time. It wasn’t until she was in her seat, quill in hand, that the memories of the night before came rushing back and Hermione had to focus to determine whether it had all been a strange dream or not. The oddities only continued to pile up, as just before lunch she realized she had completely forgotten to write a short Transfiguration essay that was due later that day. She had no idea how it managed to slip her mind, as it was very out of character for her to forget an assignment at all. She rushed to the library, forgoing lunch and came upon the next strange thing to happen that day. Viktor Krum, of all people, was seated at her favorite table. This forced her to sit at a different one, much too far from the window overlooking the lake and much too close to the stacks, which resulted in her overhearing the two Hufflepuffs.

Now, as she made her way to the Great Hall for dinner, stomach growling, she realized her sour response might have been a result of low blood sugar.

It seemed Hermione’s whole day was destined to be a whirlwind of obstacles, for as she entered the Great Hall, she faced her next challenge – where to sit. Ronald sat with Seamus, Dean, Pavarti, and a few other Gryffindors in their year near the end of the long table and for fear of confrontation, Hermione decided that sitting with them was probably the last thing she wanted to do. A little further down the table, Harry sat sullen next to Neville Longbottom. The presence of the sandy blonde boy gave Hermione hope. Maybe Harry’s finally over his delusions, she thought making her way over and seating herself across from them.

“Hullo Hermione!” greeted Neville in a friendly tone. Neville was one of her favorite classmates. Where he was bumbling and lacking in self-confidence, he made up for it in kindness, acceptance, and all-around goodness. It was always surprising to her that he hadn’t been a top pick for Hufflepuff. But then again, his actions their first year gave insight to his true potential.

“Hullo Neville. How are you coming along with the Charms essay?” she asked, setting her bag down next to her.

“Not very good. I’ve got all the ideas but I’m not quite sure how to put them down. I may need some more help…” he admitted bashfully, looking down to his plate.

“That’s alright Neville. That’s a fairly common problem. I’d be more than hap—”

“Why are you sitting here?” Harry cut her off. Hermione, shocked by his outburst, was at a loss for words. “I don’t appreciate you sitting with me just to act spy for Ron,” he spat bitterly, not even looking up from his food.

“Harry, I’m not—”

“Look, I know how you and Ron feel, and I know how everyone else feels. So just stop pretending,” he snarled harshly, looking up at her with cold eyes. Hermione pursed her lips and stood, utterly embarrassed. She tried hard not to look at Neville’s pitying face as she lifted her book bag onto her shoulder and walked to an empty spot at the table. Staring at the wood grain of the tabletop, Hermione wondered if it was even worth trying to eat something. Willing herself not to cry, a movement caught the corner of her eye and voices began to speak to her.

“Not hungry Granger?”

“That’s a shame. The spread looks exceptionally delicious tonight.”

“He’s right. I think it might be the house elves trying to show off for the new guests.”

“We have a bet going as for how long they’ll keep it up.”

“George here thinks it will be over by January.”

“But Fred insists that it will keep up till Durmstrang and Beauxbatons leave.”

“What’s your take on it, Granger?”

Hermione lifted her head and stared at the red-headed twin sitting next to her in utter confusion. She glanced at his face and recognized him as Fred, but couldn’t manage to process the fact that she had to in fact speak. She must have been staring for too long because Fred pressed further.

“You know, because you know all about them?” He looked at her expectantly, but Hermione’s mind remained a foggy mess.

“What?” she asked dumbly.

“You know, because of all the research you’ve done for your organization. What’s it called again? S.P.E.W.?” George added helpfully from across the table.

“You know about the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare?” said Hermione in surprise.

“Of course—” started Fred.

“How could we not? You’ve given us at least twenty buttons so far this year!”

“To pass out to others! You did pass them out, right?” Hermione looked from Fred to George. The pair wore guilty expressions.

“We may have charmed them to, I guess you could say, spew actual vomit and then pinned them to the back of Filch’s robes,” admitted Fred scratching the back of his head.

“Frederick! I gave you those so people could see them!” Hermione reached forward and started to pile her plate high with potatoes, vegetables, and chicken.

“Well technically, a whole bunch of people saw them,” remarked George, starting to fill his plate as well.

“Unfortunately, it was as Filch was slipping and falling into a giant puddle of vomit,” said Fred with a chuckle, looking skyward at the memory.

Hermione pouted into her chicken, cutting into it with her knife.

“Don’t look so sour Granger. It’s probably for the best—” George reached across the table and grabbed a steaming, buttered roll from a basket “—we’ve been down to the kitchens loads of times and not a single one of them gives a toss about house elf rights. In fact, they view the idea of getting paid for their work as insulting.”

“That’s because they don’t know any better!” cried Hermione, throwing down her fork.

“Now Granger, don’t go infantilizing them. If they’re smart enough for you to think they should be equal members of society, then they’re smart enough to decide whether they want to be paid or not for their work,” Fred chided, picking up his napkin and wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but found, very surprisingly, that she had nothing to say. She’d never considered that before. Curiously, she stared at Fred. He had a very valid point. It still rubbed her the wrong way when she thought about it. To enslave an entire race of individuals and not pay them or give them any choice? They had no real rights, no real say in anything. Some of them were treated so poorly they resorted to punishing themselves. In the muggle world, something like that would have started wars. But things were different in the wizarding world. There were customs she was unfamiliar with and mindsets she couldn’t begin to understand. She continued to muse on the topic as they sat eating silently. Once she had had her fill, Hermione took a sip of pumpkin juice and asked the question that had been on her mind all throughout dinner.

“Why are you two sitting with me and not your friends?”

She felt the heavy weight of Fred’s arm fall over her shoulders and she looked up at him.

“Are we not allowed to partake in the loveliness of your warm and inviting personality Granger?” he teased, calling out the brashness of her behavior thus far.

“Yeah, maybe we genuinely want to spend time with our favorite little book worm,” added George with a wink.

“Or, maybe you remembered that I promised to tell you how you could have gotten past the age barrier on the goblet and now you’re looking for me to pay up,” Hermione pointed out rolling her eyes.

“Drats Freddie! She’s figured us out.”

“Told you she would Georgie. She’s too bright to let our trickery get past her.”

“Brightest witch of our age I hear.”

“Really? Of our age? Imagine that.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at their banter. It wasn’t every day her intelligence was praised as opposed to ridiculed. “Are you two quite done or do you not wish to hear my secrets?”

“Alright Granger let’s hear it then. Where did we go wrong?” Fred asked taking his arm off her shoulder and turning on the bench to face her. Hermione glanced between the two expectant faces and then began.

“Well there are three ways in which you could have gotten your names into the goblet. The first two have to do with maturity—”

“Maturity? I happen to be quite mature, thank you!” George stated in mock hurt.

“Right…and the third has to do with common sense.”

“She’s got us there Georgie. That is something we tend to lack,” Fred added sarcastically.

“To be fair, you two had the right idea when you made the aging potion. However, it’s not enough for you to appear a few months older. It’s your soul as well as your body that must age,” Hermione continued. She appeared to now have the twins’ full attentions.

“How would we do that then?” Fred ask earnestly.

“The first way of course would have been to wait until you turned seventeen, somehow come into possession of a time-turner, sent yourself into the past and then put your names in the goblet. However, it’s extremely ill-advised and dangerous to meddle with time and so it’s probably best that you didn’t do that. Not to mention, time-turners are highly regulated and incredibly hard to get your hands on. The second way would have been with a maturing draught. The first difficulty with that is the rarity and price of the ingredients. The second is that the potion becomes more complicated and takes longer to make as the amount you want to mature increases and for you two, I imagine it would have taken a very long time for you to brew.” She ended her last comment with a smirk, chest swelling with pride as the twins’ mouths hung open.

“Did you just hear that Freddie? I think our little Granger just made a joke.”

“And at our expense it seems.”

Hermione let out a small laugh before continuing, “Of course that is all conjecture.”

“Wait. So, it’s all just theory then! You have no idea if that would even work?” George exclaimed.

“Brightest witch of our age indeed…” Fred added, earning a playful slap from the witch sitting next to him.

“Well it’s not as if Dumbledore took me aside and told me exactly how to get past the age line. But I think those are as good as any theory you’re likely to hear!” she defended herself.

“What was the third way? You said there was a third way. Hopefully, this one is better than conjecture.” George rolled his eyes.

“Well isn’t it obvious?” Hermione asked, looking between the two.

“Obviously not,” said Fred.

“You could have just bribed an older student to put your names in for you,” Hermione stated plainly. There was a moment of silence amongst the group, and then all three burst into laughter. Their cries turned heads from all around the Great Hall, but none of them seemed to notice or care.

“There was no way that George or I were going to spend our heard-earned sickles on some seventh-year prat for a chance at eternal fame and glory!” Fred stated when he finally found his breath.

“Yeah, not when we can get that all on our own!” agreed George.

“Goblet be damned!” Fred exclaimed loudly, standing up to make his point. Hermione quickly grabbed him by his robes and pulled him back down, embarrassed by his outburst but still laughing all the same.

“To be fair, we did try and bribe Jordan with some very enticing Honeydukes chocolate, but he wouldn’t go for it! Can you believe that? Some friend he is…” George shook his head in disappointment.

“Gee, I can’t imagine why a few chocolate frogs didn’t convince him to aid in your rule breaking,” Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed.

“What’s wrong with chocolate frogs?!” the twins asked together.

    “I think we should head back to the tower,” said Hermione, looking around her with a surprised expression.

Fred stopped and did the same only to realize that the Great Hall was nearly empty. It seems while they were busy talking and laughing, the rest of the school had left to go about their nights. Fred found that once he and George got the little witch to open up, it was like a faucet with a broken tap. The bushy-haired girl gushed with charisma, humor, and wit. In fact, she spoke as if no one ever asked her about her interests before. He thought that was quite possibly true as all the times he observed the “Golden Trio” in the past, it was usually Ron and Harry talking about quidditch and then rolling their eyes whenever Hermione spoke about anything. Could it be that none of her friends showed any interest in her? Fred couldn’t help but notice the bit of fire hiding behind her eyes when she spoke about magical creature equality, books she had read recently, or subjects she just learned in class. It was the same fire he saw in her more and more these days; he saw it back at the burrow when they talked in the kitchen, in the hallways when he walked her back to the common room, in the woods when they…Fred shook his head of the memory. Nevertheless, there was something about that fire, that strength she showed that absolutely intrigued him.

Standing from their place at the table, they made their way toward Gryffindor tower, continuing their conversation.

“You’re telling me there’s no market for love potions?” George asked incredulously.

“I’m not saying there isn’t some market for it. I’m merely saying they’re silly, and highly dangerous when you think about it. I can’t believe they’re not banned!” cried Hermione, tucking a curl behind her ear. Fred, too engrossed with the movement of her hand, neglected to chime in on the argument.

“Come on Hermione, they’re not as bad as you’re making them out to be.” George rolled his eyes.

“Really?—” Hermione spun on the spot, walking backwards as she spoke “—Okay, for the pure purpose of debate let’s say I was to concoct a love potion and give it to Fred.”

That sentence caught Fred’s attention quite well.

“Go on,” spoke Fred and George.

“And let’s say that as a result he fell madly in love with me. You wouldn’t see anything wrong with that?”

Fred snorted. “Aside from being in love with a little swot?”

Hermione shot him a dirty look.

“The potion would wear off eventually,” challenged George, clearly still operating within the confines of their argument.

“Not if I kept giving it to him—oof!” Hermione’s sentence was cut short by running into a solid stone bannister at the end of the corridor. Dropping her book bag with a loud thump, her eyes grew large as she started to fall backwards. Using his quidditch reflexes, Fred reached out and grabbed the witch by the forearm before she could topple over the bannister and down the many floors. Once Hermione was set right on her feet, Fred grabbed her book bag from the ground and flung it over his shoulder. Despite the strength he had from many years of quidditch, Fred still gave a little groan at the sheer weight of it.

“Merlin, Hermione. What do you have in here? The entire library?”

“Just the necessities! If you’re going to complain, I can just carry it myself.” Hermione reached for her bag, but Fred swiftly avoided her.

“Now, now. I wasn’t complaining! I’m just surprised you can lift it,” remarked Fred, as they began to walk towards the tower once more.

“What? Because I’m a girl I can’t carry a heavy bag?”

“I think he’s more referring to the fact that you look like you weigh barely eight stone dripping wet and your arms are about a thick as a Bowtruckle’s,” laughed George, pinching Hermione’s arm through her thick sweater.

“I’ll have you know I’m not as feeble as you make me out to be,” sniffed Hermione.

“You hear that Freddie? She’s not as feeble as we make her out to be.”

Fred knew the tone in George’s words all too well. Briefly sharing a wicked grin, the two swooped down and lifted Hermione into the air. She put up a good fight, Fred had to admit that, but in the end, she relented, George’s arms linked under her armpits and Fred’s hands grasped firmly around her ankles. The twins laughed obnoxiously as they rounded the last corner up the stairs and came to the portrait entrance to Gryffindor tower.

“Okay, you can put me down now. You’ve had your laugh!”

“What do you think Freddie? Have we had our fill?” George asked, beaming at his twin.

Fred pursed his lips, pretending to think on the subject for a moment before he shook his head from side to side. “Nah, I don’t think we have. Balderdash!” he yelled the password to the Fat Lady with excess enthusiasm, gripping Hermione tighter when she began to thrash, realizing they were carrying her into the common room.

“Make way, fresh catch of the day!” yelled George over the crowd of Gryffindor students.

“Fred! George! Put me down!”

The two ignored her, grinning from ear to ear as they parted through their interested peers, obviously surprised to see such a sight. It wasn’t uncommon for Fred and George to make a ruckus in the common room, but to make one that included Hermione Granger? Absolutely unheard of.

“Oi!” barked Lee Jordan from a nearby table. “What have you two got there?”

“Oh, this here?” asked Fred casually. “Well while we were out, George and I thought we’d do a bit of bird hunting.”

The comment earned him a few laughs, filling Fred with pride.

“And believe me, she wasn’t the easiest of prey. Isn’t that right Fred?” George asked his brother.

“I wouldn’t say that George. I’d say she nearly leapt into our arms. She did threaten to slip me a love potion.”

That comment earned him a swift kick from Hermione’s right foot. Not paying attention, the kick landed squarely in his gut and Fred dropped her legs as he wrapped his arms ‘round his middle. Now able to use the leverage of her feet, Hermione pulled out of George’s grasp and grabbed her book bag from Fred’s shoulder. She took a moment to stare down at Fred, as he stood doubled over in pain. Her brown eyes narrowed down at him, her hair falling around her face.

“If I had a love potion, you’d be the last person I’d waste it on, Frederick Weasley,” Hermione stated plainly, before patting him lightly on the head and walking towards the girls’ dormitories.

A smattering of ‘oohs’ came from the crowd around them, and Fred had to fight very hard not to go red as he straightened out and watched Hermione Granger exited the common room. Despite having embarrassed him, he couldn’t help the small smile that spread across his face as he watched the curly headed girl walk up the stairs with a bounce in her step. He couldn’t wait to see how she would surprise him next.

Chapter 8 >>

Taglist: 

@theworldisugly-22

#fremione #fred x hermione #fanfic #fanfiction #slow burn #harry potter #friends to lovers #angst #mutual pining

[artificialqueens]

if we have eachother (Branjie/Ninex/Everyone) 2/5 - PinkGrapefruit

chapter one.

chapter two. in which family means adventure

A/N - I’ve got 10/27 exams left and that’s something to celebrate. I really love this chapter, it’s soft as all hell and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed Frey and Qtips comments on it (thanks to them it looks like I can use punctuation). Anyway, Enjoy!

*

When the kids start school Vanessa comes to the startling revelation that he can’t keep doing this (this being travelling non-stop, gigs across the country and long-ass tours) - it’s not a bittersweet farewell, but it’s the end of an era, he supposes. And then he makes himself a set of rules instead. One tour a year, no more than two weeks, must be able to find childcare. Avoid international gigs without another queen. No gigs on school nights. And it works, for three years, it works perfectly, and then the kids are eight and they’re moving house and he realises that,god , he misses touring - just a little bit. Misses the feeling of waking up in a different city than you fell asleep, new crowds every night, the atmosphere of it all. But he wakes up in his king-sized bed curled up around a Canadian hunk, and sometimes there’s still a child on his back if it’s been a really bad night, and he also knows he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

He does a gig at least every week, got a steady hosting job at Micky’s WeHo on a Friday night and Brooke doesn’t work them, so it’s his night with the kids while Vanessa dips and twirls and screams on stage, whipping the crowd up into a frenzy before announcing the latest in a stream of Drag Race girls and up-and-coming queens. Sometimes Silky or A’keria joins him and they have a proper good time of it, but even when he’s alone up there he still feels as at home as he does on the sofa, Allie on his lap, legs on Brooke’s who has an arm around Noah as they watch ‘Clueless' or something else that is definitely not appropriate for eight-year-olds, but ‘our kids are gonna know shit, babe - I didn’t have them for them to be uncultured.’

On his days off, he goes full ‘PTA dad’ as Brooke likes to call that - it better be as affectionate as Brooke’s ‘Dance Mom’ title - stemming from him watching Noah and Allie dance like he himself is doing it - but Vanessa isn’t quite willing to take that chance. He makes the kids packed lunches every day while the rest of the family is asleep. He cuts the sandwiches into little animals and the fruit into stars using cutters Brooke and the twins bought for Fathers’ Day, and usually halfway through, more often than not at this point, his man will traipse down the stairs and wordlessly make them both coffees in their ‘world’s best dad’ mugs, which they’ll sip at the table, holding hands and watching the news until they have to get the kids up for school. Allie is always easier to wake up, so they alternate who wakes up who, and get them dressed for the day before Brooke tries (and fails) to make pancakes, Vanessa sitting at the table with his coffee and dying laughing like it’s not a daily thing.

The kids had been excited when he told them ‘Uncle Brook’ would be living with them all the time, even though they stopped calling him that years ago and he’s basically living at theirs anyway (his flat is more of a glorified drag closet than a flat at this point). They switch between ‘Brock’ for everyday stuff and ‘Dad’ in really tender moments, ever since Allie slipped up at an ice-rink one Christmas and had cried into his arms. Secretly Vanessa can’t wait until they call him ‘Dad’ all the time, but he already has a mug from the last Fathers’ Day so he figures they’re getting pretty close.

*

They move on a Tuesday, out of the cosy condo they’ve always lived in. It’s only a little across LA, still close enough to go to the same school, but they’ve been saving all the extra money they have to mortgage a little townhouse and it’s everything they could have asked for. Allie squeals as she runs through the door, sprints up the carpeted stairs before Vanessa can call out to her, screaming “PAPA, PAPA, LOOK!” as she counts the bedrooms again and again. There’s four: one for each kid that they can grow into, one for him and Brooke, and one for drag. The drag room might be the second biggest - they’re not ashamed.

They get Monique, Monét and Nina over to paint and decorate, and as Nina and Brooke do the heavy lifting downstairs, Monique and Monét start painting Noah’s room. It’s a periwinkle blue, something he’d been insistent on when they’d been planning, Chinese food and paint swatches littering the table like some sort of fun brainstorming session - it was, but it ended with the adults drinking red wine on the couch and Vanessa bitching about PTA moms. It turns out that Monique doesn’t understand how to use a paint roller and Vanessa leans against the door, watching as she rolls it horizontally. Monét has to sit down - she’s laughing so hard - and it draws the kids upstairs to watch as the queen can’t string together a sentence properly. It’s a hot day, so he goes downstairs to make juice, but when he hears Monét teaching the twins ‘Yo mama’ jokes - he can’t help but tell Nina, “your man is corrupting my babies”. Nina blushes frantically as she tries to put together an Ikea chair, Brooke already having built the other three.

“How’s it going with him by the way?” He asks, nodding his head upstairs with a smile.

“It’s really good,” she replies, handing the chair carcass to the other man who puts it together without even thinking, half paying attention to the conversation, half staring at Vanessa in his painting shorts. Brooke is topless, so Vanessa is only half paying attention too.

“We talked about kids the other night,” She continues, coyly. “We’re thinking of doing what you did.”

“Adoption? That’s amazing, Andrew!”

“Seriously, I can’t think of anyone better,” adds Brooke, beaming at his best friend.

“We’re looking at international, we think, but it’s a little too early to say.”

“I’m really happy for you, mate, we both are,” Brooke says, standing to wrap an arm around his man’s waist, kissing his temple lightly before taking the pitcher and the cups and gesturing upstairs. Vanessa nods slightly, leaning into his body before helping Nina to unpack the table. Neither of them can follow furniture instructions, he goes back to painting Allie’s room yellow in a matter of minutes.

They somehow finish all the painting by Thursday, get to move from all sleeping in the master bedroom (the only one they’d pre-decorated) to finally sleeping in their own rooms, and the first night the two spend alone they just enjoy the amount of space they have. They enjoy it for about 5 minutes, all stretched out, and then they return to their natural state instead, Vanessa curled up into Brooke’s side, head on his shoulder, one leg over his waist like he’s trying to climb the man. He isn’t, but Brooke would argue otherwise.

*

Noah dances in the school talent show, a feat neither of his parents thought possible until he asked Brooke for help one day after school, citing a show in three or so weeks. Vanessa knows that his boys have spent every night since, hunkered down in the garage blasting something that sounds classical, probably. It’s Brookes expertise, he and Allie have just been baking healthy cookies and watching ’The Office’. Neither of them is complaining.

He knows how much work has gone into the minute-long solo, so when he watches it, he is so proud. So proud that he is crying and the phone he’s holding up to film is removed from his hand by Brooke who takes over, because he is shaking too much to get a good video. If he posts it on Facebook after, he can’t be blamed. He has the best kids, he really does.

“Papa!” Noah calls out to him as he runs from the door next to the stage. “Papa! I won!” And Vanessa swears that if Brooke didn’t film that too, he’s not sleeping in their bed.

“I know baby, I’m so proud of you!” He says as he pulls him in, bear hugs him like he has since the boy was three.

“Do you want to get ice cream, buddy?” Calls Brooke from where he’s got Allie’s hand in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in another. When the pair walk over, he kneels in front of Noah with a smile. “You see, dancers get flowers when they do really well,” and he hands his son them, “So we got you some.”

Vanessa pulls Allie into his side as Brooke and Noah hug, the bouquet held out awkwardly so as not to squish it.

“Ice cream.” Allie declares definitively and they all laugh.

*

The kids’ ninth birthdays come too quick for Vanessa’s liking. He’s had them for almost six years and that scares him more than he lets on. He always wonders if he’s raising them right, if they can really be well adjusted with two drag queens as parents, but then he remembers that really they’ve got an entire family of drag queens and that makes him feel a little better.

He hosts a traditional Puerto Rican dinner for their birthdays. He sends Brooke around Los Angeles to find the perfect plantains, yelling through the car Bluetooth that, ‘Yes I need green ones’, but also ‘THEY NEED TO BE BROWN AND SQUISHY, WHAT ARE YOU NOT UNDERSTANDING.’ He explains, when he gets home, that there are two ways you use plantains - super ripe or super squishy. He needs both. Brooke just laughs.

The man comes up behind him when he is trying to fry the tostones, wraps his strong arms around his waist and kisses his neck softly, “My little housewife,” before dipping his finger in the mayo-ketchup and leaving before Vanessa can beat his ass with the spoon. He frets around the kitchen all day until he’s made an entire banquet of classic dishes from arroz con habichuelas to pastelón de amarillos and pollo guisado. And then, somehow, he finds the energy to fret about table decorations for a little while longer.

It is the eve of the twins’ birthday and everyone is over, the food is already mostly gone and they’re all sat around the long table Brooke created through the open plan living area, chatting and yelling every-which-way. It’s noisy and ridiculous and there’s no place they’d rather be.

*

Nina plans for them all to go to Disney for ‘Gotcha Day’ in August and Vanessa pawns his Friday show off on A’keria and Silky the second he can. They pack easily, Brooke and the kids piling into the family ford, and tailing Nina and Monét the whole way there, switching Brooke and Monét out halfway because Brooke ‘has a headache’.

Unbeknownst to Vanessa, Brooke and Nina sit in Nina’s classic beetle planning a proposal. Brooke has the ring in his pocket, has had it in there since they left LA an hour before (the traffic is horrendous), and it feels like it’s burning through the shorts. Like a hot potato, he needs to pass it to someone else. He puts it in Nina’s rucksack instead.

They discuss it at length (although ‘discuss’ implies that it wasn’t just Nina orchestrating the entire thing) and quickly realise that Vanessa has always wanted her fairytale, so maybe it needs to be somewhere truly magical - somewhere from her favourite Disney film… “ARIEL!” Brooke shouts, startling Nina slightly as the Canadian grins at her from the passenger seat. “You know Disney, Nina, where is there an Ariel bit?”

Nina pauses for a second while she changes gear, her eyebrow quirking up as she thinks. “I know a guy,” she says, “There’s a ‘Little Mermaid’ ride and there’s a model where Ariel and Eric are sat in a boat, so maybe, I was thinking, you could go behind the scenes and propose there?”

Brooke lights up as they pull into the carpark. “Could you make that happen?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

*

“Papa, do you want the rest of your Dole Whip?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Brookie, do you need the rest of your Dole Whip?”

“Uhuh.”

“Monét, are you going to eat the rest of your Dole Whip?”

“Yup, kiddo, it’s mine.”

“Nini, can I have the rest of you Dole Whip?”

“Sure, here you go, kid.”

“NINA.”

*

“You sure you’re tall enough to ride, baby?”

“I swear to god , Brock, imma kick you if you make that joke again.”

*

“Papa? Can we buy Mickey’s ears?”

“I’ll get you them, kiddos.”

“Nina, no. Ugh, fine. Kids, say thank you to Uncle Nina.”

“You know you love it, Vanj.”

“Sure.”

*

Monét takes the ring out of Nina’s rucksack while she’s on the 'Under the Sea’ ride with Vanessa and the kids. She hands it to Brooke with a pointed stare and a muttered joke about ’forgetting everything, you dumb bitch’ before dutifully returning to the small pile of rucksacks they’ve accumulated as a unit. Brooke smiles down at it as he thumbs the black velvet box, opens it briefly - just to check - before shoving it deep into his cargo shorts. “They’re practical!” He’d defended in response to the ridicule of his soon-to-be fiancé that morning, pairing the offending shorts with a white Mickey Mouse T-Shirt (that matched Noah’s).

When everyone gets off the ride, Nina claps her hands as if to make an announcement before turning to the kids. “So, you know your papa likes Ariel? I may have arranged something, follow me.”

The kids squeal as Nina leads them down a slightly hidden hallway behind the ride, pushes open the doorway like she owns the place. Monét hoists Allie up onto her shoulders and runs ahead, leaves Vanessa and Brooke bringing up the rear, hands entwined.

Brooke giggles as he watches his boyfriend get excited over every little aspect of it, the music playing even though the ride is shut for 'maintenance’. He can feel himself get a little swept up in the magic, letting the kids run ahead as they near the point he’s going to do it.

It’s a model of Ariel and Eric sat in the boat, hands clasped as they face each other. He pulls Vanessa over with a smile, requests Nina take a picture of them re-enacting. They face each other, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes for a second before Vanessa turns to Nina and gives the cheesiest grin he’s ever seen.

Brooke takes the moment.

He slowly moves down onto one knee as Vanessa whips his head back around, staring at him. His head tilts to the side and his eyes start to water as the Canadian lets go of one hand to reach into his pocket. He knows what’s coming, sees the glint of the ring before the box is even fully open, eyes pouring with tears as he looks to Nina to make sure this is definitely happening. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Monét, knelt with the twins, beaming. He melts a little more.

“José, my love,” Brooke sighs, relaxes his shoulders as he looks back up at the man. “It’s been a long, long road to get here, but I’m so glad we took it.” Vanessa nods, glassy-eyed. “For the record, I asked the kids’ permission to do this,” he chuckles quietly, “Allie only told me she would have to call me Dad. I don’t know about you but that doesn’t seem like a bad price.” Brooke tears up too now, his hand clammy in the other man’s as he squeezes it loosely.

“I love you more than life itself and I really want to share a drag closet with you, a coffee machine, and children, and a last name. I want it all, and I want it with you. ”

“Yes,” Vanessa whispers and Brooke swats at him.

“I haven’t finished yet, bitch.”

“Sorry.” He flushes a subtle red under the set lights - the slight strobing making his tears glitter like diamonds. Only diamonds would be good enough for him, Brooke decides.

“José, will you marry me?”

“No.”

“Baby.” He raises an eyebrow but the contented smile stays, he doesn’t need to worry, knows the real answer and the exact way the man’s mouth will form it, soft consonants and a hard vowel.

“Yes, Brock, always yes.”

They kiss and it feels like victory - crossing the line of a racetrack on an easy win, knowing you earned that crown, that trophy, that kiss. They melt into one for just a second and it’s all Vanessa needs to say everything.

Then the twins are running towards them at an alarming rate. “Dad! Papa!” They shout and it almost brings Brooke to tears again as he picks up Allie, spinning her round and round before pulling her close. She’s getting big and he almost can’t do it anymore butgoddammit he’s going to try. As he holds his fiancé and their kids close, he watches Monét press a kiss to Nina’s temple, thanks God for the family he has.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #nina west #monet x change #monique heart #branjie #ninex #fluff #hurt/comfort #dad!vanjie #if we have eachother #pinkgrapefruit #concrit welcome #submission #canon compliant #parenting au

[lavenderthebook-blog]

Chapter 1: Just me and old ghosts.

On the 3rd on June, my feet landed in the wilds of Ireland. 

I shall not share with you exactly where, because I don’t wish for people to go there seeking what I found. Just know that, on that day, the clouds gave way to light, and it was bright. I looked about at where I’d come to summer this year. The old, worn cobbled courtyard paved the way between 3 structures. First was the small 20-meter-long cottage that I’d been told to not enter. It’s door crumbled to the whims of the wind, and as I tried to gaze in through the window, which was held in place by cobwebs, I only saw old furniture, baskets of nick knacks, and the occasional thing that glimmered in the light, but which I could not make out from outside. My hand touched the wall of the cottage as I attempted to perch myself upward for a better look, the warmth of the day was sucked away from me, and I was left cold. And that was the end of that. I did not fancy being murdered in a haunted cottage. Whilst that would make a great little book, be thankful it’s not this one. I certainly am. Second, the garage. One quick peek around the corner showed me that it was not simply used as a resting place for unfinished projects and lost things. It was full of every conceivable item a farmer might use, from any conceivable time. I will defend to my deathbed that I saw the world very first scythe mounted on a mantle in the back. No lights existed in this place bar that which crept in through cracks and nooks from outside. Not haunted, so, comparatively, better than the cottage. Thirdly, lastly, and grandest, was the main house. It was as beautiful brute, with no finesse or grace to it. It had been built to weather the coldest of winters, and it did so proudly. It’s hanging baskets of flowers, small rusted windows, mouldy dark guttering, and faded cream paint was nothing special, but a welcome dose of rural life. No thatched roof. A shame, as I always wanted to see what they were like. Instead, just plain black tiles. I reached under the mat and found the key, unlocked the lock, and stepped in.

 Who doesn’t like seeing an agga when they walk into a home? It’s the heart of a house, and whilst time may have forgotten them, my heart never will. Fond memories of my youth came back to me. Flipping the toast whist it was in its weird rigid net. The shovelling of sausages into one of its many doors only to then shovel them into myself. The time-honoured tradition of resting sock covered feet on it when winter came to try fend off frostbite. It made me think of my Mum and my Dad. They won’t be mentioned again in this book, but if they read this, know that whenever I see an agga, I think of you both. The agga, acting as a sort of all-in-one cooking device dubbed this room the kitchen. The plain wooden cupboards adorning the bare brick walls, large steel sink, and varnished wooden island that doubled as both food prepping area and food consumption area confirmed this further. I dropped my bags on the wooden floor and headed further into the heart of the beast.

The only way onwards from the kitchen was the deep darkness of the hallway. With only one painted glass window as a light source, as well as any that happened to spill out of the kitchen, the hallway was likely as bright at midday as it was at midnight. Luckily, the small radiator, white stairs, and the cheerful nature of the painted glass did give it a more friendly feel rather than fiendish. The white stairs lay to my left, whilst further on to my right was a closed door.

The door led to a small, but cosy room, painted a now faded zinc, hosted a tv wearing its AV cable input as if a row of medals in the far-right corner, and a surprisingly new and likely Swedish bookshelf on the left, which was newer than any of the books and things that lay on its shelves. Betwixt them lay the large, ornate fireplace, its steel cold to the touch, but clearly having been used a lot as it had been blackened by soot. I’d imagine it grew a shade darker each year, as it would be necessary come winter. The sofa across from all of these was comfy. It filled the room with dust when I let myself fall into it, but its faded emerald colour and the sheer depth it let me fall into told me I’d be spending many a morning sat in it, happily munching at toast whilst guessing at the tv’s static charades in an effort to watch something.

Now up the stairs, which creaked a bit, but who doesn’t like a minorly creaky step? It gives such boring a thing some character. Upstairs were 4 rooms. Two were almost identical bedrooms, with only a small table, a single bed on a steel bedframe, and a chair in them. The only difference was that one was painted periwinkle blue and faced north, the other fuschia and south.

The next room was a grand bathroom and was above the kitchen, and was painted almost completely clinical, pure white. An old standalone bath, held upright by four feet moulded into the shape of lion paws, stood proudly cantered on the left wall, with the largest windows yet just next to it, ensuring that an unfortunate passing robin would be sure to catch a fright. The (thankfully) modern toilet was built into the far wall, and was next to the sink, which was a big clunky thing, and reminded me of why the saying used to be actually somewhat funny. On the right was a small dressing room, filled with now empty shelves, and a smell of very slight mildew and fabric softener. Hidden behind the bathroom’s door was a rather clinical 5 by 5 by 8 upright cut into the wall that had an almost watering can like nozzle fixed at the top, and a garden hose like tap on one of the ‘’walls’’. This was the ‘’’’shower’’’’. I saw no temperature nozzle, and realised there was no choice here, only pain. All of a sudden, I began to miss the city a little more.

I finally came to what I was to be my bedroom, which was decorated in a delicious shade of blonde (though, it may have been so appealing due to my own like for women who wore it). It was a large room, with a fittingly large queen sized bed centred along the wall, bedside tables on either side, with a large old hickory leather travel trunk at the foot of the bed.  3 differently styled wardrobes were dotted around the rooms walls. One was Japanese in appearance, with a beautiful mural painted across the two doors, and then otherwise raven. One a simple, but large oak thing, which seemed to lean slightly to the left. The last had once clearly been its twin, but was now covered in glitter, little drawings in crayon, and was marked on its side with 2 of the same names repeated upward as the age next to them grew too. It was a wardrobe that had been loved, and so I was pleased to have it here with me. ‘‘But the back blurb of the book promised me a romance story. What does a soggy description of a house have to do with that?’’ I hear you moan.

Not much really, if I’m honest. Though You’re quite the impatient bitch aren’t you? But if this book is to mean anything to you, as it does me, you have to come with me on this journey. You see, Ireland has a magic too it. Its raw and old. It lets life creep into every little thing that will hold it, and so all these pieces of furniture and appliances are just that, furniture and appliances. But for my three months there, they each took on a little life of their own and became dear friends to me. This is how you must see when reading this book. The best way to understand it is to go and hold something of yours that you’ve had for an age and feel yourself give it life. Ireland is a place where even a fence can take on such a life. And does so rather well. So yes, at times this will be a little pretentious, a little overly dramatic and poetic, and a little strange, but I will try my best to put not only my thoughts, but what I was feeling into words for you, dear reader. All I ask is that you try your hand at reading them as if you were there with me, and not simply an observer. Don’t read the moment, live it like you live the memory of your first kiss: with vivacity and a passion that you can’t escape.

 But you were promised ghosts in the chapter title, and you shall have them. Unfortunately, no white sheets came to life and booed at me that night. But as I sat falling into the sofa, the fading light of day painting the bookshelf, tv, and fireplace in fantastic hues of blush and tangerine, I thought on why I’d come here. I’d come with more than just physical baggage. You thought a person ventures out into the Irish wilderness to live in a farm for 3 months on a whim? I’d like to hope my whims would land me in some place sunnier, and with more obvious ways to escape or drown my sorrows like Ibiza, or New York. Unfortunately, I came here for a reason. I am Irish, but I’d never lived there. I’d not grown up there. I’d missed out on the unique zest for life that Ireland gifted its people, and I was in dire need for it now. Why? Because I was broken hearted, broke, and hopeless. My heart had been broken, as it often is, but a love turned sour. We’d been together for one amazing year, three good months, one odd month, then one great month, and then three months where I’d watched them fall in love with someone else. Now it had been one year without them, and without hope in the idea of love. It was not a pleasant feeling. I wanted them, but at the same time knew it would be like drinking poison. Even as I write this, my hand squeezes the pen as I’m forced to remembered fond memories that I wish forgotten.   I was broke because, for the last few months, I’d not written anything. Well, I’d written things. Small articles for a paper. A short story that lost an armature writing competition to a tale called ‘’Me and Rum: Fun Fun Fun’’. A children’s book that only proved to me that it was harder to write a children’s book than I’d previously thought. Turns out not every animal is cute when it can talk. Because of this, I’d lost all hope in myself as a writer, and the roaring blazes that had once fuelled me as I wrote now grew dimmer by the day.

And so, I’d returned to where my ancestors had been born, and grown, and bled, and cried, and loved, and fought,  and danced, and lost, and died in the hope that they might lend me their strength, or that the zest I’d missed out on would be paid to me with a bundle of interests attached. This, oddly, would turn out to be true.

But for now, simply imagine eyes closing as a laptop slowly slides off the side of a lap and into the sofa. A head falling into a chest. And the sound of snoring filling the house. I’d fallen asleep not knowing that beyond these walls she lay in wait for me, as much as I had, in a way, been waiting for her. I wonder if she’d spotted me as I’d come into the house, and watched through those rusty windows as I met each room, cooked with the agga, and mastered a duet with the tv where I held its antenna out the window and it, in turn, played the news. I hope she’d not seen me dance around under the showers cold water though. If she did, I hope it at least made her laugh.

#Lavender Chapter1 Justmeandoldghosts