The Picture!spiration Fic-a-thon

[tollers]

Rin and Jen proudly present

THE PICTURE!SPIRATION FIC-A-THON

The rules are simple.

1. Leave a prompt; one picture per comment. Leave nothing else but a picture. The rest is up to ~imagination~. Leave as many flippin' prompts as your heart desires; there is no limit.

2. Fill a prompt! Please include a title, the fandom, and any relevant warnings/ratings in the subject line; also include characters or pairings if they fit. Your fill may be any length, it can be prose, poetry, script, or any sort of contemporary writing. If your piece is too long for one comment, feel free to use multiple comment boxes or link to a posting on your journal.

3. You may fill your own prompt if the inspiration strikes.

4. Any fandom, character, pairing, or genre is welcome.

5. PROFIT.

Comments

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

daddy dearest; Harry/Luna, G

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[[this turned into utter schmoop. I'm sorry! XD ]]

“Mum,” the quiet, yet insistent voice made Harry open his bleary eyes. He could just make out the small – currently extremely blurry - form of his daughter, Lily peering over the side of the bed. “Mummy… mummy…”

He fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table and shoved them onto his nose. This brought the numbers on the alarm clock to his attention and he sighed. They hadn’t even made it to past 6 this morning.

“Daddy!”

Grey eyes, large and luminous like her mother’s looked up into his expectantly.

“That’s right,” he said, sitting up and swinging his feet around to the side of the bed. He reached down arms and scooped her up onto his lap. She immediately burrowed her way under his chin. “Mummy is sleeping, Lily. We need to be quiet.”

Lily sighed. “But its morning now, why isn’t Mummy getting up?”

Mummy wasn’t getting up because he’d promised Luna a proper lie-in. Though she still juggled motherhood, being a wife, being a witch, being a witch who worked as a Magizoologist – though she’d been taken off the rotation for field work and was now doing all her reports from home – and did the shopping and the gardening and the washing and whatever else needed doing and did all of these things with a seeming ease that occasionally left him speechless, he knew damn well that nearly 7 months into her pregnancy she was exhausted.

“Mummy is tired, and since she takes such good care of us, it’s only fair that we take care of her and let her get some rest, right?” he said, hoping that Lily would go along with this line of reasoning without too much protest. She looked skeptical for a long moment, and then thankfully agreed with him.

“Right, taking care of mummy.” she said her expression serious. “Alright daddy, breakfast.”

“Right, breakfast.” Breakfast was definitely within his range of cooking skills.

Harry placed Lily back on the floor. She promptly scampered out the door and he winced when he heard the pounding of her tiny feet on the floor all the way down the hall. It was amazing really how much noise one child could make. What would it be like when there were two of them running around? He and Luna would never sleep again.

At the noise, Luna mumbled something in her sleep and shifted as much as her body would currently allow. He smiled down at her, and leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead. She opened here eyes and murmured, “Harry?”

“Go back to sleep, Luna. I’ve got Lily,” he hastened to reassure her.

She smiled at him, and seemingly in the time between one breath and the next she was sound asleep again. Oh how he envied her at the moment, but he’d promised and he was going to bloody well keep his promise!

With an act of will, he ignored the siren song of his pillow and forced himself to get up out of the bed and follow in the wake of the three year old cyclone wearing pajamas decorated with tiny Hippogriffs and Unicorns.

Twenty minutes later as he sat with his daughter at the kitchen table, her face smeared with Luna's homemade jam - made from dirigible plums of course - he no longer cared how early it was or how tired he was. And when she kissed his cheek smearing jam on him as well, he quite honestly couldn't think of a better way to start his day.

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

shadows of themselves ; harry/hermione ; pg

[dynastessa]

Harry Potter is not afraid of his shadow.

He is envious of it.

Once, when the three of them had been traveling for hours, pursued by the hot, unceasing light of the sun, he had glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of two shadows leaning into each other - his and Hermione's - close, like they were kissing.

It's odd that he's never really noticed it before. Never noticed how his shadow leans forward, depending on the time of day, sometimes looking like it wants to be drawn back into the earth, other times looking defiant; ready for a fight, maybe. (It's more ready than he is, at any rate.)

Never really paid any attention to the way his shadow seems to know much more than he does, realize that it has what Harry never could.




'Are you all right, Harry?' Hermione asks. They're walking along a brow-beaten path, just the two of them, alone ever since Ron had got up and left them in a flurry of lanky limbs and angry words, his face red to match his hair.

(He's not sure he'll ever forgive him. He's not sure he wants to anymore.)

Her face is pale, streaked still with dried tears; neither of them had the chance to wash before packing up.

Harry shakes his head. His eyes are trained to the ground, at their shadows.

'I'm fine, Hermione,' he answers. His voice is unconvincing. 'I should be asking you.'

She shakes her head, like it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does, but she'd rather not say. 'You're a horrible liar,' she says instead. She touches his hand, the barest brush of skin against skin.

'I know,' he responds. His voice is a murmur.

Hermione takes a couple steps forward, and the two dark figures separate.




'What if we stayed here, Harry?'

Harry looks up from Hermione's copy of Beedle the Bard. It's his turn to make some sense of Dumbledore's gift to the brightest witch he knows.

(He isn't having terribly much luck with it so far.)

'We could grow old here. It's peaceful.'

The words are out before Harry can stop them. 'We can't do that.'

Hermione nods, almost apologetic. She dips her head, touches the bark of the tree and sighs. 'No, I suppose we can't.'




In Godric's Hollow, it's night. Christmas Eve. Snow falls like a cloud being split apart, dusting everything around them, covering the dark with white.

Hermione loops her arm through his, holding him just there. Harry tightens his arm ever-so-slightly, sure she won't feel a thing.

(But hopeful that she will.)

'Hermione,' he starts. The words are tied up on his tongue, should's and can't's entangled amongst 'maybe's and 'i love you's.

He can see their shadows against the dim light of the streetlamp, joined as one, like a pair of lovers embracing — or a mutated monster.

'Yes, Harry?'

'Nothing.'




Just before Harry leaves the tent to take watch, Hermione stops him. Her skin is glowing by the light of the tiny glass lamp, filled with conjured flame.

He wonders if his is glowing too.

'Harry,' she starts.

He looks away, looks to the side, finds their shadows. The bushy haired silhouette leans into the figure of the boy, their features losing coherency.

She stands before him; he can smell her hand-creme — and it takes everything he has not to lean forward and kiss her.

'Harry,' she says again.

And, closer than he's ever been to her, she rises up on her toes and kisses his mouth: brief, chaste, and tasting of burnt mushrooms and lip gloss.

'Be careful.'




Cold and wet, a shattered locket clutched between icy fingers, Harry stumbles up the hill.

The sound of a metal tip, dragging against the permafrost, crackling leaves and drawing a line in the dirt, follows close behind.

'Mental,' says the voice. 'Harry, you could have bloody died out there.'

Ron's expression is one of wide-eyed worry, watching his best mate as though a part of him can't quite believe he's there.

Harry feels the same.

His eyes keep flicking to his shadow, obscured by trees, a band of dark streaks across his figure, cutting him into ribbons.

'But we did it. We destroyed the Horcrux,' Harry says, turning his gaze away. 'I'm glad you're back.'

The words taste just a little like a lie.

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

you were the first mile ; cora/james ; pg-13 ; [1/2]

[wicked-written.livejournal.com]

The House is borne of a breath of laughter.

It isn't meant to be seen. An accident that coalesces in the winter air and is only ever seen because of the cracks in the window-glass and the rattling in the heater.

Their neighbors have gone in the many ways of going. The professor, he retires: to beaches, he tells them, to a life without rain or broken radiators or the far-off rumble of the Underground. The veterans, they go one after another - the time between them counted in days, in hours - like clockwork, like marching, like the tug that comes from the holding of hands. (Cora finds it romantic, in her more wonderstruck moments. When the lights are out and she's on her own.) Have left and are leaving, cannot quite be replaced by moving trucks or renewed keyring jangles or food-laden visits to front doors that used to open to different faces.

They breathe the winter smoke back in, but it remains - trapped in their lungs and caught in the back of their minds.

It is how the House begins.

-

It's understandable that the woman (Real-estate agent, Cora explains. You got to have those. Where d'you weird, magic people find houses? An' don't tell me you just magic 'em. James - pointedly, perhaps - doesn't say a word.) doesn't understand at first. It's her job, after all. She takes them to buildings furnished like showrooms, places where the scuffs on Cora's shoes stick out like neon signs and where the wires and electrics set off all the hairs on James' arms like static. Or lightning.

She inquires after wedding dates and boasts of high-speed connections (Didn't know they made them any more high-speed, James marvels, head stuck half into the fireplace. Cora snorts and kicks his shin. She doesn't wear any rings on any fingers.), points out extra rooms for 'growth' and uses terms that would probably sound a whole lot more impressive if Cora had the slightest idea what any of them meant.

(What is a buttress? Why would it want to fly?)

Needless to say, they don't get very far.

The last house is the woman's (Dorothy now. It' been practically long enough. It would be Dot, but the one time they tried her face turned the strangest color. So that's only when she isn't around.) unofficial Giving Up. It can barely be called a house. It probably breaks any of a number of safety guidelines and probably shouldn't even be shown. Certainly shouldn't be sold.

They open the front door, with its rusty hinges and its peeling paint, and a section of the roof collapses. Some great cascade of dust and plaster and ceiling tiles, a clatter and a woosh of disturbance, a rustling of things that haven't been bothered with - that haven't been wanted for ages.

Cora breathes in, squeezes her fingers tight, and grins like Christmas come early.

James rolls his eyes and asks after the paperwork.

Dorothy looks as though she would very much like to faint.

-

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[luminessa.livejournal.com]

[dynastessa]

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart); Tristran/Yvaine: pg

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

She was never meant to dream. Stars don’t dream. But she isn’t a star anymore, and so she dreams.

In her dream she is perched atop the wall – the wall that separates Stormhold from the village of Wall - and lets her feet dangle. It is night of course, for what better time is there for a star to be out, even a star who is no longer a star? She knows instinctively that she is dreaming, since it has been months since she and Tristran have visited the wall, and longer still since Tristran has crossed the threshold from one realm into the other. The one time she broached the subject with him out of curiousity, he merely turned to look at her and smiled. “Why go back? I have everything I need right here.”

She thinks she understands the sentiment. Yes, there are times when she misses what she once was, misses her sisters with a pain in her heart that she knows has nothing to do with the beating organ in her chest, but she has gained so much. She is not less with Tristran, she is more.

As though the mere thought of him has the power to summon him, Tristran is now standing by the wall. He looks up at her, she looks down at him, this man who won her heart.

“We’re dreaming you know,” she tells him.

“Oh, I know,” he says agreeably. “It’s been ages since we visited the wall.”

“Do you dream of it?” she asks softly.

“Occasionally” he admits, “though less and less these days. But I often dream of you.”

She smiles at his words. “Whose dream are we in?” she asks. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours,” he says with certainty.

“How can you tell?”

“In mine, it’s usually daylight so I can see your hair in the sunlight.”

Tristran offers her his hand to help her down from her perch. She accepts it, coming down as gracefully as possible given that her leg has never quite fully healed and lets him pull her into his arms. Behind him, the sun is rising.

She wakes to feel Tristan leaving a trail of kisses down her throat and she smiles, before rolling herself on top of him.

“Hello,” he says smiling up at her, his hair mussed from sleep.

She gives him his own hello in the form of a long, unhurried kiss. His hands roam up her back, playing with the ends of her hair.

“The dream was good,” he tells her, “but I have to say I prefer the reality.”
He kisses her and they stay like that for some time before he asks, “ Yvaine, do you ever regret losing your heart to me?”

She shakes her head. “You cannot lose something that you have freely given to another. Loss implies it was taken away and is now gone. To give something, implies choice. Free will. I chose to give you my heart. It was a fair trade, after all I got yours in return.”

His smile shines as brightly as a star.

“Now, enough talking,” she says briskly, before kissing him again.

She is queen of all Stormhold and a force to be reckoned with when those she deems hers are threatened. He is her king, the balance to her infamous temper and the cause of her laughter. Even to anyone who knows her origin and their shared history, it might seem a strange pairing; a creature of night, and one of day and somehow she knows there could not be a better match for her.

[dynastessa]

[dynastessa]

[dynastessa]

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[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]

the way of it ; golden ot3 ; pg-13

[dynastessa]

note: Well, it started off following this prompt. And then it sort of got sidetracked and went somewhere else, and then this ended up happening. So idek if this is appropriate anymore. *shifty* I may try this one again later.



i.

Hermione knows everyone expected her and Ron to marry. They've only been playing back-and-forth for years now, and Ron has only fancied her forever.

'Maybe longer,' Harry joked once.

(And then, soon after, never again.)

Ron turned a deep red to match his horrid Christmas jumper (a little too small, no longer fitting the limbs of a once seventeen-year-old, frayed at the hems, with a hole under the right arm), and when she met eyes with Harry, heart leaping into her throat, she couldn't help but think, 'It's really not that simple.'

Her fingers brush away Ron's hair while he sleeps, his eyelids twitching lightly at her touch. Harry suddenly shifts, the mattress groaning in protest, before his arm winds itself around her waist, resting there, a comforting, heavy (safe) weight over her stomach.

She settles back into the pillows and closes her eyes, the flush in her cheeks appearing when she thinks, 'The best things never really are.'





ii.

Somewhere, deep down, Harry always knew he and Ginny wouldn't really work out. It'd just taken years for him to find that Gryffindor courage to tell her.

(To admit it to himself.)

'I'm a bit busy at the moment,' was Harry's go-to excuse.

'You always have time for Ron,' Ginny pointed out, none-too-gently. 'And Hermione.'

His scar doesn't prickle, not anymore, but he rubbed it then; out of habit, maybe - in times of stress. 'They're my best friends.'

It was the way he said it, he thinks, that told her everything, left her heart numb and her eyes wet even when she nodded and said, 'I understand.'

She hadn't been there, and she couldn't. He didn't blame her. There were just things -

And it was them. Always them.

(McGonagall had said so, herself: 'Why is it always you three?' while they turned to each other, shameful and shameless glances exchanged amongst teenagers.)

He presses a kiss into Hermione's bare shoulder (and she leans into his touch), while he reaches for one of Ron's hands and squeezes.

It was always going to be them three.





iii.

Ron thinks he might have fallen in love with them both, that first day on the Hogwarts Express when he stumbled upon Harry Potter's car and was bossed about by Hermione Granger.

Which, he thinks, is silly - absolutely mental, really - because how is an eleven year old supposed to know what love (true love) is?

When he told them his theory, years after the war, he expected them to laugh, maybe chide or tease him.

But Hermione and Harry exchanged a glance, then - brown eyes to bright green - and turning back to him (as he sat there, utterly perplexed and a little offended), they shrugged.

'It was never really a surprise,' said Harry.

'You are the heart of us,' Hermione added practically, like this was simply a question on an exam paper.

He thought he couldn't love them any more.

(And the sex that night was fucking fantastic.

Quite, well, literally.)

[charcoalfeather.livejournal.com]