actually i wasn't thinking at all


Why yes, Amethyst’s Peridot impression (Perimpression) is coming along quite nicely, thanks for asking


This time I made some A-spec rockets to explore the endless depths of spACE! Who knows, maybe they will find some new worlds and spread their amACEingness to newly discovered civilizations!

Like the other times, I made a asexual, aromantic, demisexual, demiromantic, gray-asexual, and gray-aromantic version of the rockets which is each transparent. 

You all can use them as you feel but please mention that I have made those : ]

This is all I could think of after seeing Steven in that jacket. >v<-)^

Flood My Mornings: Helluva Beast

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

August, 1950

“Alright, ALRIGHT,” I said in mock exasperation to the blooms as I pulled out a particularly intransigent nest of weeds, “you’ll be growing free and easy soon enough.” 

I’d gotten home from work an hour or two early, today, and was taking advantage of the opportunity to tend the front flower beds. Decorative flowers always took a backseat to the herbs in the back garden, if I were being perfectly honest; however, summer had finally crisped and weed-choked the impatiens to the point at which even I could ignore them no longer. “Hold your bloody horses,” I lectured the flowers again as I nestled fresh soil around the area. 

Maaaa-ma,” came a rather scornful giggle to my right. 

“Ha, you’re one to talk, missy,” I said, sitting back on my haunches to put gloved hands on my hips in mock indignation. “You talk to inanimate objects all the time. Far more than Mama, I’ll wager.” 

She had been “helping” me with the gardening; that is to say, getting herself as filthy as possible. She covered her mouth to suppress her giggles, gurgled a string of happy syllables, and let herself topple heedlessly into my arms. I caught her, scooped her against my chest, and showered her with kisses, both of us smelling of sweat and soil. “My goodness, Bree, any more dirt on you and I’ll be able to plant you!” 

“Nothing wrong with a little dirt,” said Penelope brightly from the front stoop, where she sat reading a romance novel while she supervised Bree. “It’s good for kids to have some grit about them.”

“Git!” proclaimed Brianna enthusiastically. 

“No, no, lovey,” I laughed. “That’s not a very nice word. It’s g-rrrrr-it.” 

“GIT!” she agreed, extricating herself and plopping contentedly back down in the flower bed. 

“Oh, well,” Penelope said fondly, “I suppose there are worse insults to pick up.” 

“She’ll have no lack of them, with two languages and three nationalities to pull from,” I agreed.

Just before 6:00, the sound of an approaching vehicle made all three of us look up. I gave an overly-dramatic gasp for Brianna’s benefit. “I wonder who that could be!”

She froze mid-task (stuffing the pockets of her romper full-to-bursting with soil), made a comically round “O” with her mouth, eyebrows raised as high as they could go, and whispered,“S’iz-Da?”

At my grin and nod, she leapt to her feet and tore headlong toward Hank’s yellow pickup truck that was just pulling into the driveway.

“Ohhhh no you don’t, little smudge!” I laughed, catching her around the middle and sweeping her up off the ground. She cackled with the joy of the sudden movement, then squealed “Da!” at the driver’s side door that had just opened.

“No, that’s not Da, baby, that’s Mr. Hank!” But as I looked up, I saw that she was, in fact, correct. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser was stepping down—cool as you bloody well please—from the driver’s seat.

“Jamie!” I said, slowly and shrilly. “Did you—DRIVE?”

“Oh, aye,” he said with an attempt at casualness that made me snort with joy. I could see the corner of his mouth twitching with a proud smile as he plucked Brianna from my arms. “Hank’s been showing me the way of it. Just a few minutes each day at Fernacre, ken?”

“Took him a day or two to really get the hang of it,” said a grinning Hank, who had exited from the passenger’s side and come around, looking almost as proud as Jamie. “Those foreign models he learned on across the pond must be helluva different beast—Jamie here barely could tell the pedals from the wheel, at first!” 

I exchanged a furtive grin with Jamie. A different beast indeed: a horse, to be specific.

“But he picked it up fast,” Hank went on, tipping his cap to Penelope, who had come closer to join in the congratulations, “and today I threw him the keys and said, ‘take us home, bud!’ Didn’t crash or run a stop-sign even the once!”

“After the way you were green all the way to Cape Cod,” Penelope said. “I’d have thought you’d never set foot in a car again!”

“See, that’s the strange thing about it,” Jamie said, bouncing Bree in his arms as she tugged on his ears, “I dinna seem to get queasy when I’m the one doing the driving.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said, crossing my arms. “Think the same might apply to boats as well?” I teased. “Captain Fraser?” 

“It certainly might,” he said, leaning down to smile at me with one eyebrow raised, “but I’ll go to my death before I test the theory voluntarily.” He bent and kissed me.

“I am truly very impressed, Jamie,” I said.

“Been reading up on it—wanted to surprise ye. I’ll still have to study up to pass the written test, Hank says, but—” 

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” 

He smiled. “Thank you, Sassenach,” he said, in that soft way that indicated such depth of feeling I wanted to cry from happiness.   

A few minutes later as Hank got back in the truck (“See you tomorrow, bud!”) and pulled out of the driveway, Penelope went inside to get Brianna cleaned up, and Jamie followed me to the side yard ostensibly to assist with filling up the watering cans. Before I could bend to turn on the spigot, though, he had placed a firm hand on my hip and pressed me against the rough brick of the house, bending back my head and kissing me so intensely that I dropped the can. 

Pulling back, a long time later, panting rather heavily, he said huskily, “You are so very beautiful, mo nighean donn.”

“Dirt and all?”

He smiled and touched my cheek. “You forget…you were positively filthy the first time I laid eyes on ye, and it didna discourage me then. In fact, if we werena so close quartered wi’ neighbors,” he whispered, bending to nip the tender skin of my neck, “I should like to have you right here in the grass.”

Despite the heat of the day, I shivered. “You would, eh?” I said, running my hands along the broad expanse of his back. He smelled rather like he had at our first encounter—of sweat and horses—and it wasn’t dampening my arousal, either. 

“Aye…None so fragrant as heather, grass,” he said, softly, working his way down toward my breasts, “but God,” he breathed, “to see you naked in the sunlight all surrounded by the green…”

He straightened and kissed me thoroughly, one hand sliding down to squeeze my arse, making a sound deep in his throat that raised goosebumps up and down my body.

“Well, then,” I said raggedly, “Anytime you want to take me camping…” I grinned. “You can drive us to a lovely patch of grass….and I’ll be all yours.” 

to be continued

Always Iris

“What was I like?” She asks one night just as he’s about to fall asleep.

He doesn’t think he’s heard her right, wonders if he heard her at all or if it was only in his mind. That place that hums between awake and asleep.

But he knows he did hear correctly when he feels her hand on his arm, tugging at him gently.



The sound is barely audible, because his energy is zapped. He was so close to sleep.

“What was I like over there? In this…flashpoint timeline you created?”

And to that his eyes open. He’s not worried and he doesn’t feel sick, but he is a little wary about where this is coming from.

He turns in the bed to face her and props his elbow on his pillow, leaning his head into his hand. He searches her eyes for some sort of pain but finds only curiosity.

“You were…you, Iris. You always are.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I had to be a little different. I mean, from what I’ve heard about Earth 2, being a cop I was a little more aggressive, more take-charge.”

“Yeah…” he allows, “but that was another EARTH. When I changed the timeline, you didn’t change. Just the circumstances did. Us not being friends or living together for the last fifteen years didn’t change your personality.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

"It changed Cisco’s though. His circumstances changed. He became the richest man in America and was really selfish because of it.”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“How could I not have changed at all?”

He parts his lips, then finds he doesn’t have an answer. He looks into her searching eyes and realizes his eyes are searching as well.

Finally, he says, “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, takes one of her hands in his and kisses her knuckles.

“I don’t know why you were a little different on Earth 2, but you aren’t here. I can’t explain why in every version of time on this earth you are the one thing that never changes. I just know that you are a constant, and that I’m always in love with you. I always want to be with you no matter what.”

She smiles tremulously, still a little shy in response to the way he looks after. Having been dating for months hasn’t changed that. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to him vocalizing the way he feels about her to her. To anyone even, if she ends up hearing about it.

“Do you wish you’d stayed there?” She asks when she’s finally found her voice. “If you could have, if you didn’t start to lose your memories and your powers, do you wish we could have had a fresh start. You know, without all the heartache and drama of the past two years?”

And he’s thought about it. He has. Not just the question itself, but if she would ask it. Truth be told, every version of Iris felt like the last. Because SHE never really changed, he loved her just as much. The fact that she didn’t share all his memories never altered that fact. She always felt like the same person.

But beneath all that is the truth he realized after he came back and restarted the life he’d lived the longest. Losing those fifteen years completely, including just as memories scared him more than losing both his mom and dad all over again.

So, he tells her.

“I will always love you, Iris. It doesn’t matter what version of you I’m with, because all of them feel like YOU.”

She’s not satisfied with this answer, as is apparent from her slight frown and her gaze settling on the sheets Rumple’s between them. He’s glad he guessed she wouldn’t be before he said anything.

“But,” he continues, lifting her chin so her eyes meet his. “what drove me to come back the most was losing THIS version of you, and all the memories that come with it. The Iris who was my best friend for years, who I grew up with and who stood by me through everything.”

A shaky smile starts to grave her lips, but he forges on.

“Would I have been happy playing out the rest of our story with a brand new Iris?” He starts to nod. “Probably.”

His eyes catch hers before she can look away again.

“But there would be quiet moments over the years when I’d wonder ‘what if?’. What if I hadn’t left? What if I’d stayed and healed and then we finally took that next step? I think I’d second guess myself and wonder if this story wouldn’t be more meaningful than one where everything was so easy.”

He closes the distance between them and kisses her gently, glad when she reciprocates.

“I’m glad I came back, Iris,” he whispers, his eyes intent on hers.

“There’s a pull between us no matter what timeline I travel to, but this one? The one I’ve known for my entire life? That’s the one I want to be in. You’re MY Iris here.”

She’s okay now, he sees. The relief in her eyes prevents any desire to pull away any further. He kisses her cheek and then lowers his head, tucking it into the silken strands covering her shoulder and neck.

She catches her breath as the shivers course through her when he starts to kiss her skin.


“You’re all mine,” he murmurs, sliding his hand from her hip to around her waist, pulling her closer so their legs start intertwine.

She bites her bottom lip and moans at the contact.

After a few more moments of excruciating pleasure, he asks, “Am I all yours?” and lifts his head.

She cups his face in her hands. The way she looks at him makes her love clearer than any words or kisses could ever do.

“Barry Allen,” she says playfully, somewhat amused. But then she softens and kisses him, pulling away hardly an inch to stare into his eyes.

“You’ve always been mine.”

luxyray  asked:

*STICKS LEG OUT* Talk to me about Dad-might.

Oh, friend, I don’t think you actually want me to. BUT I’M GONNA DO IT ANYWAY.


So. Following the premise (which, for those of you that don’t want to read, is basically right after All Might’s fight with sensei; he’s been discharged from the hospital and is Sad and Introspective™ and then he meets a lil’ Izuku who is all determined and adorable about his dream to be a hero so All Might is all *wipes tear* “my son,” basically deciding right there that he’s going to help Izuku achieve his dream. I’m good at summaries don’t judge) All Might is probably thinking about his rather (read: very) impulsive decision to reveal his identity to Izuku. And regretting it.

Because Izuku is kind of about to combust - 

Okay that’s admittedly a minor reason in the long-run. He is, mostly, realizing that despite his determination Midoriya is very much a child - “how old are you?” Midoriya momentarily stops his fanboy-induced freakout to grin toothily and hold up nine fingers, “I’m nine!” - he is a nine year old boy and even if a part of All Might has taken a shining to the child, he is nine and One for All would kill him, and his thoughts are something along the lines of “what the heck was I thinking?”

But then Izuku looks up at him, all wide, hopeful eyes and gives him a heartfelt, “thank you.” Because no one ever believed that he could become a hero. In his entire life, All Might is the first one to tell him that - and how awesome is that? The hero, the #1 hero, All Might! His idol! Thinks he can become a hero!

He says that he doesn’t really know how he’s going to do it, but he’s certain that with All Might’s help, he’ll be able to become a hero. He starts to tear up to All Might’s silent horror, but (thankfully) wipes his eyes.

And All Might is about to say something but - 

Ofc Izuku is super worried, and suddenly he remembers that, yeah, this is what All Might looked like when he walked up to him, and he didn’t really realize it until now. He asks why he looks like this, and Toshinori tells him. *cue informational speech/monologue about his fight with a certain villain that occurred recently and left him like this*

Toshinori carefully keeps the truth of his quirk quiet. He doesn’t actually know if he will choose Midoriya as his successor, but he will at the very least help train him in case he does.


The comic “training” that I made probably fits somewhere around here.

Toshinori accidentally introduces Recovery Girl and Izuku to each other at some point. He’s probably on his way to visit her one day, and Izuku runs into him (because the boy has somehow developed some kind of inhuman radar that almost guarantees that Toshinori is going to encounter him at least three times a week) and promptly decides that he’s going to accompany him for the day.

It’s a little funny, because while in his real form, Toshinori realizes that Izuku is a lot more brazen as opposed to when he is All Might. It might have to do with the blood he’s constantly spewing though, and Toshinori also realizes that he’s got a bit of a mother-hen in Midoriya. He’d bring jackets, scarves, heating pads, 2-liter water bottles, and many other kinds of items for Toshinori’s benefit.

(At one point, Midoriya had asked Inko for help. She had asked, “what do you need?” He had then told her that a friend of his spewed blood everyday and he wanted to know how to help. Inko had promptly freaked out because “VOMITING BLOOD WHAT,” causing Midoriya to freak out even more, which resulted in him being even more cautious regarding Toshinori’s condition.)

Anyway, meeting Recovery Girl. She’s curious about Izuku, who is half-hiding behind Toshinori, but otherwise doesn’t really pay him much mind as she says, “you’ll need to have your stomach removed.”

Izuku freezes, Toshinori nods as though he was expecting as much, and she gives the rest of the explanation. By the end of it, Izuku is pale as a ghost, and before they leave, he asks her: “is there anything I can do?”

Toshinori is a little dumbfounded at the question, but Recovery Girl considers him thoughtfully. She kicks Toshinori out of the office for a bit, and sits Izuku down to talk.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Toshinori,” she begins, smiling kindly. “And I have to say I agree with him, despite the circumstances. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and a good heart.”

Izuku is kinda ??? but nods anyway, feeling complimented but not really understanding what she’s getting at.

“Just be yourself,” she adds, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “He doesn’t really have a lot of people he can rely on, being the number one and all. Everyone relies on him, whether it’s as a hero or a symbol of hope. Be yourself, and you’ll be helping him plenty.”

Izuku nods absentmindedly, and asks, “but what if it isn’t enough? What if he gets hurt again?”

Recovery Girl slants a look at the door before looking back at him, an almost secretive but still kindly smile in place. “Well. Exercise is good for the body and soul.”

Then she kicks him out, and Toshinori and Izuku spend a chunk of the afternoon training more, the former a little more silent than usual and the latter determined. Also, Izuku ends up following Toshinori to his apartment because “I have to make sure you’re alright!” and Toshinori, on a whim, accesses his quirk, flexes, and says “I’m ALL MIGHT!”

He immediately spews blood because that pun was Fucking Terrible and I deserve to rot for even thinking of it

Silliness aside, he pats Izuku’s head and says “thank you, but I’m fine. You’ve done enough, Midoriya-boy.”

Izuku stares at him for a moment, and before Toshinori can ask if there’s something wrong, Izuku jumps forward and hugs him.

I’m gonna stop there because this is killing me, I love Dad-Might and Mini-zuku so much GAH TOO MUCH, ADORABLE-NESS OVERLOAD. FUKC

At some point, Izuku also probably shows Toshinori the sketches he has, plus the notes. Particularly, his dream-outfits for if he ever became Mighty-boy.

Toshinori is suitably embarrassed/flattered/”omg this boy is so earnest”/wat-do while lil’ Izuku is just smiling proudly.

…I literally just realized that you probably just meant Dad-Might in general, not the Dad-Might&Mini-Deku AU, as I’m posting this. With the drawings already finished. I’m sorry for the figurative avalanche of plot I dumped on you LOL *lies down on the floor face-down*

That aside I could probably talk aaaall about (and how much I love) the Dad-Might headcannon, but it’d mostly be incoherent words and screaming

Anyway, more on Corvo, well, not speaking.

I really prefer to think that each time someone, like Lady Boyle or Treavor Pendleton, pointed out how “quiet” and “mysterious” Corvo is, it wasn’t some clever funny lampshading on the game mechanics, it’s his actual character trait as seen by the people surrounding him.

And it creates a very nice contrast with his environment and within the story, with the loyalists who use you as a tool and all the aristocrats who are physically unable to shut up and would go on and on with their monologues, enjoying the sound of their own voice to ever be bothered by Corvo not responding. They probably don’t even expect him to respond.

This environment is full of people who lie and cover up their lies with pretty words and shallow praise to get into your good graces, people who apparently talked a lot of shit behind Corvo’s back because of his background and lower class origins, and there’s a constant, endless sound of the propaganda officer talking somewhere at the background.

Corvo was the “doing instead of talking” concept personified, and a single most trusting, honest relationship in the story is the one between him and Emily, which is narrated almost entirely based on gestures, small physical signs of affection and actions taken towards her safety and wellbeing, instead of talk and empty promises.

It made sense to me, story-wise, it never felt like something was lacking. It was just a part of him but I never saw it as a flaw of any kind.

I think it says a lot about how misinformed inclusionists are when they actually genuinely think that conversion therapists would use SGA (Same / Similar Gender Attraction) in their practice lmao . Because lemme tell ya , as a trans person , they’re not going to be ~~inclusive~~ of trans and nb people lmao

It’s SSA (Same-Sex Attraction) they use . They’ve always used it . They think genitals = gender , why are y’all so oblivious oh my god

i saw a post about a soulmate AU where whenever a person gets a tattoo, the tattoo also appears on on their soulmate.

and now i’m thinking of an asanoya AU where asahi really needs to find his soulmate right now because whoever it is keeps getting tattoos. asahi has a hard enough time convincing people he’s not a gangster without having enough tattoos to actually pass as yakuza.

noya, meanwhile, is sick and tired of everyone telling him that his soulmate should be his be-all, end-all, and decides that he’s going to do whatever the fuck he wants with his body, soulmate be damned. and hey, while he’s at it he might as well flirt with the cute, shy librarian at the undergraduate library. he’s not saving himself for his soulmate, and he’s very interested in peeling the librarian out of the long-sleeved sweaters he always insists on wearing, even in the middle of summer.

until one day when the cute librarian helps noya get a book off a high shelf and his sweater rides up just enough for noya to see part of an intimately familiar tattoo curling across his stomach.

well, shit.

every time i see that post about the deep web hitman going around all i can think about is how i actually spend a lot of time every week browsing the deep web and i found a reasonable hitman that charged $20,000 for a regular person and $50,000 for a person with connections that made them more well-known than the average joe and how when i clicked on his FAQ he said it was part of the contract that if he were to be caught, he wouldn’t give away who ordered the hit and he demanded $10,000 up front and now that i’m thinking about this i wonder if this is why i landed that interview with the fbi a couple years ago they probably knew

ive learned that after several goddamn millennium of reading old archie comics as i waited for the orthodontist all my life, i actually like the new thing that’s out

the jugh3ad solo thing tho drawn by that godawful artist that works on squirrel girl (sometimes? currently? I don’t know but I hate it) ?? I’ll take a rock solid pass on
I ended up zoning out while I was trying to read the little bit they put in the back of the trade I was reading

final grade is in and i got an A in my writing class! 

An alternative answer to the “Favourite Mickey Milkovich Moment” for the s666 meme:

Ian jolts awake, heart pounding.

He takes a few gasping breaths, trying to calm the panic streaking through his limbs. He looks around the room wildly, trying to get his bearings.

The last thing he remembers, he was on the couch in the Gallagher living room, clutching onto a beer bottle and trying to drink away another pointless day at the diner. He doesn’t remember how he got in bed, but somehow he must have trudged upstairs at some point, because here he is. Except…

He blinks to clear his vision, sure he’s hallucinating. But no, this isn’t his room. It’s – he’s in – this is –

Then the door swings open, and Mickey strolls in.

“Morning, sunshine. Nice of you to join us.”

Ian gapes as Mickey saunters over to the window and pulls the curtains open, sunlight spilling into the room. Mickey’s room. In Mickey’s house. Where Ian is, shirtless in bed. Scratch that. Naked in bed. What the fuck.

Ian opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out. Mickey seems utterly oblivious, emptying a few things out of his pockets and placing them on the nightstand. He finally glances over to see Ian staring, and his brow furrows.

“You look groggy as hell, man. Shouldn’t have let you sleep so long. It’s almost fuckin’ noon.”

Ian can’t be fucked to worry about what time it is when he has no clue what fucking year it is. He so clearly remembers Mickey in that orange jumpsuit, looking at him through a glass window and listening to Ian say those words. Oh god, the things he’d said. Ian feels it all rushing in, that contempt and discomfort, and so much further down, the guilt, the fear, the anger. And underneath it all, the love he’d refused to acknowledge. The love that is now flooding him, filling up his veins until it’s all he knows. How could he bury it? How could he ever feel anything but this?

Mickey,” Ian breathes, relief so intense he thinks he might pass out from it. “Oh my god, Mickey.”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together in concern. “You ok, man?”

Ian shakes his head in amazement. “You’re here. You were in jail. How are you here?”

“Jail?” Mickey barks incredulously. “The fuck? You hit your head or something?”

“No,” Ian muses. “I don’t know. I just – I had this dream, I guess, but fuck, it was so real. Debbie was pregnant and you were in jail, and I was – jesus, Mickey, I was – ”

“Hey, hey,” Mickey interrupts, halting Ian’s mounting distress. “You’re alright. It was just a nightmare. You’re ok.”

Mickey sits down on the bed, placing a hand on Ian’s cheek. Ian reaches up to cover it with his own, turning his face into Mickey’s palm and breathing him in.

“Oh fuck,” Ian murmurs, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mick. I’m so so sorry.”

“Got nothin’ to apologize for,” Mickey insists firmly. “Relax, man. I got you.”

Ian’s sigh is bone deep, Mickey’s hand against his face an anchor in the sea of thoughts swirling in his mind. He’s struggling to sort out what was real and what was part of this elaborate, horrible, vivid dream. He can still feel flashes of that other him, the bitter numbness born out of months of confusion and resentment, and he realizes his whole body is shaking.

He gazes at Mickey, cataloguing each detail of his face. He looks so different from that version of him under those prison lights. He looks younger, healthier, the exhaustion written into his skin transformed to a kind of hopeful energy. There’s also a cut on his forehead, and Ian reaches up to trace it, noting a few other scrapes and bruises along the way.

“What happened to you?” Ian mutters, fingertips pressing against the warmth of Mickey’s skin.

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? My dad? The Alibi? Ringing any bells?”

It does, and Ian’s heart clenches at the memory of Mickey that night, covered in blood and smiling. It feels so long ago to him, but from the looks of the wounds, it must have only been a few days ago. How can this be real?

Mickey is looking at him with worry, and Ian hates how familiar the expression is to him now. “You feeling ok?”

Ian doesn’t even know where to begin. He feels lost and ill and so so goddamned relieved. But he knows that the dream isn’t where it all began. Knows that things have been off for months. Knows that even if it was all a nightmare, it could still happen. It could all still happen. And that decides it.

“I think maybe I should go see a doctor,” Ian admits quietly.

Mickey pulls his hand away from Ian’s cheek, and his stomach sinks. But Mickey just replaces it on Ian’s forehead.

“You sick? You don’t feel warm.”

“Not that kind of sick, Mick,” Ian says miserably, shame crashing through him. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be this. But god, the way he felt in that dream, that person he became – he can’t let it get to that. He’s fucking terrified, but he doesn’t want to lose himself like that.

And fuck, he doesn’t want to lose Mickey either. Mickey is still looking perplexed, and Ian feels panic begin to ripple through him again. He starts to turn away, curling in on himself on the bed, but Mickey grips onto his chin firmly and tilts his head up.

“Hey. We’ll figure it out, ok?”

Ian’s chest feels tight, straining under the press of love and gratitude that flood through him. He feels tears start to fill his eyes again, but he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out and nodding against Mickey’s hand. He feels Mickey press his lips to his forehead, and his heart stutters.

They’re quiet for a moment, Ian’s head still reeling to comprehend everything. Finally, Mickey breaks the silence, his tone light.

“Debbie was fucking pregnant? You’ve got some stupid siblings, man, but I don’t see Debbie as the one dumb enough to get knocked up. Lip, maybe.”

Ian chokes out a startled laugh, curling his hand around Mickey’s bicep. Mickey shoots him a half-smile.

“Hey, wanna head out, get some breakfast? I’m buying.”

Ian grins at him, linking his fingers with Mickey’s. “Yeah, Mick. Sounds good.”

~the end