#hey sweetheart

[hollygl125]

Your Love Is Better Than Chocolate

@ficwip #hey sweetheart Insp. (❤) + (❤) + (❤)

[nimudae]

Happy Valentines from "(Grumpy) Sweetheart" and "Darling (Sunshine)" ❤️💛 For @ficwip's Hey Sweetheart challenge

[Ko-fi] (Sorry for the repost but A Certain Hellsite shadowbanned this after an edit)

[quickreaver]

Happy Vday, to all you schmoops who celebrate! This was also created for the SPN-J2 Secret Santa on LJ (for stellamira and her prompt: "You think you can manage not to break any bones next year?") and @ficwip’s Hey, Sweetheart event. Who me, lazy? Yeah, pretty much... :D

[grapenehifics]

Prisoner 224

I really loved writing Out of Sync for @fulcrum843's @topwan-obikin fest prompt, but fully intended it to be a one-shot until @somethingsteff started feeding me ideas and, well, I'm limited on free time right now so this is still only a ficlet but I couldn't help myself.

If you don't know the fic, the Council finds out about Obi-Wan and Anakin's relationship and they quit the Order. Anakin punches Palpatine when he insults Obi-Wan and gets sent to jail, and Obi-Wan hurries to hit the Chancellor as well so they can stay together. This also fulfills @ficwip's Hey Sweetheart challenge!

Text under the cut:

“Where are we going?” Anakin demanded. His hands were bound at the wrists in front of him, which didn’t make him look very threatening, but he gave his best glare to the backs of the heads of the troopers escorting him down the hall anyway.

Neither the troopers ahead of him nor the two at his back answered him. Their little group just kept marching along.

“I demand to know where you’re taking me,” Anakin tried, not pausing in his forward march but flexing his fingertips in preparation. He didn’t want to use the Force against them – besides the fact that they were probably just acting on orders from someone higher up the prison management chain of command, he was also pretty sure even something mild like knocking four guards out for a few hours would get his sentence extended and that was the opposite of what he wanted considering Obi-Wan was already slated to get out weeks before he did – but he also was not planning on taking a move to another cell block without putting up some sort of a fight.

He and Obi-Wan were kept apart for most of the day – Anakin in his cell and Obi-Wan in his – but because they were part of the same cell block, they were allowed to take both their exercise hour and their meal break together, Anakin holding Obi-Wan’s hand clasped in his as they jogged around the exercise track in their prison-issued tracksuits and rubbing elbows as they sat side-by-side with their dinner trays (and this only because they’d been told off for trying to sit on each other’s laps instead). But it was still a far sight better than not getting to see him at all, and Anakin hadn’t even done anything wrong (lately) and so really didn’t deserve to be punished like this.

“I want to go back to my cell,” he said.

“One of my batchmates is serving under Commander Cody in the 212th,” the trooper behind Anakin on his right said through his helmet vocoder. “CT-3812.”

“Sure. Punch, right?” Anakin said easily. “Yeah, I know him. But what has that got to do with anything?”

“That’s him,” the trooper agreed. None of the prison guards had ever told Anakin their names, just their badge numbers, although not for lack of asking. This one was one of the supervisors. Some of the younger guys were so green they had five-digit designations. “He’s met General Kenobi a few times.”

“Cool. So have I,” Anakin nearly growled. “That’s who I’m trying to get back to. So if you could just put me back in my cell, that’d be great. Or at least tell me what I’ve done.”

“Punch tells me he’s a real stand-up guy,” the trooper continued, as if Anakin hadn’t spoken. “Always makes sure his men have enough to eat. Doesn’t take unnecessary risks. That sort of thing.”

They rounded a corner. Anakin was starting to get desperate. “Just tell me where we’re going,” he practically begged. “I can call in a couple of favors and get myself reassigned back to Obi-Wan’s floor”-

“Punch also said,” the trooper on Anakin’s right said, so loudly he was almost shouting in Anakin’s ear, “that one time you and your troops joined up with their battalion, you threw yourself in front of a blazer bomb. Saved the lives of fifteen men.”

Anakin had done that enough times that that didn’t really narrow it down for him. “Which campaign?” he asked, but the trooper ignored him yet again, which seemed rude, considering he’d started the conversation in the first place.

A commlink chirped – Anakin instinctively looked to his own belt before remembering he didn’t wear one anymore – and one of the troopers at the front of their procession answered it.

“We’re ready for you, Sergeant,” the voice on the other end said.

“Copy,” the man said, replacing the device on his belt.

“Well, I’m not ready,” Anakin said, and he stopped walking. The troopers at his back nearly ran into him. “I’m not going any further without an explanation. If you can’t give me that, then you can just put me back in my cell, because” –

“We do regular maintenance, on all the cells,” one of the troopers injected, talking over the tail end of Anakin’s sentence. “Routine cleaning, things like that. Check that the water pipes are functioning properly, do a little light dusting…”

“I don’t care if my cell is clean or not,” Anakin hissed. “You can skip mine for the next five months if you want. Or let me do it myself. Is that the problem? Just give me the tools and leave me alone. If you’re worried I’m going to break out, I promise I won’t. As long as you’ve got Obi-Wan here I’m, like, the opposite of a flight risk.”

“It might take, say, three hours to finish the whole floor, wouldn’t you say?” the trooper on Anakin’s left asked the trooper on Anakin’s right.

“Maybe as many as four,” he responded.

“And we do these sorts of rounds every other week,” the first one continued.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Anakin demanded.

“If you’d just wait right in here, Prisoner 224,” the trooper who was friends with Punch said, and nudged Anakin in the back with the butt of his rifle.

“I told you; I’m not going. And you’re bluffing. You won’t shoot me.”

“That’s true,” the trooper admitted. “I’m not. What I am going to do is count to thirty, and by the time I get to the end, you’re going to decide to go, all on your own.”

“Ha,” Anakin said. “Like hell I am. What on earth do you think would make me” –

“Here we are, sir,” another of the troopers said, and he punched the button to release the door guard in front of one of the cells. He was wearing a bucket, but he somehow seemed to be able to stare straight into Anakin’s eyes anyway. “Four hours, every other week,” he repeated slowly, enunciating very clearly.

“I don’t care how clean it is,” Anakin insisted, just as he was very unceremoniously shoved forward into the new cell he absolutely did not want to be in –

“Oh. Hello, sweetheart,” Obi-Wan said, sitting up from where he’d been lying on his back across his bunk, his arms crossed behind his head. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What” – Anakin stammered as the door guard slammed down behind him, locking him in. Locking him into Obi-Wan’s cell. With Obi-Wan.

Anakin opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. The binders around his wrists unlocked and fell to the floor with a clatter. “Send Punch my regards,” he said, without turning his head. He and Obi-Wan hadn’t stopped staring into one another’s eyes from the moment they’d faced one another. Obi-Wan grinned. Anakin grinned back.

“Will do, sir,” his friend said jovially, but Anakin missed hearing him as he launched himself at Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan, laughing, caught him and lowered him down onto his bunk.

“Did I just hear you say something about four hours?” Obi-Wan asked mischievously, one eyebrow raising into a verbal question mark.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan did.

[underacalicosky]

Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️ To show my love and appreciation for you all and the joy that the Obikin fandom has brought me, I’ve written some smut for you. 🎉

This started as a drabble in response to a soft dialogue prompt sent to me by @sky-kenobye and I’m so excited for it be my contribution to @ficwip’s Hey Sweetheart 2024 Challenge.

This modern AU has some of my favorite things, like mutual pining, fluffy cuddles, virgin!Anakin, Obikin miscommunication, soft vanilla sex, and my new favorite side pairing: Obi-Wan/ibuprofen (<- this is not a tag that exists on AO3). Rated E.

Here’s the first two chapters. I’m hoping to post the rest this weekend!

[kinetic-elaboration]

Complex College Mating Rituals as a Distraction from the Brutality of Boston Winter

Fandom: Daria Pairing: Daria/Jane Word Count: 3,600 Tags: College Era, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Fluff

For @ficwip 's 2024 Hey Sweetheart challenge, the goal of which is to write a story (or create art) in which one character calls another 'sweetheart'--and means it.

Summary/Excerpt:

"Complex college mating rituals as a distraction from the brutality of Boston winter," Daria answers.

"That could be the title of a story."

"I'm hardly the person to write it."

Jane shrugs. "Why not?" She pokes Daria's foot under the table with the toe of her boot, tries with only some success to hold back her smirk. "You have a girlfriend. How'd you manage that if you don't know something about complex mating rituals?"

Or: Three scenes from Daria and Jane's freshman year of college, February 2001, as they settle into their new relationship.

READ ON AO3.

[sparklepocalypse]

This glorious WIP Wednesday, I bring you a whole damn fic -- and my hundredth work on AO3! -- which I wrote A. for Valentine's Day and B. for @ficwip's Hey Sweetheart challenge! Thanks to @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @kiwiana-writes, @getmehighonmagic, @firenati0n, @anincompletelist, @priincebutt, and @inexplicablymine for the tags on this most holy Singles Awareness Day! 💗

[Rated E | 7,732 words]

“I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day as a rule; it’s so commercialized and performative, and that just strips away all the actual romance. But also… it’s objectively more difficult to celebrate Valentine’s Day when you’re aggressively single.” “What exactly makes someone aggressively single?” Henry muses. Alex chuckles and adjusts his stance against the desk. “Not sure that’s really a topic for the office, regardless of whether you’re Pez’s best friend,” he replies. (Or, Okonjo Foundation lawyer Alex meets Okonjo shelter director Henry. A Valentine's Day fic.)

Mind the tags please: relevant triggery tags include homophobia and transphobia, due to the nature of Alex and Henry's jobs. Alex and Henry are the good guys, here; it's the side characters who we hate.

Open tag comin' your way (yes, you in particular), because I've seen a lot of WIP Wednesday posts flying around today already!

[starlightvld]

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen Relationships: Sheith (Shiro/Keith) Chapters: 1/1 * Words: 6,915 * Status: COMPLETE

During a routine mission to provide aid to a planet ravaged by the defunct Galra Empire, galra hold-outs pull Keith through a wormhole to who-knows-where and disable his ship before he defeats them. As he drifts through space alone and then crash lands on a deserted planet, he muses over his relationship with loneliness as he tries to keep his hopes up that his friends will come to the rescue. This time, it's Shiro's turn to be Keith's hero.

Written for the @ficwip Hey, Sweetheart 2024 event.

[bcbdrums]

Full Disclosure

A Drakgo fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

A/N: This next one-shot has a few sources of inspiration. First, the prompt from this list: 2. "If I kiss you, will you shut up?" Prompt was recommended by the legendary "Guest" on AO3 (you know who you are!) who specifically wanted French kissy-face, and the story was inspired in part by @lordwiggyton whose recent Mama Lipsky art has had my mind stirring. I'm also submitting this work to the "Hey, Sweetheart" Valentine's event run by @ficwip. It's not the conventional route perhaps, but within the rules? Pretty sure. And last but not least, it's an answer to @kim-possible-prompts's Valentine's Day prompt! (Have y'all noticed I adore answering prompts? lol.) ALSO this is the first of some birthday gifts I have for the incomparable @gothicthundra. Happy birthday, chaos queen. :) Enjoy!

Full Disclosure

Shego sighed from her perch at the end of the bed, leaning back and re-crossing her legs as she watched Drakken pace and listened to the same worried ramblings for the third time.

"But what if she never forgives me!" he cried as he wrung his hands.

"Dr. D.... We've been through this," Shego said, glancing down to study her nails. "She's jumped across moving train cars for you. Somehow I don't think finding out you've spent the past twenty years attempting world domination is going to come as much of a shock."

"But Shego..." Drakken said, pausing in front of her.

Shego looked up and took stock of her lover's appearance. He had, at her insistence, gone for black slacks instead of his usual Dockers, a tailored cherry-red dress shirt, and a black silk tie that perfectly accented the rest of his attire. And of course, the gold medal he'd received for saving the world hung heavy over his chest.

Shego wished she were the one going out with Drakken that evening, especially considering the calendar date. But this night had been planned for quite some time.

"She's had faith in me my entire life... How can I tell her it was all for nothing?"

"Drakken—"

"I admit it's past time to tell her the truth, but I just can't bear to disappoint her!"

"Drakken—"

"And then I'll never hear the end of it!" Drakken continued, throwing his hands up and resuming his ambling around the bedroom. "Passive-aggressive cards and letters is all I'll get for Christmas now! And lumps of coal instead of home-knitted sweaters!"

Shego stood up from the bed and briskly approached him.

"Drakken—"

"All the years of silence I left between us so she wouldn't figure it out. All those lost years I could have been close to my lonely old mother. That's what her letters will say, now. Have you ever heard that woman start on a guilt trip? She's an absolute master!"

"Drew!"

This finally caused the mad scientist's jaw to snap closed. He stopped mid-stride and whirled around to face her.

"If I kiss you, will you shut up?"

"Hnn?"

Shego didn't wait for an invitation. She snaked her arms around Drakken's neck and pressed in close before he could protest, and was gratified to feel tension leave his shoulders first and his lips a moment after.

She was far gentler with the kiss than with her words, her lips sliding with soft friction against his until they parted and gave her tongue purchase. She felt his soft exhale through his nostrils against her cheek as his fingers found her waist, and she could feel his hum of satisfaction where their chests were pressed together. His tongue was gentle as it slid alongside hers in caress, and he still tasted of cinnamon from his toothpaste.

Warmth blossomed in Shego's chest at his attentive response, and for the moment the dilemma of the present was forgotten. There was only the gentle pressure of noses fitted together, the give and take as their tongues took turns parting supple lips and exploring the heat and texture of one another. Drakken's body melded hot against hers as his hands slid lower, and her fingers rose to tangle his perfectly slicked-back hair.

It was fortuitous perhaps when Drakken pulled back slightly to stroke the outline of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. It was intoxicating, but the faint distance allowed her other senses a chance to process the sound of approaching footsteps. Not in time to leave her lover's embrace, however, before they reached the doorway.

"Hey, Sweetheart— Drew Theodore P. Lipsky!"

It was Shego who moved first, putting a healthy space between them and leaving Drakken blinking and confused for a moment with his lips still parted before he had processed the voice that had spoken.

"M-Mother!" Drakken cried, darting behind Shego instinctively at the sight of his mother's judgmental expression.

"And no ring on her finger yet! For shame!"

Shego's face flushed as she was sure Drakken's was doing as well. That was a topic she definitely did not want to get into right then, and least of all with Drakken's mother who had her own agenda on the matter.

Mrs. Lipsky had opted for nicer attire for the evening as well, choosing a conservative charcoal sheath dress with a floral teal and peach floral sweater and pearls.

"Dr. D.," Shego said quickly, stepping away from the mad scientist and leaving him looking very exposed as he waved at his mother and attempted a weak smile through kiss-swollen lips. "Shouldn't you and your mother hurry to make your reservation on time?"

"Ahh...y-yes. But first," Drakken said, turning and nearly tripping over his feet as he hurried to pick up his mother's gift from the bed. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

The irritated crinkle at the older woman's eyes softened as her frown bloomed into a smile.

"Roses! And chocolate! Oh Drewbie, you shouldn't have!"

"O-Only the best for you, Mother," Drakken said as he presented the gift with a nervous smile.

"Marzipan! My favorite!" Mama Lipsky said after plopping one of the chocolates into her mouth.

"Of course! Now...Shego was right, we'd best get going," Drakken said. He began looking around for his suit coat, and then stopped short when he found Shego holding it up for him, a smirk on her face.

"Aw, she's so thoughtful Drew!" Mama Lipsky said, smiling fondly at Shego as she closed the chocolate box. "Dear, would you mind putting these in water for me until we get back?"

"Sure," Shego replied, smoothing Drakken's jacket over his shoulders.

She received the flowers from the woman a moment later, who squeezed her hand with a grateful smile before turning toward the door. Without the watchful gaze of older generation, Drakken turned worried eyes back upon Shego. All of his fears from the rambling of before were spoken in the inky blue of his irises, and Shego was tempted to give him a shove toward the door as a way of telling him to knock it off. Instead, she leaned in to let her lips graze his ear, speaking so softly she could hardly hear her own voice.

"She'll always have faith in you. Besides, you saved the world. You've accomplished more than she could have ever dreamed. Have some faith in her."

Shego felt again the release of tension from Drakken's frame as she adjusted the medal over his tie. She smirked again when he pulled away, the light of hope having returned to her lover's eyes.

"Coming, Drewbie?"

"Yes...yes, Mother," Drakken said and turned to go, confidence back in his stride.

Shego tilted her head down to smell the flowers as the two left. It was a strange new world they'd found themselves in since the invasion, but, some things would always be constants.

"Now, Drew, on the phone you'd said there was something you wanted to tell me...?"

[solacium]

fandom: genshin impact relationship: wriothesley/neuvillette word count: 921 rating: T summary:

He watches as Wriothesley twists the rings on his fingers absently as he speaks. He has always liked the way they look, and there is something about the way the silver moves and glints against Wriothesley's hands and the dark of his clothes that mesmerises him.

A memory bubbles up, unbidden, of those same hands, sliding the very same rings off his fingers, carefully, as he whispers to him, to run calloused palms across his skin, seeking, warm fingers curling around the ache of his—

Neuvillette shakes the thought away.

—

an instance of an innocuous little habit being given an entirely different connotation, under certain circumstances.

written for @ficwip's valentine's event hey, sweetheart 2024

read on ao3

[pellaaearien]

Hob's fine spending Valentine's Day alone, really he is. Why would Dream care about a silly human holiday?

Valentine's Day, Established Relationship, Lack of Communication, they're idiots your honour, Idiots in Love, Unrepentant Shmoop, Too Much Together, written for the @ficwip​ challenge

To be with Dream is… well, there aren’t words. He knows, he’s looked. Fittingly, most of the time his life feels more like a dream than reality, and he’s only just started to grow accustomed to the fact that for all intents and purposes, the two are now one and the same. Somehow, he’s allowed to give Dream all the regard and adoration that had built up over six hundred years, only to find it matched in fervour the way only an infinite being can. In light of that, marking paltry human customs like Valentine’s Day seems trite.

Only one date matters to them, June 7, which they now celebrate every year, not every hundred. They’d done so ever since Dream showed back up at the New Inn, and now that it is also the day that they’d finally confessed their feelings to each other the year before, it has only grown more significant.

So, he’s not expecting Dream today, and that’s fine. Dream comes and goes as he pleases, and Hob would never curtail him. Not when his friend had spent a hundred years locked in a cage. He knows he can find Dream in the Dreaming if he really needs to, if Dream doesn’t find him first, but it’s not necessary. He’ll see Dream sooner rather than later, and it’s Dream’s presence that makes things special, not some arbitrary date on a calendar.

[Read on Ao3]

[tapesofterror]

the softer faces of love

a fluffy jonmartin fic set in the scottish safehouse. true love is letting your partner give you their cold because you didn't want to leave them alone while they were miserable.

written for the hey, sweetheart event by @ficwip

[tammyghostal]

DEFINITELY not thinking of any mutuals while posting this.

[onthewaytosomewhere]

i've got you acting like you want more

my smutty submission for the @ficwip Hey, Sweetheart event

He stands in the shower, letting the water cascade over him and wash away the soap he used and the grime of his morning run. He is running his hands through his hair, making sure to get the conditioner throughout, eyes closed when the door to the shower behind him opens. He turns and smiles at Henry as he steps into the shower, sleep still clinging to him, eyes barely open. Alex pulls Henry to him and whispers, “Good morning, sweetheart,” smiling against Henry’s neck at his sleepy sigh. “What brings you out of bed already? I thought for sure you’d be there at least a few more hours since you didn’t get in until the wee hours of the morning.” Henry mumbles into his shoulder, “I turned over three different times, and you weren’t there; this time, I heard the shower and came to find you.” “Oh, so you came to lure me back to bed? I see how it is.” or a brownstone era pre-engagement the boys re-uniting after a week apart fic

big thanks to @magicandarchery & @england-would-fall for giving this lil thing a look over for me and making sure everyone's body parts stayed where they should lol💕

[underacalicosky]

The last chapter of Stars From Our Eyes has been posted! Thanks again to @ficwip for organizing the Hey Sweetheart 2024 Collection. I had a lot of fun writing this!

Obi-Wan figures out how to stop being a dumbass and Anakin bottoms for the first time 🎉 Thanks for reading! ❤️

[jomiddlemarch]

nothing that was without wings would escape

“I Owled Molly,” Hermione said, tossing the words over her shoulder while she fussed with the copper teakettle. It was better to have her back to him. She knew he’d never curse her from behind, no matter how incensed he was. She’d violated his explicit directive not to ask advice from Molly Weasley and she hadn’t wanted to make him address why exactly Molly was verboten, especially since Hermione was now mostly a Weasley hanger-on, the sister Harry wouldn’t do without, even if she and Ron had crumbled like an old tea-biscuit after six months of attempting a romance. 

“I told you not to,” Draco replied. His voice was low and he’d tried to purge all the frustrated anger from it because it was widely agreed that babies could sense emotion and they didn’t need another reason for Scorpius to cry.

“Desperate times,” Hermione said. “You know the rest.”

“I already asked my mother. And Andromeda,” Draco said, continuing to walk in a nearly symmetric oval path around the dimly lit kitchen, a brief jog to avoid the end of the oak refectory table he used for breakfast and that once upon a time, Hermione had had the most delightfully filthy fantasies about defiling with him. That had been pre-exposure to Scorpius or rather, pre-exposure to Scorpius’s colic.

(She would have felt worse about lusting after a recently widowed man, but he’d made it clear he and Astoria had had an arranged marriage that would have lasted a lifetime except that she’d insisted she wanted a baby, knowing her ancestral bloodcurse wouldn’t allow her to survive her labor. It had seemed a very rum deal to Hermione and she’d had to balance dislike with pity. Adding in sexual attraction wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was just a straw.)

(After his son was born, Draco told her, just once, that Scorpius was worth it. All of it. She’d starting falling in love then. It didn’t seem like she’d ever hit the ground and not because she was a witch. She’d never gotten any better at broom-work.)

(She could get away with lengthy parentheticals because Draco was still trying, unsuccessfully, to get Scorpius to pipe down and was distracted. It was a double-edged sword, his distraction, but she was a Gryffindor and had been trained how to wield an enchanted goblin-wrought claymore if the situation called for it.)

“And your aunt and mother have raised three children between them, two Metamorphagi, from whom no significant data can be drawn because Metamorphagi don’t follow standard developmental guidelines and additionally Teddy’s father was a werewolf. Narcissa made no secret of the fact she relied on House-elves and nannies,” Hermione pointed out, arranging a pair of mugs for the tea she was brewing. The caffeine was irrelevant, as it seemed they were never going to sleep again. “Andromeda baked you a lemon sponge cake and your mother suggested you leave him and spend a few weeks in Antibes, getting some color, taking the yacht out for a spin. My parents would only have recommended you put him on Muggle meds for reflux and you’ve already ruled that out.”

“The Healers said it wasn’t reflux, that’s why,” Draco said. Scorpius was crying but it wasn’t full-voice. It seemed a certain degree of jiggling could keep him from his upper register. Fortunately, Draco had never given up Quidditch, so his upper body strength and stamina were adequate to the apparently endless task. If that mean he was fit, deliciously so, so be it.

“Do you want to hear what Molly said or do you want me to spike your tea with an ungodly amount of Firewhisky?” Hermione asked. She’d learned Draco did better when given a choice. Since becoming more than his Ministry colleague and not quite sure what category beyond friend he considered her, she tried to avoid overt manipulation and stuck with the more direct, Gryffindor approach that he expected from her.

“Tell me what the mother of nations said,” Draco replied, rolling his eyes. Scorpius howled suddenly and Hermione closed her own eyes for a moment.

“You don’t have to stay,” Draco said. He’d said it so many times, from the first night Hermione had heard Scorpius let loose, which was roughly six weeks after the crying had started and a fortnight since the Healers at St. Mungo’s had diagnosed colic maxifabulorum, the later onset incurable crying that Wizarding babies could contract, trying to soften the blow by mentioning the high correlation between the diagnosis and magical power. Narcissa had crowed over the news, focusing on the exceedingly small chance Scorpius would turn out to be a Squib, but it hadn’t done much for Draco who just wanted his baby son to stop crying and preferably sleep for a four-hour stretch. Astoria’s death in childbirth had been anticipated and prepared for, but becoming a widower and a single father was very difficult, made more so by the lack of sleep. Hermione suspected Draco had only agreed to let her come over the first time because he thought he was dreaming. It had been 4 pm and they’d been in her office at the Ministry, ostensibly reviewing a brief. He’d looked like hell and she’d spoken before she thought twice about it.

Once she’d heard Scorpius at full volume, she’d known she’d made the right decision.

“I’m staying,” she said. She’d learned she didn’t need to argue with him about it, but he needed the reassurance in her voice that she would, if he kept pestering her about it. “Molly said there aren’t any spells for colic in magical infants.”

Molly had actually written that there weren’t any spells that weren’t terribly Dark, but Hermione judged it was wisest to give Draco the highlights of the letter and not stir up any of the trauma of his history as a Death-eater and her own torture by his Death-eater Vantablack-incarnated-into-a-witch aunt. She planned to leave out Molly’s offer to send along a proper cottage pie and a jam tart as she was well-aware that Hermione didn’t like spending too much time in the kitchen. The usual invitation to Sunday lunch was also destined for the metaphorical scrap heap.

“Was that all?” Draco asked. He was now into the patting-Scorpius-on-the-back portion of the walk. It hadn’t made an appreciable difference to date, but he wasn’t ready to give up on it. His hand always looked enormous on Scorpius’s back. Enormous and incredibly gentle.

“She said potions were dicey and it was best to Transfigure some earplugs for ourselves. Arthur added a post-script, said his Great-Aunt Frederuna swore by spirits rubbed onto the gums, preferably gin though rum or whisky would do in a pinch,” Hermione said. She’d poured out two mugs of tea and doctored them up to their respective requirements; Draco preferred enough sugar to make it almost a syrup but couldn’t bear Hermione’s own milky cup. 

“I’m not getting my baby drunk,” Draco said as she’d known he would.

“It does seem like poor parenting,” Hermione agreed. “Not that I’d judge you for being tempted.”

“That’s not what tempts me,” Draco muttered. Hermione felt herself get very still and reminded herself that nothing…untoward was going to happen with Scorpius hollering as if he were being baby-Crucioed, despite the fact that both she and Draco were in dishabille compared to their formal work robes and suits. Draco was barefoot and though she wasn’t about to advertise it, Hermione had Flooed over without a bra under her old jumper from her father’s schooldays at the University of Glasgow. Nothing was going to happen because Scorpius was screaming bloody murder and Draco looked like he was about to keel over.

“Sit down. I’ll Transfigure a rocking chair. The walking isn’t quieting him down and you’re exhausted,” she said in a rush.

“Maybe if Astoria were here,” Draco said, breaking off.

“He’s not crying for his mother,” Hermione replied softly. “He knows he’s loved. You make him know that, you show him. It’s only colic—”

She wandlessly Transfigured a stool into a maple rocking chair with a high back and managed to add a velvet cushion from the dishtowel slung over her shoulder. Wandless Transfiguration was tricky but using a similar piece of furniture helped. Draco gave her a look as he walked over and sat down, a look that said he appreciated just how gifted she was though he wouldn’t make her uncomfortable by commenting that in the entire UK, only Minerva McGonagall could have bettered her work. He sat down and adjusted Scorpius on his shoulder, his palm cupping the back of Scorpius’s head.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Oh,” Hermione said, startled, the mugs in her hands unsteady. Or perhaps her hands were unsteady and the mugs nearly full. It was some small miracle that the tea didn’t slop over the rims and burn her.

“I didn’t mean—” Draco said, stopped himself. Scorpius took a long breath, almost like a sigh, and then didn’t immediately shriek. Draco looked at Hermione and his grey eyes were bright and warm, amused and hopeful and tender. “That is, I didn’t but I find, rather, Hermione, that I do.”

Tagging @ficwip for Hey Sweetheart 2024!