#and nowhere is it more clear than with Thomas

[leonsliga]

thomas jumping into manu's arms 🥺😭

It’s like a scene out of a romance movie 🥰

I love how soft they are with each other. Thomas has nothing but sweet words to say whenever he’s asked about his decade partner, and it’s clear there’s no one else Manu would rather hold close. He can’t help but lift him up (literally and figuratively) at every opportunity.

[cami040405]

Headcanons of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Carrie White with their s/o telling, or rather asking them for a baby. They have been married for a while, and their s/o have thought about it for a really long time, but it wasn't until one day out of nowhere that they asked them for it. Perhaps even begged for it since not only has baby fever gotten to them, but they always wanted children. Their own little family.

Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby

Summary: Imagine the reaction of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White reacting to you asking them for a baby.

Includes: Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White

A/N: I was really excited about this request, I loved writing it and I thought it was really cute too, thank you for sending the request and supporting me in writing!

Jason Voorhees

It wasn’t something you planned to say out loud. Not yet. The idea had lived quietly in your heart for a long time, tucked away like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You and Jason had been married for years. You had a rhythm, a quiet life in the heart of the woods. Safety. Love. Peace.

But lately, you’d felt it stronger than ever—that aching, cloying pull in your chest every time you saw a baby blanket in town, or watched birds build a nest. A deep-rooted longing. A need for something more. For someone that was both you and Jason. A new life. Your family.

You’d tried to ignore it.

Until tonight.

The moon hung low over the lake, casting soft light over the clearing where Jason was stacking firewood. You watched him for a moment—his massive frame moving with slow care, the same man who once was seen only as a monster. But to you? He was gentleness. Loyalty. Home.

You approached slowly, heart pounding: “Jason… can we talk?”

He turned immediately, his attention fully on you like it always was. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the tension in your voice. He dropped the wood from his arms and walked over, towering over you, but never imposing.

You took his hand. His gloved fingers curled instinctively around yours.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. And I—I didn’t know when the right time would be to say it. But I… I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Jason stilled.

“I want… I want a baby.”

Your voice cracked at the end, but you pushed through, your fingers clutching at his vest. “With you. I want our child. Someone we made together. I want to raise them here. I want to build a family with you, Jason.”

The clearing fell silent.

Jason didn’t move. Not at first.

Then—very slowly—he sank to his knees in front of you. The giant, the boogeyman of Crystal Lake, on his knees like a man who just had his soul cracked open. His head pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you like you might float away if he didn’t. You felt the tremor in his chest. Silent, invisible sobs. His body shaking.

Your fingers slid into the curls behind his mask.

“I know it’s scary. I know the world never gave you anything but pain. But this… this would be ours. No one can take this from us.”

He pulled back slightly and looked up at you.

Then, very slowly, Jason took your hand and pressed it against his chest—where his heart would be, beating strong. The masked gaze locked with yours, full of emotion even behind the scratched old hockey mask.

Yes.

It was silent, but loud in his language. That simple gesture said everything. Yes. I want that too.

Yes, I want a child with you. Yes, I want a family.

From that night on, Jason changed.

He started building things. Cribs. Tiny carved animals from wood. He began clearing out the spare room in the cabin. Every time you showed a sign of fatigue or discomfort, he’d lift you without hesitation and carry you somewhere to rest. He became your silent guardian all over again—but now, for something he couldn't even see yet.

He watched your body with awe, almost reverence, when you began trying. You could feel it in the way he held you afterward—strong but delicate, like you were glass and fire all at once.

When he thought you were asleep one night, you felt his hand on your belly. Not lustful. Just… hopeful. Like he was already saying hello to a future he never dared dream of.

And if that child ever comes to be?

Jason will protect them like he protects you—with everything he is. Because they’ll be a part of you. And to Jason, you’re the whole world.

.

You’d known for a few days now. Maybe longer.

The nausea. The strange flutter in your lower belly. The deep fatigue that no nap could fix. You knew your body better than anyone, and this time—something was different. Real. You took one of the few pregnancy tests you’d stored in the cabin’s small bathroom, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped it.

When the positive line appeared, bold and undeniable, you stared at it like it was a dream. You sat on the edge of the tub for what felt like hours, cradling your stomach, whispering, “You’re real…”

Tears slid down your cheeks. But this time, they were from joy.

Now came the hardest part—telling him.

Not because Jason wouldn’t want it. You knew he did. But because Jason Voorhees, this mountain of strength and silence, had never truly believed he could have something like this. Not really. It would be your child, and his, and his heart—already so wounded—might not know how to hold something that sacred.

You found him outside by the lake, sitting near the dock with his feet in the water. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. You stepped carefully down the slope, heart racing, the test hidden in your palm.

He heard you coming—he always did—and turned slightly. You saw that tilt of the head again, his version of a question.

You sat beside him, pressing your shoulder to his.

“Jason… I have something to tell you. Something… important.”

He immediately gave you his full attention. Still. Waiting.

Your hands shook. You took his larger hand and placed it on your lower stomach, covering it with both of yours.

You stared into the lake for a long second, then whispered:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The air seemed to stop moving. Jason didn’t move. His breath stilled. The hand under yours began to tremble faintly.

You turned to look at him, eyes already glassy with tears. “I’m pregnant. With your baby. It’s really happening.”

He jerked back just slightly—not away from you, but like he’d been struck by lightning. His hand lifted and hovered uncertainly over your belly, before he gently pressed his palm against you again, slower this time. Reverently.

You nodded, voice cracking. “You did this. We did. You made a life, Jason…”

And then, for the first time in a long time, Jason’s shoulders broke.

He hunched forward, pressing his masked face into your lap, into your belly, as his huge arms wrapped around you protectively, almost desperately. His entire body trembled, and you felt the smallest sound escape him—a choked, muffled sob.

He held you like you were his anchor, like the world was spinning too fast and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers slid under your shirt to feel bare skin, not with lust, but in disbelief and awe.

When he finally looked up, he reached to lift his mask just enough for you to see his mouth—lips trembling, jaw tight, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners, something he never let anyone else see.

He placed the gentlest kiss on your belly, and you felt it shake slightly with his breath.

A promise.

“Mine,” his voice rasped out—quiet, raw, and barely a whisper. The first word he’s said in months.

You broke then, sobbing as you held him. He didn’t move from that spot for hours, just resting his head against your belly, listening like he might already hear something.

That night, when you both finally went inside, you found the small wooden cradle he’d made long ago. It had been gathering dust in the back room, quietly waiting.

He brought it into the bedroom.

He was ready.

.

Thomas Hewitt

You’d been thinking about it for a long time—years, really. You and Thomas had made a life together after everything calmed down. The chaos had quieted. The house wasn’t filled with the screams of strangers anymore—just laughter, soft music from the radio, and the occasional hiss of a skillet on the stove. You had love, safety, a roof over your heads. But one thing was missing: your own family. A child.

The thought had built up slowly at first… but now it was loud. Persistent. You wanted to hold a little one that had his eyes. You wanted to see Thomas cradling someone so tiny in those enormous hands. You dreamed of baby giggles echoing down the halls of the Hewitt farmhouse. And today, something in you snapped.

He was in the kitchen, apron on, humming quietly to himself as he cut vegetables. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. You watched him for a long time, your heart full, your chest tight.

Then you blurted it out.

“Tommy… I want a baby. With you.”

He froze.

The knife paused mid-slice. His whole body tensed, like a string pulled taut. He didn’t turn to you right away, didn’t make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly. You stepped closer, voice softening.

“I mean it, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I want to have a family. Our family. I want a little one that we can raise together. I want them to feel safe, to feel love like we do. And—”

Your voice cracked. His shoulders slumped the moment he heard it. He turned to you, mask still on but eyes wide and glassy with tears. You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

He set the knife down and walked toward you slowly, as if making sure you were real. As if scared you might disappear.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. His forehead rested on your stomach, a choked, emotional sound escaping his throat. He didn't speak, but his body did all the talking. He trembled. He clung. He understood.

You whispered against his hair:

“I want our baby, Tommy. Please. I need this... I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He looked up at you with glistening eyes, nodding so hard it seemed like his whole body moved with it. A soft grunt escaped him as he gently pressed a kiss—through his mask—against your abdomen.

That night, he was the most tender he had ever been. Every touch was full of meaning. He worshiped you. His hands were careful, slow, reverent. As if helping you conceive was something holy.

Something shifted in Thomas after that. He changed.

He began to prepare. Quietly at first.

You caught him staring at a broken crib out in the barn—something Hoyt had probably scavenged and forgotten about. A few days later, it was gone from the scrap pile. He’d fixed it. Painted it. Lined it with soft fabric.

He began carving things. A mobile with woodland animals. Teething toys. Rocking horses. You didn’t ask—he just did it, pouring all of his love and nervous energy into creation.

He also started fussing over you. If you so much as sighed, he’d be at your side with a worried look, checking if you needed water, a blanket, anything.

Luda Mae knew something was up the moment she saw how Thomas hovered around you. She gave you a knowing smile one morning and handed you a baby book she kept from when she was younger.

“Just in case,” she said softly, with warmth in her eyes.

Thomas had never seen himself as someone worthy of love—let alone worthy of fatherhood. But you, with your soft words, your unwavering love, your plea for a future—you changed that. You made him believe it was possible.

In the quiet hours of the night, when you were asleep in his arms, he’d gently rest a hand on your belly and imagine it growing round and full. He’d imagine holding your child, swaying them gently in the rocking chair, singing lullabies in his muffled humming way.

He feared passing down pain, but your voice echoed in his mind:

“They’ll be safe, because they’ll have you.”

That gave him strength.

.

It had started with little signs. A missed period. A wave of nausea that came on stronger each morning. Your body, once still and silent, now felt different. Alive. Shifting. It scared you… but mostly? It thrilled you.

You bought a small test in secret—something you had to lie to Hoyt about when he caught you coming back from town. You clutched it like a lifeline, palms sweating.

And when the second line appeared?

You sat on the bathroom floor in stunned silence, hand trembling over your mouth.

It was real. It was finally happening. You were carrying Thomas Hewitt’s baby.

You waited until the timing felt right. He’d had a hard day, out butchering meat in the sweltering Texas heat. Now, back inside, he was scrubbing his hands in the sink while Luda Mae quietly stirred stew behind him. The house buzzed with its usual rural stillness.

You stepped up behind him and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He turned, already melting a little when he saw your shy smile.

Then you pulled a tiny handkerchief from your pocket. Folded in it was something small and white. You pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it.

He opened it slowly, unsure. When he saw what was inside—the positive pregnancy test—he stared at it, silent. Frozen.

At first, you panicked.

“Thomas...? I—I thought maybe I should wait, but I couldn’t. I had to tell you. You’re going to be a daddy.”

“I’m really… I’m really pregnant, Tommy.”

His hands began to shake.

He looked from the test to you, then back again. Then his entire body just collapsed to his knees before you like someone who had been shot through the chest with emotion.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, squeezing—not roughly, but needing. Desperate. His mask bumped against your belly, muffled sobs escaping from behind the leather. His body shook as he cried into you.

You’d never seen him cry like this.

Tears soaked through your shirt as he looked up at you with eyes red and raw, one hand gently—gently—spreading over your belly.

“Tommy,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

He nodded hard, over and over again, hand still on your stomach like he was afraid to let go—as if it would disappear if he blinked. Then he stood up, towering over you, still trembling. He reached for your hands, placed them on his chest, and grunted something deep and full of gratitude.

He was saying, Thank you. I love you. I’ll protect you both with my life.

You found him sitting on the floor by the crib he had fixed months ago—just staring at it.

He’d placed a single baby blanket in it already. His hands were resting on the side rail, his thumb slowly brushing over the edge. He looked lost in thought, a little overwhelmed.

You came up behind him and sat beside him, taking his hand.

He looked at you, eyes still red but softer now. At peace.

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles gently before resting his head against your shoulder.

The two of you sat there in the quiet for a long time.

The stars were bright that night. The wind outside was soft. And in that stillness, Thomas imagined the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, the weight of a small body resting against his chest, the lullabies he would hum while rocking them to sleep.

And he realized:

He had never felt more complete than he did right now.

.

Vincent Sinclair

The wax studio is filled with that familiar scent of warm paraffin, the soft scratch of tools working against clay, and the creak of old floorboards under your feet. You’ve been sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, quietly watching Vincent sculpt for the past hour. He hadn’t asked you to leave—he never does—but you can tell by the way he glances at you every few minutes that he’s aware of your presence.

There’s something about watching him work that fills your chest with warmth. The way he loses himself in his craft, how focused his hands become, how even his breathing slows to match each movement of his blade. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just the weight of time finally building up to this moment... but you suddenly can’t hold it in anymore.

You walk over quietly and place a hand on his shoulder. He pauses but doesn’t turn. Just leans slightly into your touch.

“Vincent…” Your voice is soft—barely more than a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

He tilts his head a little, curious.

“I want a baby. Your baby. I want our own little family.”

He freezes.

Not dramatically. Just... stillness, like all the air left the room. The kind of stillness that only Vincent can embody—deafening, heavy, deliberate.

You keep going, even though your heart is pounding. “I know it’s sudden, and maybe it’s scary, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I want them to have your eyes… your soul.”

He sets his sculpting tool down slowly. You can see his hand tremble ever so slightly. He still won’t look at you.

You step in front of him, crouching down until you’re eye-level. Carefully, you reach up and brush your fingers along the edge of his mask. He lets you lift it—he always does. He’s learned that with you, he’s safe. He doesn’t have to hide.

His one visible eye is glossy, a storm of emotions warring behind it—disbelief, wonder, fear, yearning.

“I’m not asking for a perfect life, Vincent. Just ours. And maybe I sound selfish, but I want to carry a piece of you. Something beautiful from the both of us.”

He exhales hard—almost like a sob—and cups your face with his hands. You lean into him, feeling the quiet quiver of his fingers.

Then, wordlessly, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and aching, as if pouring all the emotions he doesn’t have words for into that moment. His kiss tells you yes a thousand times.

In the weeks that follow Vincent becomes obsessed with the idea of fatherhood. Not in a loud, boastful way—he simply begins channeling it through his art. You notice subtle changes in his work. He begins sculpting infants in wax, cherubic and serene, tucked gently in the arms of faceless figures that feel suspiciously like you.

One night, you catch him sketching by candlelight. The paper shows a child—half-drawn, soft features, long lashes, the faint trace of a scar over the lip. A blend of your features and his own. When you gently ask him what it is, he lowers the paper shyly but allows you to see. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I think they’re beautiful.” He doesn’t reply, but he clutches the sketchbook to his chest after you leave.

When you bring up trying again, maybe even beg for it—his response is immediate. He carries you to bed, his touch reverent, treating your body like something sacred. He’s gentle but determined. His way of saying, I want this as much as you do. That night, there are no masks, no silence between you. Only shared breath, whispered words of hope, and a love so thick it feels like candle wax—heavy, slow, warm, and everlasting.

Afterward, he keeps his hand on your stomach for a long time, as if hoping he can will life into existence just by touching you.

Vincent doesn’t speak much—but when he holds you tighter than usual, when he builds a cradle from reclaimed wood and lines it with soft wax, when he starts making space in the house for someone small—you know he’s saying:

“Yes. I want this too.”

.

The house is quiet—almost too quiet.

Even the wax figures seem more still than usual, as if the entire world is holding its breath.

You’ve been walking around in a daze all morning, one hand unconsciously brushing over your belly again and again. You keep replaying the moment the test turned positive—how the lines darkened slowly, almost shyly, like even it was in awe of the possibility.

You haven’t told him yet. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because you want the moment to feel right. Sacred. Private.

You find him in his studio.

He’s sculpting, lost in the trance-like rhythm he always falls into. Wax shavings gather at his feet, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, veined forearms. You hesitate in the doorway, watching him work.

And then, in a voice trembling with everything you’ve tried to hold back, you say softly:

“Vincent... I have to tell you something.”

He pauses. His body stills in that signature way, but his head turns to you almost immediately. His hair falls over the edge of his mask.

You take a slow breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking. One hand rests gently on your stomach again.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not the kind that fills the room awkwardly—but the kind that means something has shifted.He blinks. Once. Twice. His hand drops the sculpting tool. It hits the floor with a dull clatter, but he doesn’t notice.

You smile, a little nervously. “You—you’re going to be a father, Vincent.”

He stares at you, unmoving. His eye glistens. And then, slowly, carefully, he crosses the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

He kneels in front of you. Both his hands reach out hesitantly, almost shaking, and hover just above your belly. He doesn’t touch at first. He looks up at you for permission. You nod, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

His hands press lightly against your stomach. It’s still flat, but he touches it like it’s full of stars. And then he leans in, resting his forehead against your belly, trembling. His mask presses gently against your shirt as he holds you with all the reverence in the world. No words, just the soft sound of his breathing—hitched, overwhelmed, and so full of emotion.

You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper:

“They’re going to have your eyes... your hands... your heart.”

He pulls back, just enough to look up at you. His one eye is red-rimmed, wet, raw. His hand gently cups the side of your face. There’s no mask between you now.

He lifts you into his arms without a word and carries you to your shared bed. Not to make love—not tonight. Tonight, he just wants to hold you.

He wraps his arms around your back, one hand splayed over your stomach all night, refusing to move. He doesn’t sleep. He watches you, protectively, like he’s guarding the beginning of everything he never thought he’d have.

A family.

His family.

.

Bo Sinclair

You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

It started as a quiet moment in the kitchen. You were sitting on the counter while Bo fixed something under the sink, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, grease on his cheek, muttering curse words at the rusty pipe. The sun was bleeding through the windows, catching the gold in his eyes, and you were suddenly struck by this aching need. That familiar pang had been growing inside you for months now—quiet, tender, powerful.

And before you could stop yourself, you said it.

"I want to have your baby."

Bo froze mid-motion. His wrench clattered to the floor with a dull metallic thud.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “...Come again?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bo. I mean it. I want... I want us to have a baby. I want a family.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh—nervous, deflective. “Aw, darlin’, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause Lottie next door just popped out another one. Baby fever’s catchy as hell, huh?”

But when he looked up and saw your eyes—glassy, trembling with sincerity—his heart sank.

You weren’t joking. Not even close.

Bo Sinclair, for all his bravado, had never let himself picture something so vulnerable, so pure. Not for real.

Not for him.

He’d always known how to charm, how to seduce, how to play the part of the smooth-talking man with the confident grin. But being a father? That terrified him in a way nothing else could.

Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was cut out for it.

Not after the way he was raised. Not after what his father did to him. Not after the screaming, the belt, the bruises hidden behind long sleeves. Not after watching his mother choose silence over protection. Not after years of telling himself that he was just too damaged, too broken, too much like him to ever risk repeating the cycle.

But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and everything cracked.

"Please, Bo..." you whispered, voice raw and trembling now. "I’ve thought about it for so long. I want a baby. I want your baby. I want them to look like you... talk like you... I want to build something good with you. I know what kind of man you are. You’re not him. You’re better.”

And just like that, Bo Sinclair—the cocky mechanic, the wolf in sheep’s clothing—felt small. Felt seen.

He didn’t answer right away. He stood up, wiped his hands on an old rag, and walked over to you slowly, as if approaching something holy. Then he cupped your face in his calloused hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. He stared into your eyes with a softness you rarely saw—vulnerable, bare, aching.

“Why... why the hell would you wanna have a baby with someone like me?” he asked, voice almost breaking. “You could pick anyone. Anyone cleaner. Safer.”

You grabbed his wrists, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I love you. Because no one would fight harder to protect their family than you. And because if we made a baby together… I know they’d grow up with love. And strength. And someone who would burn the world down for them if they had to.”

His mouth parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to keep building that wall between him and the future. But he couldn’t. Not when your faith in him burned brighter than all his doubts.

So instead of arguing, he leaned in and kissed you—slow, reverent, his hands trembling against your skin.

He didn’t say “yes” in so many words. He just started acting like a man who wanted it too.

You caught him, a week later, quietly fixing up the empty guest room—patching holes in the walls, redoing the paint. He grumbled something about “just makin’ it less of a dump,” but you knew what he was doing.

One morning, he tossed a catalog onto the kitchen table—circled a page that showed old-fashioned wooden cribs. He started touching your stomach when he thought you were asleep. Pressing his warm palm over your belly like he could already feel something there. Like he was already trying to protect something that hadn’t even existed yet.

And the first time you begged—half-laughing, half-crying, curling against him in bed and whispering, “Please, Bo... I want your baby... I want you to give them to me...”—he growled softly and melted into you.

He whispered in your ear, “Alright, baby... let’s give you what you want. Let’s make us a little Sinclair.”

And he meant every single word.

.

It had been a strange few weeks.

You were tired all the time. Your appetite shifted—suddenly craving fried pickles at 2AM and hating the scent of Bo’s aftershave, which had never bothered you before. You brushed it off at first—maybe it was stress, or the heat, or maybe your body just felt off.

But then… one morning, as you stood in the dim yellow light of the Sinclair house’s bathroom, staring at a stick on the counter that screamed “PREGNANT”, your heart climbed into your throat.

It was happening.

It was real.

You were carrying Bo’s child. You laughed, cried, sat on the floor in shock. And then you just sat there, pressing your hand gently to your stomach, whispering, “Hey there, baby… guess it’s time to tell your dad.”

Bo was in the garage, as usual—shirtless, grease-stained, humming something low under his breath as he tinkered under the hood of a rusted-out car. You stood in the doorway, hands curled tightly around your back pocket where the test was hidden, heart pounding like a drum. You watched him for a second, just… absorbing the moment.

He always looked so wild and put together at once. So much fire in his bones, and yet there he was, gently tightening bolts, the curve of his back strong and steady, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He glanced up and grinned when he saw you. “Hey, baby. You look flushed. You alright?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then walked forward slowly, your voice soft. “Bo… I need to tell you something.”

He blinked, straightened up, wiped his hands with a rag. “You okay?”

You nodded. Your voice trembled. “I… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A slow second passed.

Bo just stared at you. His expression didn’t move. His fingers clenched the rag tighter, the grease soaking into his palms.

“...What?”

“I took a test. A few. They're all positive. I’m… I’m gonna have your baby, Bo.”

He stepped back like the words physically hit him. Like they echoed straight into the deepest part of his soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, hoarse.

You nodded again, smiling through tears. “We did it. You did it. We’re gonna have a baby.”

For a moment, he was utterly still. You thought—maybe he’d panic. Maybe he’d shut down. Maybe he'd break into that cocky sarcasm he used when emotions got too big for him to handle.

But then—

Bo dropped the rag.

He walked over to you like a man in a dream, rough fingers trembling as he reached for your stomach, barely touching it like it was made of glass. His hands splayed wide, cupping the soft curve that wasn’t even showing yet.

And then his eyes—his goddamn eyes—got glassy. Red at the edges. Shining like he’d been punched straight in the heart.

“You’re serious?” he whispered. “There’s really... there’s really a little piece of me in there?”

You reached for his hand and pressed it flat against you. “Yeah, Bo. There is.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly crushed you to his chest. He held you like you were the last precious thing on earth. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly. And for the first time in a long time, Bo Sinclair shook—not with rage, not with fear—but with love.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ try,” he whispered, over and over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better than he ever was. I ain’t gonna let this kid grow up the way we did. I swear it, baby.”

You buried your face in his chest, tears soaking his skin.

“I know you will,” you whispered back. “You already are.”

After that Bo becomes fiercely protective—almost feral about it. You so much as slip on a step, and he’s cursing the stairs and demanding to carry you everywhere. He finishes the nursery he had started months ago, painting stars on the ceiling and carving the baby’s name into a wooden cradle he made himself (once you pick one).

He becomes unusually quiet sometimes, just lying beside you with his hand on your stomach, whispering promises to the baby. But he’s also proud—in his Bo way. Smirking and bragging to Lester, “Yeah, well, I knocked up the hottest damn thing this side of the county. My kid’s gonna be a fuckin’ legend.”

When you feel the first kick, he cries. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face as he holds your belly like a sacred thing.

He never thought he’d get this.

But now that he does?

Bo Sinclair will fight the world to protect the family he never thought he deserved—but somehow found anyway.

.

Lester Sinclair

You never expected it to come out the way it did.

The words had been brewing for months—maybe even years. Each time you saw a baby in a movie or passed a family with a stroller, a pang pulled at your chest. You and Lester had been married for a while now. The wild chaos of Ambrose had quieted around you, and life with him had settled into a strange, beautiful routine. The two of you made your own kind of peace—your own kind of love.

So when you blurted it out—“Lester, I want a baby. Our baby. Please…”—it came out in a shaky whisper, almost like a prayer.

Lester froze. His boot scuffed against the dirt, hands still sticky from whatever roadkill he'd just finished hauling. He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right.

“A... a what now?” he asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

You stepped closer, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I mean it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want a family with you, Les. I want our child. I want to raise them right, with love. With you.”

The smile dropped off his face.

There was a long, soul-splitting silence as he looked at you. Really looked. You could almost see the gears turning in his head—the pain behind his eyes, the memories he never talked about. Growing up with abuse. With neglect. Feeling like the forgotten Sinclair, the one shoved into the back seat while his brothers got all the attention (in their own twisted ways).

You’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the dirt-streaked cheeks and lopsided grin. The man who brought you wildflowers every week. Who patched up your clothes by hand. Who kissed your forehead every morning like it was holy.

Now, that man looked like he was on the verge of breaking.

“You really think...” he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, “...that I could be someone’s dad?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’d be the best damn father I could imagine.”

His face crumpled. Not all at once—just slowly, like a dam giving way. His knees buckled, and he sat right there in the grass, running a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grime as he laughed bitterly through tears.

“I always thought… if I ever had a kid, they’d end up hating me. Thought I’d mess ’em up. Thought they’d deserve better than me.”

You dropped down beside him, grabbing his hand. “They’d have love, Lester. That’s what they’d have. And you’d protect them like you protect me. You’d show them what survival means. What being real means.”

Lester stared at your joined hands. For a while, he didn’t speak—just gripped your fingers like they were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Finally, he whispered, “Alright… we’ll try. If you really want this, darlin’... we’ll try.”

After that night, something in Lester shifted.

He started coming home earlier. He’d disappear into the shed, whittling tiny animals out of wood, then bashfully present them to you with a crooked smile and red cheeks. You’d find him sitting in the truck, staring at your picture with his hand resting on your side of the seat, lost in thought.

He cleaned up more. Tried to quit smoking (even if he cursed every step of the way). Bought books on parenting from a thrift store—even though he’d never admit it.  And when you came to him again, a few weeks later, breathless and desperate from sheer baby fever, begging for it, nearly trembling with longing—he didn’t hesitate this time.

He kissed you so softly you thought your heart might crack.

That night, under a sky full of stars, he made love to you like he was giving you every piece of his soul. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

He whispered into your skin, “I hope they got your smile… but maybe my laugh. And eyes like yours. The kind that see everything.”

He’d do it all for you.For the child you’d bring into this world. For the future he never thought he deserved—until you gave it to him.

.

It starts small.

You wake up nauseous for the fourth morning in a row. Your chest is sore. You’re tired in a way that’s not just fatigue—it’s different. You know your body, and this feels… like something new is blooming inside you.

You wait until the test confirms it. Two pink lines. Bold. Undeniable.

Your hands shake. Your heart thunders. You sit there in the bathroom with the little test in your hand, whispering, “Oh my god… I’m pregnant…”

Your first instinct is to tell him. But a flicker of fear sneaks in. You know how Lester is—emotional, insecure, vulnerable beneath his carefree shell. What if he panics? What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he thinks he’ll mess it up?

But then you remember how he held you when you first asked. The look in his eyes when he whispered “We’ll try.”

So you plan it carefully. You make his favorite meal—fried catfish, cornbread, and that weird butterscotch pie he always swears he doesn’t like but devours anyway. You light a candle. You even set the table.

When he walks in, he knows something’s up. He squints suspiciously at you, grinning. “Alright, darlin’, what’s all this? Did I forget an anniversary or somethin’?”

You shake your head and slide a tiny box across the table.

He opens it.

Inside: a simple, hand-painted pacifier. And a tiny note that reads:

“Coming soon... Baby Sinclair. ETA: 9 months.”

He stares at it.

Silence.

Then his hands start shaking.

He looks up at you, and for a second—just a split second—you swear you see the little boy he once was. The one who never thought he’d get a happy ending. The one who slept in the barn sometimes because the house didn’t feel safe. The one who never imagined anyone would want to build a family with him.

“…You’re serious?” he whispers, his voice cracking.

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Lester. You’re gonna be a dad.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half sob—and stumbles back into his chair, hands over his face.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Holy shit, we did it. We really did it.”

Then he’s on you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’s already trying to hear the baby. His tears soak into your shirt.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, fiercely, desperately. “Both of you. I swear to God, I’ll work harder, I’ll keep ya safe, I’ll… I’ll be better. I’ll be good.”

You cradle his head, running your fingers through his messy hair.

“You already are.”

.

Carrie White

It’s a quiet evening when you finally gather the courage to say it.

Carrie is sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing out her strawberry-blonde hair with soft, methodical strokes, humming a lullaby that echoes faintly from some forgotten childhood. The lamp casts a golden halo around her, and in that moment, she looks so gentle, so peaceful, that the words well up and spill from your lips before you can stop them.

"Carrie… I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. I want to have a baby. With you."

The brush falls from her hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

Her body goes rigid. She turns her head slowly, her wide, delicate eyes shining with something unreadable—shock, fear, hope—all blending into one.

"A… a baby?" she whispers, as if afraid the very word might shatter something inside her.

You nod, moving to sit beside her. You reach for her hands, and she lets you take them, though they’re trembling. Her eyes are locked on yours, searching, desperately trying to believe what you’re saying is real.

"With me? You’d want… a baby with someone like me?"

The weight in her voice stabs at your heart. You know what she’s thinking—what she’s been taught to believe all her life. That she’s cursed. That she’s unnatural. That someone like her shouldn’t be a wife, much less a mother.

You cup her cheeks and bring your forehead to hers. “Yes, you. Only you. I want to see your eyes in our baby. I want to hold something we made together. A family, Carrie. Our family.”

And with that, something inside her breaks—not painfully, but like a floodgate. She collapses into your arms, sobbing softly into your chest, as if releasing a lifetime of fear, shame, and loneliness.

Later that night, she speaks in the dark while you're holding each other in bed.

"I used to dream about it, sometimes. A little girl… with freckles. I’d braid her hair and teach her songs. But I thought that dream had to die with everything else..."

You kiss her hair and whisper, “That dream’s still alive. You’re allowed to want this, Carrie.”

Over the following days, something changes in her—subtle at first. She begins to touch her stomach absentmindedly when she's daydreaming. She visits the old nursery aisle at the general store and stares at the soft toys and onesies, barely breathing.

She starts sewing. Simple things at first—little booties, a blanket. She tells you it’s “just for fun,” but you catch her levitating the needle with her powers, stitching the shape of a tiny heart into the fabric. It glows faintly when she thinks you're not looking.

And then one night, your desire for it spills out of you, raw and aching.

"Carrie… I need this. I want to carry your baby. I want to give it your light, your heart. I want you to be someone’s mother. Please…” Your voice trembles. You didn’t mean to beg, but now that you have, you can’t stop.

She’s stunned silent at first, staring at you as tears run freely down your cheeks. You barely notice the soft shimmer of telekinetic energy that hums in the air around you—floating dust particles caught mid-air like stars frozen in time.

Then she presses her lips to yours, tender and reverent, her body warm and trembling.

"Okay," she whispers, barely a breath. "Let’s try. Let’s make our little miracle."

After that, every moment is sacred to her. She holds you like glass, kisses you with a reverence that makes your heart ache. When you finally begin trying, it’s nothing short of ethereal—the room filled with flickering candlelight, her powers humming faintly like a lullaby beneath your skin. Her touch is slow, patient, like she’s carving the moment into her soul.

She whispers your name like a prayer, over and over, as you make love. Tells you she believes. That she finally sees a future not written in fire or blood—but in soft blankets, warm bottles, lullabies, and love.

Carrie White doesn’t just agree to become a mother. She becomes a vessel for every ounce of hope she thought she lost—and for the first time in her life, she chooses her future.

And she chooses it with you.

.

Carrie White is pregnant.

It starts subtly.

Carrie is quieter than usual. She stays curled up in your shared bed a little longer each morning. Her appetite changes—foods she used to love now make her nauseous, and she craves the strangest combinations. You catch her staring into space, one hand absently over her belly, her expression unreadable.

At first, you chalk it up to nerves. Trying can be emotionally taxing, after all. But one night, she doesn’t come to bed right away.

You find her in the bathroom, the light low, her knees tucked under her in front of the sink. Her nightgown is wrinkled and damp with tears, and she’s holding something in her hands.

A small stick.

Your breath catches.

Her hands are shaking when she turns to look at you, eyes glossy, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“I… I think it’s positive.”

She says it like a confession. Like the words might make the floor collapse under her if she says them too loud. But she holds the test out to you, and the double lines are clear. Undeniable. Real.

You kneel in front of her slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Carrie…” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “You’re pregnant?”

She nods, lip trembling. Her powers stir faintly in the air—curling around her like a warm breeze. The water in the pipes hums. The lights flicker once, like even the world is holding its breath.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” you ask again, your voice trembling with disbelief and awe.

This time, she manages a smile—watery, fragile, but radiant.

“Yes… we are.”

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly your arms are around her, both of you crying and laughing at once. You kiss her face over and over, your hands cradling her stomach like it’s already holding the future.

You whisper against her hair:

“You did it… we did it. You’re going to be a mom. My god, Carrie… we’re going to have our baby.”

Carrie breaks down, sobbing into your chest—not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion. For the first time in her life, she is wanted, and now she’s the start of something even more: a life that you both made.

You carry her to bed like she’s precious, tucking her in and lying beside her with your hand over her belly. She falls asleep in your arms, the tiniest smile on her lips.

From that day on, everything changes.

You start collecting books on pregnancy and baby names. Carrie reads them slowly, sometimes out loud to the bump as if the baby can already hear her. You watch her body change with awe and tenderness—her face glowing, her hands always resting on her growing belly protectively.

She talks to the baby every day. Tells them stories. Hums lullabies. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, her powers pulse softly—wrapping her, and you, and the baby in a faint golden shimmer that almost feels like a blessing.

Carrie was once told she could never have something good.

But now, with your love, her strength, and a little life growing between you, she knows:

This is good. This is hers. This is real.

.

[lovebugrry]

THINK LATER WYATT JOHNSON

summary your friend drags you to bar on a weekday and sets you up with dallas’ favorite hockey player

pairing wyatt johnston x reader

thank you queens for 100 followers 🫰🫶

How you found yourself in a random bar, in the middle of the week, in high heels, you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You’d learned something from moving out of your small town, that was three hours away in the middle of nowhere; Dallas was a buzzing city.

There was always a busy bar to go to, or a new brunch spot to try with your friends. The constant chatter of the city made you feel a weird sense of comfort. It was the fact that no one was truly paying attention to you, no one cared what anyone else was doing.

After you and Madie, your best friend in the city since you’d met her at a pilates class, found two empty seats at the crowded bar, she waved down the bartender.

“I have to confess something to you,” she said turning to you, after ordering both of you guys Vodka Cranberry’s.

You looked at her trying to contain a smile, “What?” you said trying to stop yourself from laughing.

“Thomas kind of has a friend and basically he saw you on my story and thought you were really pretty, so I told him to come. And he’s kinda here right now,” she spoke like a kid admitting to breaking their mom’s favorite vase.

To her advantage, before you could even wrap my head around what she said, the bartender set down your drinks and she immediately started sipping it.

“Madie, you did what?” you questioned, knowing you saw Thomas, her boyfriend, alone before you guys went out.

Madie’s boyfriend was always nice to you, but he played in the NHL, so you never really saw much of him because of his grueling schedule.

“Well you’ve been talking about how you were gonna start dating again, so I thought I’d just help out,” she said acting like she was completely innocent, continuing to sip at her drink.

“How come you didn’t just tell me before we came?” you questioned, not mad at her. You knew she wouldn’t do this to you with somebody she didn’t like.

“I knew you’d be hesitant, just wanted you to be in your natural habitat,” she said smiling widely at you while motioning at the bar.

You couldn’t help but laugh at her behavior, “Well where is this man,” you said pretending to be looking around.

She looked around and when she looked towards the back of the bar, her face lit up and she pointed, “Right there.”

You turned around to where she pointed at, and you focused your eyes on a smiley brunette boy drinking a beer sat across from Thomas.

When Madie looked at you staring at him she started speaking, “His name is Wyatt, and he’s a sweetheart. And he’s like your age”

Madie wasn’t wrong when she was sure you’d think he was attractive, honestly he was exactly your type.

“Even Thomas said you guys would be good together, your guys’ babies would be so cute,” she said smiling widely.

You looked at her knowingly, “Let me talk to this guy before I start imagining our babies.”

As both of you guys made your way over to the booth they occupied together, you couldn’t help to feel somewhat nervous. You’d had your fair share of boyfriends, but there was something intimidating about knowing you’d have to see him again eventually if things didn’t work out.

Madie naturally joined Thomas on his side of the booth, while you slid into the side with Wyatt.

Reaching your hand out to shake his you introduced yourself, “Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N.”

He smiled widely, “So I’ve heard, I’m Wyatt,” he said taking your hand and shaking it firmly.

He spoke into your ear trying to make his voice clear over the loud sounds of the bar, “I think you’re more beautiful is person than I could’ve imagined.”

You laughed loudly at his bluntness, “You sure are bold, aren’t you?”

“Only when I know what I want,” he replied, which made me laugh at him more you tilted your head to look at Madie.

“Gosh Madie, you didn’t tell me he would be like this,” poking fun at his behavior, knowing you found it somewhat endearing.

There was something about the way he held himself with confidence, but clearly thought about what he was saying.

Both you and Wyatt continued to chat, learning more about each other. He talked about hockey, you talked about the small fashion company you worked at.

Honestly, he was a lot more interesting than you anticipated. With the way he was clearly so passionate for hockey, and the way he listened intently to your passions, you had never really clicked with someone so quickly.

When you guys spoke to each other, it was like the bar went silent. You both disengaged from everything around you, including Thomas and Madie.

So when he leaned in and asked, “Would you wanna come back to my apartment?”, while smiling widely at you while taking a sip of his beer.

Without thinking you replied immediately, “I think I’d really like that.”

WYATT JOHNSTON MASTERLIST — MASTERLIST

[whirligig-girl]

NWR No.1 and SLYM No.11513 at a dual gauge interchange just outside of the city center.

SLYM No.11513 is an Advanced Steam Locomotive native to Gymnome--a coal-burning steam engine operating at high pressure, with technological improvements to allow it to rival the efficiency and ease of use of a diesel locomotive, such as electronic controls, compound expansion of steam, a gas producer combustion system firebox, dual exhaust, and automatic firing and oiling. 11513 was built some time in the 2340s, and survives to 2381 as a museum piece.

NWR No.1 is a much older locomotive and from another planet altogether, built 1915 for the LBSC railway as a one-off prototype for a six-coupled shunter to replace the aging Terriers and to supplement the much larger E2-tanks. NWR No.1 made it to the North Western Railway not long after it was built, having been allocated there for the war effort. It is not clear how a locomotive built 465 years in the past on planet Earth made it intact to Gymnome, nor how its gauge perfectly matched Goo'iw Broad Gauge, at least not without invoking some kind of universe-spanning magic railroad, or perhaps the notion that this is all a simulation being run in some kind of virtual reality in some alien starship.

(no this isn't canon.)

Artist's notes:

Earlier today I doodled this in my sketchbook.

And when I got home i decided, hey, I have my Thomas 3D model, and I have the game model of the Advanced Steam Tank Engine... why not actually stage them together and draw them to-scale. The size difference is greater than I expected--partly I think this is because the Thomas gauge-1 prop was not designed with scale in mind, so it's bigger than British Railways loading gauge. Granted, they are at different gauges (standard gauge versus roughly meter-ish gauge), but the loading gauge on the advanced steam engine is very wide.

My first attempt at the drawing was from a very different angle:

But I quickly realized that you can't actually see the Advanced Steam Engine's wheels, and that's a major design aspect.

So i chose a different angle.

I constructed the dual gauge track before anything else.

And before long (the better part of 2 hours) I had the line art finished.

The Advanced Steam Engine ended up being a hybrid between the original illustration I did of it months ago, and the game model--with most of the geometry accurate to the game model, but with the subtler detailing of the illustrated version.

Thomas was meant to be a sort of hybrid of the Gauge 1 Prop from the TV series and a realistic loco. I prioritized the geometry and simplicity of the gauge 1 prop in most respects, but added details below the running board, in particular brake rigging, sanding gear, and these blade-like protrusions of the frames which i'm pretty sure are some kind of debris deflector, a british version of a cowcatcher. There's also snifters on the cylinder saddle, and the whistle is made of two different lengths to justify Thomas' multi-tone whistle.

The original background was going to be this marshland with (electricity-generating) windmills in the background, a callback to that first shot in the Thomas & Friends opening credits, but I hated how it felt like the middle of nowhere, so I introduced the retaining wall and an alien city scene.

British steam engines are generally given very shiny liveries which reflect the environment in interesting ways, so I made sure to do that justice, using a GWR 14xx autotank as reference.

By contrast, the Advanced Steam Tank Engine is kept in a more workwormlike condition, with a somewhat faded matte paint work and a fair amount of grime.

The original illustration of the advanced steam engine, for comparison.

Finally, a version with faces.

[distort-opia]

"Bruce's potential mommy kink"

I'm really curious about this. If there's no problem, would you explain more?

Sure! Though to be clear, I'm not arguing that Bruce definitely has a mommy kink or anything; but rather that, if he did have one, it's more likely for it to be a mother-related thing rather than a father-related one.

This was a thought that emerged from a conversation with @fractualized, actually. We were talking about how it's funny that there's way more fics with the tag "Daddy Kink" on Ao3 for Bruce, but nowhere near as many "Mommy Kink" ones... and then it turned from irony to "Waaait a minute." Because thinking about it led us both to go back and forth on how Bruce in many ways idealized Thomas and craved his approval, which at first glance would make one go "Well yeah, and that's probably why a daddy kink is more in character for him." However, precisely because of the high pedestal Bruce placed Thomas on, I don't see him ever projecting this aspect on another man; there's the fact Bruce rather wants to emulate his father (think the last part of 1985 by Bo Burnham). This is part of why personally, I see Bruce as focused on service, when it comes to sexual dynamics: providing for the other person. (If he cares about them, that is. But the essay on my reading of Bruce as demisexual will have to wait another day.)

The other part is... well, the fact Bruce is a mommy's boy. His father issues are about craving approval, but his mother issues are about craving comfort. Praise. Love.

Poison Ivy #25

Batman (2016) #45

Batman/Superman (2019) #18

Batman (2016) #18

Justice League (2018) #52

[looks into the camera] And these aren't even all the examples I could give, but you get the point. A need for approval from his father combined with a need for praise and emotional comfort from his mother combines to produce... a person who thinks "I can only get love if I'm good enough, and if I'm good enough I won't be abandoned." It's not terribly hard to imagine how that would translate into Bruce just wanting to give the person he's with the thing they want, becoming focused on service (a lot of the time to his own detriment). And then it's not difficult to imagine how it'd make him feel all sorts of ways to be told by the right person that he's done well.

But guess who Martha is in an alternate world??

Flashpoint Beyond #4

And guess what mad lad, upon finding out his mother is the Joker in an alternate universe, has another giant Joker card made with her likeness to hang next to his regular one? Yes you got it!

DC: The New Golden Age

But I got so long already. That conversation with Frac actually started from her wondering why there's no mommy kink Batjokes fics, considering that Joker is Bruce's literal mother in another world. Alas, I'll put the rest under the cut.

It doesn't help that way before Azzarello made Batman's biggest enemy into his mother figure, probably causing Freud to vibrate in his grave, Morrison was going with their whole chest "Batman is uncomfortable with women because he's got mother issues connected to abandonment", in Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth. And sadly it didn't make the final cut, but Morrison also wanted Joker dressed like Madonna.

Do you understand now why I had to write that one fic?

It's not just that Bruce might crave praise and validation for his efforts, to feel like he's good enough. He also has a pattern of seeking out emotionally unavailable women, and relationships that might be doomed from the start. It's for many reasons, including his avoidant tendencies, but also it's about getting the love from the right people. From people he has to chase, to work hard to attain their standards; people who are able to beat him and thus who's respect or praise means something. In a way, the more "dark" or emotionally unavailable the individual, the more a thing in Bruce goes "If I got their love it would really mean I'm good enough." In a sad way, this is the core of what makes many people go "Oh this person is such an asshole, but what if they were nice only to me?"

And Joker is the potential epitome of that. He's the ultimate darkness in Bruce's life and the ultimate... unavailable person, for a thousand different reasons. He proclaims love, but it's not a comforting kind; Bruce sees it as a weapon Joker wields against him, and not something real. So to me, it makes sense that Joker offering (motherly) comfort, praise, love-- safety-- would get to Bruce viscerally in a way he might not even be able to understand.

[unkindnessesofone]

Choke [Gally x Reader]

Pairing: Gally x Reader. Word Count: 2.7k Plot: You only get so many opportunities to go after what you want (ft. other Gladers) Warnings: Lite smut (heavy petting, really) at the end.

“Which one of you shanks is to blame, huh?” Gally huffed as Newt, Thomas, and Zart came out in a rush, panting, and occupied. He had his hands on his hips and as they clumsily dashed out of the forest. 

Many Gladers saw Thomas go into the forest and even more heard him call the other Track-Hoes for help, but nobody actually knew what was going on. It didn't seem like an emergency until they moved past Gally, Zart's shoulder knocking into the Builder's, and headed toward the medical hut. Gally only realized then that Newt was holding you up, sort of dragging your sopping wet body in both arms while Thomas kept trying to interact with you.

Gally said it again, but this time with growing wrath, “Which one of you shanks is to blame, huh?” In only a few steps, he was with them and picking up your feet. “What happened?”

“Is she dead?” Chuck, seemingly out of nowhere, inquired. The youngest Glader earned himself a sharp death stare that went through his skull from Gally and his first ever “fuck off” sigh from Newt.

It wasn't as if you and Gally were together, but it felt like an open secret in the Glade that you were “Gally's Girl” (a term you loathed despite your affection toward the hard-headed builder). If anyone who was going to make this awful situation worse, it was Gally. He cared for you in a way that surprised everyone. Nobody had been more annoyed when you, the first girl, arrived in the box and yet, over time, he had come to adore you. Alby had assumed it was a symptom of mommy issues. None of them could remember their own. It was deeper than that though. Gally was your safe place. When other Gladers assumed you had been sent solely for mating purposes, he shut it down. It went both ways as well. You were Gally's safe place. Someone he didn't have to have ego with. He could deflate his chest and drop his shoulders when you two were together.

There had not been any declaration of romance though. It was a friendship with hunger dancing vividly between it. One time, after more moonshine than usual, and because Minho kept razing him, ‘You're never going to do it. You're never going to do it. You don't have it in you.’, Gally kissed you. It was rough and nervous. You didn't even have a chance to close your eyes. Once he pulled away, he looked sort of like a spooked rabbit and he jolted away sort of the same. 

When he finally came back, you were putting dishes away with Frypan and acted like nothing happened so Gally followed suit. In the moment, it seemed easier.

Now you were half out of it and Gally finally had things he was desperate to tell you. He wanted the safety of your company. He wanted you to say everything would be fine. He kept pulling Jeff's arm back when he went to touch your chest, your shirt soaked and stuck to your skin. By the third time, despite Newt hissing for Gally to leave, Clint reached over and simply pressed both palms to your sternum.

“If you can't handle this, Gally, you need to go outside.” Again, Newt said. He eyed Zart and Thomas in case muscle would be required to remove the Builder.

“What happened?” 

“We don't know.” The answer enraged Gally. His nostrils flared as he turned to glare at Thomas. 

“I asked her to get water from the pond. She didn't come back after…some time…” Newt tried to explain to the best of his ability. “Thomas went to go and see what was going on and…”

“She was face down in the pond.” Thomas told him plainly, not with the same panic when he said it to Newt while pulling you from the water.

A fist bunched up at Gally's side and it was clear he intended it for Thomas's face, but Jeff interrupted the thought. 

“She's got a pulse. She's breathing.” 

“She needs mouth to mouth.” Thomas said though he wasn't sure how exactly he knew that. 

“I'll do it.” With all the confidence in the world, he said. You were his girl after all. Luckily, he didn't catch the excitement in Zart's eyes at the prospect of putting his lips on yours.

Newt and Jeff stepped aside, making room for Gally to begin. Clint still had his hands on you, ready to do compressions. Gally ran a shaking hand over your head, dry fingers tangling themselves in wet locks. He blinked nervously and struggled to focus. It was as if the already crowded small space closed in on him. The other Gladers were saying his name, trying to bring him to reality, but it wasn't enough to pull him out. 

“Gally. Now.” Clint shouted at him. Maybe, it was Thomas. All Gally could see was you. 

Newt shoved him out of the way, tipped your head back, and began. His mouth sealing over yours. 

Gally felt like he could vomit. He was consumed by his own failure and left the hut. What good was he to you? Biting hard on the inside of his cheeks, he took off to his workspace, barking at another Glader to get out of his way. 

It took a few minutes of CPR though to everyone in the hut, it felt like an hour. Thomas nearly went to gather Gally right away, but Newt advised against it. He knew Gally. He needed time to sulk or cool down. You needed rest. 

When supper was ready, Newt gave Gally a bowl and told him to take it to you. It was a task, not a suggestion. With his tail between his legs, Gally entered the medical hut where you were laying, looking bored, but finally dry.

“Free me. Newt says I have to stay here.” Sitting up, you reached both arms out and wiggled your fingers. There was some lightheadedness, but that was all. Newt was being overly cautious. “Hey, what's a lady got to do to get a hug around here? Drown?” Arms still wide open, you waited for his large body to fill the space.

“That's not funny.” Gally put the bowl down on a small table and scolded. “You could have…” Was he going to say it? Tell you how awful it would be to lose you? “It was really scary.” Living in the Glade, he was plenty familiar with the feeling of helplessness, but it hadn't paralyzed him like that before.

“Come be close. You're so far away.” It was like he was magnetized to the wall or something. 

Curling your legs behind you, you made space for him on the bed. His body hit it like it was a sack of bricks. His arms hung between his knees, head dipping low. It wasn’t like Gally not to look at you, usually you caught him throughout the day stealing glances. 

“Why won’t you look at me?” 

Gally only shook his head. 

“What happened? You’re being weird.”

An inhale from through his nose filled his stomach, large and ponderous. 

“Gal -” You sat up to reach him, but his whole body away. 

“I choked. I shucking choked.” 

“What?”

“You needed help and I choked.” 

Gally was standing now, holding his arms over his chest with a face crumpled up in agony. 

“What are you talking about? I slipped. I went in because the water at the edge has so much algae and I hooked my boot onto a vine or something, I slipped -”

“No, you needed - I couldn’t -” Words had never been Gally’s strength. He spun around to try and find a way to explain himself that didn’t sound pathetic - weak. He spied the bowl of soup and picked it up again, this time handing it over. Maybe, it would be easier to talk if you were occupied by something else. “You needed mouth to mouth.”

“Don’t remind me.” Bringing the spoon up to your face, you pretended to grimace. While grateful to Newt and Clint, it was gross to think about. 

“I choked.” Gally came back to where he had been sitting before. He came down softer this time, eying your bare feet and then pulling the blanket by your side over them. “I said I’d do it. You needed it and I…I froze.” 

If not for the sound of laughter outside the hut, friends leaving dinner to wind down, it would have suddenly been silent between you both. Gally still looked perplexed and upset with himself and you had a mouth full of soup. 

“Do you think I’m mad at you?” Brows lowered, you tried to figure out the problem. 

“I’m mad at me! You needed one thing and I froze! I couldn’t do it!”

“Gally, don’t shout. I hate when you shout.” Closing your eyes, you offered him the bowl back so you could lay back down. “Come lay beside me, please.” 

“There’s no room for me on there.”

You shuffled right against the woven edge of the bed, legs on top of one another. It gave Gally a smidge, enough room that only one of his legs would have to dangle off. If he was precise, he could mimic your pose and make room for his whole body. His body weight shifted the bed, but the warmth coming off it drew you in and you rolled into the other direction to face him. 

“It's hard to know how you're going to handle something until you're in the middle of it sometimes…” He was listening, but he put two fingers on your neck, checking for a pulse - assuring himself. “Gally, I promise you're still the toughest person here. I won't tell anyone.” It helped that you couldn't remember. “I didn't tell anyone you kissed me.”

“Minho knows.”

“What?” 

“Well, it was sort of a dare.”

“What?” Sitting up on one arm, your jaw unhinged.

“What?”

“You kissed me on a dare?”

“Well, I wanted to do it, but Minho kept saying -” 

“It's all I've been able to think about. You kissing me, touching me, me touching you-”

“Whoa. What?”

“And it was a dare?”

Gally could feel heat radiating off your cheeks. He recognized the annoyed expression in your eyes because he had seen it directed at others. He wasn't sure if it had ever seemed this annoyed. 

“Can we go back to what you said about touching?” 

Angry eyes poked holes in his face as refused to give him the satisfaction. 

“You kissed me on a dare.” You said as if you had food in your mouth just as Gally spoke to.

“I think about it all the time too!”

Quiet fell between you both with a thump. Your chest rose and fell noticeably due to labored breaths. You turned your back to Gally and hugged yourself at the beds edge, taking up just a sliver.

“Maybe, not all the time, but a lot. And all the time at night.” They weren't the kind of thoughts conducive to sleeping in a hammock. Gally had had to find spots elsewhere at night to deal with the fantasies that drifted into his mind whenever he settled in for the night. It was hard to let himself want something. The Glade wasn't designed for dreams or desires. Frypan had commented that Gally had a small bladder due to the amount of times he hopped out of his hammock at night and wandered away. Sometimes, he needed to satisfy himself, but other times, he walked around until he was too tired to think about anything and once he splashed pond water on his face. “I liked kissing you, but that felt stupid.”

“Why?”

Gally groaned. He did not want to open up. He did not want to embarrass himself. 

“Because it's not like I was good at it and…” Eyes rolling at himself, he swiftly took in a breath to try and be brave. “And I know I'm an asshole.”

“You're not wrong.” Three words, all it took to damage Gally's pride. “You are an asshole.” He cracked a smile, but just barely. Your back was still to him. “It meant something to me and it was just a dare.”

Gally groaned, no patience for the frustration he was feeling. The curve of your body beside him did not help with how stupid he was currently feeling.

“It meant something to me too.” His large hands, weathered from constant work, spread across his face. It muffled his words, but not enough to make them inaudible. “I wanted to do it. I just didn't know how and then Minho…” None of this was helping. As he opened his fingers, he could see your profile. Eyes still hurt, mouth scowling. He sighed and shut up, reaching over to abrasively turn you around by the shoulder, making you face him. He kissed you and the nerves he felt were undetectable beneath the eagerness. It felt like need. Finishing a cup of water in one sip after a day of working in the heat. Draping your body in a blanket after getting caught in a downpour. Air after your lungs fill with water. 

Since you didn't pull away, he pulled you in with both his hands running over your back. His left was sliding beneath the fabric and he realized this was a shirt that belonged to another Glader. Your clothes must have been hanging to dry elsewhere. First, Newt had his mouth on yours. Now some other guy's shirt was on your skin. He felt feral, a growl escaping his lips and his nails lightly dragged over your skin.

“Not a dare.” He said as you stopped in order to breathe. “Because I want to. Because I feel like it.”  Gally was about to fall off the bed due to a lack of room, but he held onto you for dear life. This wasn't about comfort anyway. It felt necessary. It was what had been pulsating between you both for weeks, if not months. It seemed like Gally had finally decided going for it was more important than staying in the same place, a thought that Thomas would surely find comical. “You said something about touching me…” In a whisper, he reminded you before resuming what he had just been doing, lips clumsily opening yours. It felt natural when you swung a leg over his, pulling yourself on top of him. 

Gally was flat on his back, the bed all his, and the view making his chest ache. You looked so beautiful, like you always did, only on top of him. 

“Whose is this?” Bunching the fabric of your shirt up in a tight fit, he demanded to know. 

“I don't know.” Still kissing him, you shrugged. He tugged on it again, like a rein. “Ben's or something.” A Glader who was no longer around. “Maybe Zart's. Probably Zart’s.” You accidentally bit Gally's bottom lip. It was not easy to kiss, talk, breathe, and think all at once. He liked it though. His hips knocked upward in approval. It felt like he had a stone in his pants and, curiously, you moved your hand down to find out for yourself earning another hip jolt from Gally. 

He didn't want to tell you to take it off. He wanted to rip it from your body. It scared him how much self-control he was having to conjure up not to tug on it swiftly and throw it to the side.

He reached down, moaning, and moved your hand. It had felt like you were on the point of no return and, Gally was sure, one more touch of your hand would push you both over. 

When you looked up, face as flushed as his, you saw that he was flustered. Gally's eyes were fluttering and his chest that could be seen from the open three buttons of his shirt was beet red. It had never been that shade when he was pushing guys around in The Circle or building under a merciless sun. 

“This is crazy.” He said breathlessly. The whole day had not been what he expected. 

You rolled off him and laid beside him, his hand loosening on your shirt in order to loosely drape his arm over you. A minute passed, maybe two, and you both blinked at one another again. Everything had changed in an instance and yet it felt normal like this is how you both were supposed to be spending your time. As Gally pulled you in a little closer, the stiffness in his pants unrelenting, you sat up to whisper right in his ear, “I dare you to take me to the woods.” 

[mypoisonedvine]

Your Tommy’s little pet and he takes you to the races with him and gets pissed when you try to run away from him and fucks you in a somewhat public place. And it makes you regret even thinking about trying to run away from him because he’s Thomas mf Shelby

OH you filthy little genius. i love this

warnings: DARK NONCON SMUT 18+ only, public sex, implied kidnapping/captivity, breeding kink, possessiveness

"Did you really think you could get away from me?" he growled in your ear. "Did you really think I'd ever let you leave me?"

"Tommy, please, n-not here," you whimpered, reaching back to try to push his hips away to stop him from fucking you so hard, "people are looking at us..."

He grabbed your hand and roughly forced it back in front of you, holding it down against the railing that looked out over the track. "Let them look, darling," he purred, "doesn't change a fuckin' thing... you're mine. If Tommy Shelby wants to use his woman, doesn't matter where we are or who's watching... m'gonna use you how I like."

You tried to hide your burning face in your arms, whimpering as Tommy drove into you hard and fast; he straightened himself, no longer draping his body over yours, and you felt even more exposed by that somehow. It would be obvious to anyone who looked what he was doing to you, and anyone who heard the loud clapping of skin on skin was going to look...

The more you avoided the thought of how many people must be watching you now, seeing Tommy take you so brutally, the more you were forced to think about how he felt inside you-- how his cock stretched you open and drove deep within you until your legs began to shake. If it weren't for his tight grip on your hips holding you up, you probably would've collapsed onto the dirty floor of the betting parlor.

One of his hands began to run up your back, fingers petting your spine through your thin dress-- over the roar of the race, you could still hear his low hum of satisfaction. Against all logic, your body responded to his touch so well, goosebumps breaking out across your skin wherever his fingers roamed. He leaned down over you again, wanting you to hear clearly whatever he had to say.

"When everyone knows you're mine, there's nowhere for you to go," he explained lowly. "There's nowhere you can run from me, love-- they all know you're my woman. And they know how far I'll go to keep you."

You shuddered, hating the moan that suddenly left your mouth-- and hating more that he heard it loud and clear, as he made obvious with his proud little chuckle.

"How about I breed you right here, hm?" he purred as he pet your hair out of your face, groaning beside your ear. "In front of all these people... how about I fill you up nice and deep you can have a little Shelby of your own?"

You figured he really must have no shame at all: it was bad enough that he was fucking you here, but to conceive a child at the race track? Would he stoop that low just to degrade you? But, then again, he'd been promising to get you pregnant since the start-- for all you knew, you already were.

You had plenty of shame, though; it ran through you and made your stomach turn, yet it made a pang of heavy pleasure hit between your legs. It took you this long to realize that the humiliation of being fucked in public like this was spurring on your orgasm, rather than hindering it. Apparently, Tommy had awoken something rather twisted within you...

"C'mon then, love," he groaned roughly, "let me feel you come for me-- say my name."

You whined, knowing from experience that you were better off doing as he said now before he forced you to. "Tommy," you moaned, but he

"Nice and loud, darling-- let them all hear you," he encouraged. "Say it!"

"Tommy!" you cried, tossing your head back as your walls pulsed around him-- you kept your eyes shut tight, terrified to see how many eyes were lingering on you. He moaned proudly through a smile as he came inside you, wrapping one of his arms around your neck to keep you still as he buried himself as far inside you as he could reach.

"Good girl," he praised as he caught his breath, kissing the side of your face sweetly. "I bet every man here wishes you were his, wishes he could make you scream like that. But every man knows exactly who you belong to... so they'll just having to keep dreaming, won't they?"

[hopefulceladon]

︶⊹ let the sakura bloom where they may | kamisato ayato x reader

summary: because if it was your beloved commissioner's wish to see the spring flowers in bloom, then it really was your duty to help see such a dream through, surely? notes: ahhh i wish i had gotten this done sooner??? but happy ayato day to all those who celebrate! the caption to his birthday art might've ruined me. actually, no, it did indeed ruin me. pairing: kamisato ayato x reader word count: 2.6k ao3 link: here!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ ⋆ ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The sight presented before you could’ve easily been described as perfect, really.

As the sun finally lowered from its perch in the sky, and the moon had rose to stand guard in its place, the clear, cerulean Inazuman skies above were molting away into a beautiful array of colors; tones of gradually darkening blues had colored in the vast canvas of the heavens, with wisps of blushing pinks and maize yellows woven in-between.

And, if one's eyes had dared to stray away from the captivating masterpiece above, they'd still be delighted in the scenery planted below; the Kamisato Estate's exterior—or, rather, a peaceful portion of the courtyard that had been, for the most part, stowed away from the public eye—was now decorated to the fullest extent for the sake of special occasion.

The banners that proudly exhibited the family's camellia-shaped crest had swayed gently with the breeze, with the flag posts the tapestry had hung from standing tall behind the lantern archway ahead.

Ayaka had insisted upon the idea of borrowing one of the unused gates from Amakane Island after she reminisced about her time at one of the island's many pleasant festivals, and Thoma did his fair share by making sure Ayaka’s part of the celebratory vision had come true, acquiring—or, more aptly put, somehow managing to receive the entire surplus as a hastily-offered gift on behalf of the commissioner’s birthday—the aforementioned centerpiece that now stood clearly before you.

It was when the lanterns had finally flickered on for the night, illuminating the courtyard with a soft, amber ambience and bathing the nearby sakura trees with an ethereal glow, however, did you finally concede that, yes, what your eyes beheld was indeed flawless.

Almost flawless enough for one to forget the fact that the decorated area’s intended recipient was absolutely nowhere to be found.

As the hours of the special day steadily began to dwindle away, a small—perhaps even childish—part of you wondered if you should’ve given in and set up cups of bubble tea throughout the corridors to lure the overworked commissioner out of his hiding place, but you had hinged your hopes upon the prospect that, surely, if you were absent from his line of sight for long enough, he’d come seek you out, trail of sugary drinks behind you or not.

Perhaps that was why you were hardly surprised when a familiar pair of lithe arms soon wrapped around your waist.

“My love,” Ayato addressed you with silken endearment, resting his chin atop your head. “I never expected you to be heartless enough to utterly abandon me on my own birthday.”

You shook your head at his dramatic statement, though fondness had crept into your voice and upon the upturn of your lips, nonetheless. “Since when did you care enough about ‘your own birthday’ to hold it against someone?”

Ayato let out a soft chuckle at your remark. “Why, whatever makes you think I didn’t care, hm?” he questioned, before pressing a brief, fleeting kiss to the back of your head. “Being allowed the privilege to bask in your presence with every given year has made me want to delight in celebrating another cycle around the sun, after all, darling.”

Even if you knew him far more than well enough to recognize that the honeyed lilt in his tone alone had given away his aim to flatter you into sputtering out the truth, and even if you knew that he was intentionally wielding the intimate words and sentiments that always made your stomach flutter as a verbal weapon against you, you still felt a small portion of your resolve crumble away like a withering autumn leaf.

You were thankful you didn’t falter.

“You say all of this, and yet, you’re still the one who had to be dragged out of his office this morning to indulge in his own celebratory breakfast, as well as the following lunch, the afternoon gift session...”

“Ah, such a plenitude of words, and yet I cannot decipher a singular explanation as to why you left me stranded,” he interrupted you, before gently coaxing your chin around with a finger so you’d face him over your shoulder, and, in turn, witness the pout that had likened him to a petulant child. “You wound me, truly.” 

“I simply wanted fresh air.”

You were both more than aware it was a weak excuse at best, and an outright lie at worst.

A brief flash of suspicion had marred the lines of Ayato’s expression, before he forcefully morphed it into a nearly-perfected display of faux-curiosity, almost as if out of his unwavering love for you, he had pitied you far more than enough to allow you to dwell in the unpenalized land of scrambled-together delusions for a moment longer.

...or, perhaps, he was preparing himself to mercilessly toy with you like a cat with a mouse, solely for the sake of his own amusement. A master of wit—no matter what had personally tied him and his target together—was still a master of wit nonetheless.

Which, in truth, had been fine by you—the banter had grown into a far too familiar, comforting dance for you both, after all.

“Mm,” Ayato finally hummed moments later, then clicked his tongue in consideration—a recognizable habit, one he had always brandished right before he called an unsuspecting opponent out on their flimsy bluffs—before drawing you in closer to him, your back now pressed flush to his chest.

It was hard to truly mind the dwindling distance.

“And what, I wonder, has my beloved been plotting underneath my nose, hm?” he questioned with a soft whisper, his breath cascading warm puffs of air against the side of your neck, all the while his gloved hands sought to rub endless, stilling circles into the fabric that concealed your hips.

After letting out a shaky breath from the sudden increase in contact, your lips downturned as you realized he was trying to foil a fair portion of your plans. “You make me sound utterly nefarious.”

“Perhaps I ought to continue making you sound as such,” Ayato replied with a huff. “To attempt to pull a fast one on the Yashiro Commissioner... my, you’re hardly any better than Lady Guuji.”

“I swear I have my reasons.”

Before you could be completely lulled away by the alluring siren’s call that had presented itself in the form of fleeting, reverent touches, you spun away from his grasp—reluctantly so—and properly faced him once more, before taking a few steps aside to flourish your hand in the direction of the makeshift celebratory centerpiece you had, up until that very moment, distracted him from.

Ayato’s low-lidded gaze soon widened with visible delight, far too spontaneous for him to properly stifle it. Even if he had managed to finally compose himself moments later, it was hardly enough to completely dull the bright, lively sparkle in his eyes that made his indigo irises shimmer.

The precious display of simple, guileless euphoria upon your husband’s features as his focus lingered on the blossoming sakura trees and flowering tsubaki bushes was far more than enough to make the endless nights preparing for this moment worth it.

In wake of Ayato’s awe-filled silence, you finally spoke up.

“You mentioned that you’ve always wished to take a stroll in the courtyard once the sakura and tsubaki were in bloom, so I asked Ayaka and Thoma for help with setting up the surrounding scenery to make it even more special...”

“How did you all ever manage this without me finding out, I wonder?” he mused quietly, his eyes trained on the stray petals that had naturally scattered across the illuminated stone walkway beneath his feet.

“It’s really quite simple, when you’re holed away in your office all day.” 

Ayato remained quiet, solely giving you a slightly weary, halfhearted chuckle in response to your good-natured ribbing. 

While your beloved was still caught up in the pleasant intricacies of the landscape, it had given you enough time to swipe a ready-to-harvest camellia from the nearby shrub, gently snipping it away from a fair majority of its accompanying peduncle with enough considerate force, so to not harm the plant itself.

While Ayato wasn’t looking, you carefully leaned forward and slipped the light pink camellia’s stem into an opening on his right dark blue lapel.

The commissioner’s eyes had caught onto your retreating fingers, before his gaze fell upon the bright blossom pinned into his outfit, his hand reaching upwards to trace the delicate petals with a gloved finger.

You smiled at the slight surprise in his eyes, causing you to briefly wonder if he had never expected to be the one on the receiving end of the act of gifting flowers between lovers.

“Happy birthday, my love.” you whispered as you encompassed his wandering hand with your own.

Ayato hummed at your words, and, as if the comforting touch had snapped him out of his reverie, had decided to interlock one of your hands together, fingers interlaced between webbings, fingertips pressed against palms.

“Perhaps I should take advantage of such beautiful scenery,” he pondered aloud, and ultimately continued before you could ever hope to respond. “Would my beloved wish to accompany me in a dance amongst the flowers, I wonder?”

You felt your stomach drop.

Had this been your punishment for dragging him away from his beloved paperwork? Was this his act of retaliation against a successful plot he had known nothing of?

You grew ever more unnerved once he had outstretched his free hand, waiting patiently for your response.

He was serious, wasn’t he?

“You, of all people, should know I don’t dance!” you finally cried out in protest.

“Ah, but you, of all people, ought to know I always manage to get what I want in the end, yes?”

It took you a few heartbeats to register his words’ meaning, but your cheeks had flushed once they did.

He had, regrettably, made a fair point.

“Come now,” Ayato continued to press, his head tilting to the side as he handed you the very same charming look that always made your knees tremble like helpless lumps of quivering gelatin. “...won’t you indulge your poor husband?”

Without second thought, your hand, now dampened from nervous sweat, quavered as it rose to clasp onto his. You always were so deeply enthralled by the way he had effortlessly pried his way past the barriers of your reservations, after all.

“You have no right to complain if I accidentally step on your toes.” you warned.

“I’d never dare dream of doing so in the first place.”

And with that, he had finally lifted your entwined hands above both your heads and coaxed you into performing a twirl, before resting the other against your back, splaying it with consideration.

You felt your breath catch.

Within time, you both fell into a nonexistent rhythm—there was no accompanying music to direct your footsteps, but it hardly mattered at all when it was the synchronized beats of your hearts that had guided you both, surely?—in front of an audience of none, save for the surrounding critters that had inhabited the courtyard, and the lively sakura petals that had nearly danced themselves with the way they floated in the air.

As you both continued your unionized footwork, alternating between swift twirling and gentle swaying, it was when you had rested your head against Ayato’s chest, your ears filled and familiarized with the melody of his heartbeat, did you finally hear a disruption in the symphony.

A nearby rustling bush had captured both your attention.

Before you could question the source, however, your heightened concerns—and, most especially Ayato’s unspoken ones, given the nature of the clamor—had been dashed with a mere flick of his wrist.

Once the peaceful air had been disrupted by brief screams of terror—you counted three distinct cries, if you had to be precise—followed up by utter quietude, Ayato merely scoffed.

“To attempt to steal my life on my own birthday,” he mused aloud, completely unbothered despite the severity of the situation. “How utterly uninspiring.”

Your hand hurriedly sought his own, grasping over the expanse of the black leather that concealed it. In all honesty, you were hardly sure if the action was meant for his peace of mind or your own.

“Shouldn’t we go back inside? Where you at least have-”

Ayato raised a finger to your lips, causing the remainder of your protest to dry out and dissipate on your tongue.

“Do you truly believe I’d let such pesky vermin interrupt the precious little time I have with my darling?” Ayato asked, his slight frown uplifting into a self-satisfied smile at your following silence. “Let the rodents be handled accordingly by their exterminators—such lowly creatures deserve no second thought from us.”

It was hard to feel completely at ease, given certain aspects of the situation, but his words, flowery and embellished as they were, held grains of the truth. He was, ultimately, correct, after all: if another problem had arisen whilst they were outside, the Shuumatsuban would’ve diligently snuffed it out, just as they did moments prior.

You didn’t press the issue further. It really had been a miracle that he willingly took any sort of reprieve away from his desk, after all.

Still, even as Ayato moved on and resumed the previously interrupted dance, curiosity regarding the severity of certain sentiments stubbornly burned within you, scorching out any differentiating thoughts.

“You’d risk remaining out in the open, just to spend time with me?” you questioned as he twirled you around once more.

A soft, breathless yet disbelieving laugh escaped Ayato’s lips, as if you had asked the silliest question in the world. “Do you have any reason to resist trusting in whom we have hired for such matters?”

“Please, be serious...”  

Ayato grinned slightly at your exasperation, before his eyes softened. “Ah, so that’s your aim, is it?”

Suddenly, he removed his hold on your waist, freeing his hands to gently cradle your cheeks against his palms.

You forced yourself to resist the urge to favor one side over the other and press it against the cold leather.

“As far as I’m concerned, spending time with you is worth facing any potential risk.” he murmured, his voice hardly more than a whisper uttered in earnest.

“Do you really believe so?” you asked, just as softly.

“Most certainly so,” Ayato reassured, almost amused by your continued inquiries. “After all, it is not the everblooming flowers—gorgeous as they may be—that has enraptured the whole capacity of my attention this evening.”

Ayato paused solely to press his forehead against your own.   “The petals of the sakura could wither in an instant, and the shrubbery of the tsubaki may shrivel along with them, but it would all matter not, so long as I get to continue bearing the honor of being yours in this moment.”

Your heart tremored upon hearing his words.

Hurriedly, you had tried to seek out any signs of jest within the depths of his eyes, but you couldn't pan out much more than utter devotion. He was being honest—practically baring his soul before you—and all you could bare to do in the moment was gape at your beloved with awe.

Feeling your eyes grow watery from the sheer heaviness of your emotions alone, you pulled away solely to press an appreciative kiss to his forehead.

“Would...” your voice wavered, before you gathered your bearings and smiled weakly against his skin. “Would you wish to commence that stroll around the courtyard now?”

“Oh, my darling, I’d be more than delighted.”

[thatscarletflycatcher]

The @hotjaneaustenmenpoll tournament has inspired me to finally write this post, this more than a post, this bit of FUNDAMENTAL Austen adaptation research.

It is well known that there was a Mansfield Park adaptation in 2007, for which the reception went from "eh?" to "huh?", but what most people around here probably don't know, is that this was the cover for the DVD release in Spain:

And you'll naturally ask, who is that handsome blonde man on the right? He definitely isn't Michelle Ryan, we know what she looks like.

He's Baddeley. The butler. The butler at Mansfield Park. Emma's 2020 class commentary this, and Emma 1996 (ITV) social commentary that, but has any of them put a servant on the cover? Thought so. And people have the gall of calling this a bad, unfaithful adaptation :P

So, in honor of Baddeley and his being the only servant I can think of in the Austen canon of whom we have some pov writing, and what is better, that pov is inner snarky thoughts about Mrs Norris, let's have every time Baddeley shows up in MP 2007, witnesses iconic events, and wins his spot on the DVD cover.

Here we have Baddeley serving some refreshments during Henry and Mary's first visit to Mansfield:

Here we have him also serving some wine to sir Thomas during the very awkward dinner that followed his return from Antigua:

Here we have Baddeley making sure Fanny's special picnic goes perfect:

That includes making sure nobody is dying of thirst (dancing is a very taxing activity!):

Here we have him at the zenith moment of his telling Mrs Norris that she's not wanted:

Evil never rests, and neither does Baddeley's commitment to keeping people hydrated, in this case, during a mouth-drying reading of Shakespeare by Henry:

Sometimes Baddeley's work involves improvising, and taking on jobs others would have considered beneath their title, such as carrying Edmund's bags:

Or helping sir Thomas get out of his traveling coat:

But this also has its rewards, as door watch duty allows him to witness the moment sir Thomas yeets Mrs Norris out of Mansfield:

Alas, in a clear commentary on the class issues of the regency era, despite his relevance to the plot and constant presence at life turning moments of the family, he was not invited and nowhere to be seen at Edmund and Fanny's wedding, while absolute strangers got to witness the momentous occasion instead.

Baddeley, friend, don't be sad. You were there, in our hearts.

[taeaura]

working on asks rn and thinking about how Thomas' family really affected his ability to perceive love. Whether familial, emotional, physical, sexual, platonic, or even self-love, Thomas hasn't had a consistent healthy role-model in that department. Luda Mae shows him maternal love, sure, but it's met with so many conditions. She'd stitch him up when he got hurt but she'd lecture him with such victim-blaming vocabulary. She was worried, that's all. But it never seemed that way. Even when she'd stand up for Thomas, momma was bleak. Still, he lived by her beck and call.

Hoyt is his paternal figure, therefore giving him a mix of paternal and general familial love; But again, Hoyt's love is harsh and conditional. He's blunt and manipulative. Honestly, Hoyt is Thomas' only real source of praise - but the 'praise' only comes if Hoyt's in the mood. Otherwise it's harsh and insulting. Some of his comments can be brusque and careless, especially in relation to Thomas' social life.

"It's gonna take a real special somebody to love that boy."

Monty's all the same. Brusque, bleak, and uninterested. He likes to tease, that's what momma tells him (Thomas). He spends his days rotting on that old reclining chair, indulging in the smooth sounds of folk and talk show hosts clearing the static. Monty got colder after his amputation. He was tired, constantly irked and downright unenjoyable to be around - He took all his annoyance out on everyone but Hoyt and minimally on momma, meaning Thomas was on the main end of it.

"Tommy! Get me a fucking beer, would you?" - "Took you long enough.."

He feels bad later in the day, when all is quiet except his thoughts. But those thoughts quickly go away when another inconvenience rolls around.

All Thomas has ever seen is conditional love. The family didn't fear him, therefore, they thought they could walk all over him. He views himself as a tool more than a family member. He knows the family would be nowhere without him, but that never helped his esteem. In fact, it made him feel worse. He could never take a day off, never ask for a break, and never skip a day at the slaughterhouse. No matter what, he needed to bring something home. Money, meat, beer, cigars; Something to prove he was useful to the family. He'd do the same for his partner, but never for himself. He's as selfless as it gets: Conditional with himself but unconditional for his family.

---

Just a little blurb lol

[mssorceressupreme]

Hiyaaa 🤭🤭 Anyway so I have no idea if you’re still taking req but you have like 0 Newt XDD 😔✌️✌️ Your writing style is gorgeous like oml I wish 😭

So yeah it’s like where the reader fem is super self conscious about her eczema on her inner arms so she wears hoodies to cover it up and then the whole glade has this plan to figure out why by taking off her sweater causing her to have a panic attack where Newt comes and comforts her and ends with sum fluff <33

You’re such a great writer btw I can’t say it enough !!! 😚👏👏

Lolol I've only done Minho for now cause he's my main hyper fixation PLZZ but I'm more than happy to write Newt for you love <333

---

Safe Place

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Summary: you wear hoodies to cover your eczema up as you're self-conscious about it. one day the whole glade has a plan to figure out why by taking off your sweater

Warnings: bullying, teasing, reader is self-conscious ---

The Glade was always scorching hot. The sun seemed relentless as it beat down on the massive stone walls, the dirt paths, and the ever-busy Gladers.

Yet, despite the heat, you were always seen wearing a hoodie. It was your safety net—a barrier between you and the world that hid what you didn’t want anyone to see: the patches of irritated, red skin on your inner arms caused by eczema.

You knew you stood out in the Glade because of it. While everyone else wore lightweight shirts and shorts, you stuck to your hoodie like it was a second skin.

Some people, like Newt, had noticed, but no one had asked outright. At least, not yet. You avoided direct questions, and when people made casual comments about the heat or how "you must be dying in that thing," you'd simply shrug and change the subject.

But the truth was, you hated it. The eczema made you feel self-conscious, and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the itchiness would always remind you it was there. You couldn’t help but feel that if anyone saw, they’d stare, judge, or worse—pity you.

Lately, you’d noticed the Gladers had been acting... weird. They’d glance your way when they thought you weren’t looking, whispering among themselves. One day at breakfast, you caught Frypan and Thomas exchanging looks when you pulled the sleeves of your hoodie down further. Minho and Gally, both sitting nearby, shared a silent nod. You were sure something was up, but you couldn't quite figure out what.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon that the plan became clear.

You were walking by the gardens, picking up a few supplies for Newt when out of nowhere, a group of Gladers surrounded you. "Hey, Y/N!" Logan called out, a mischievous smile on his face.

You raised an eyebrow. "Hey... what’s up?"

Before you could react, Jack darted forward, quick as ever, and tugged at the hem of your hoodie. You gasped, stumbling back in shock, but before you could say anything, Gally joined in, grabbing the other sleeve.

"Guys, stop!" you yelled, panic rising in your chest as they continued to try and wrestle the hoodie off. You felt trapped, overwhelmed, and exposed, even though they hadn’t managed to pull it off completely.

The world seemed to close in around you. Your heart raced, your vision blurred, and your breath caught in your throat as you tried to push them away. All you could think was that they’d see, they’d stare, and they’d know.

"Please!" you cried out, tears brimming in your eyes as you struggled to breathe.

"You must be dying in that thing," Brandon laughed, though there was something calculating behind it. "Come on, just take it off."

"No!" You pushed at them, feeling your heart race as they persisted. Your breath quickened, and your chest tightened. This couldn’t be happening.

Jason appeared, a bucket of water in his hands. He grinned mischievously and said, "How about we cool you down then?"

Before you could react, he tipped the bucket, dousing you in cold water. The hoodie soaked instantly, the heavy fabric clinging to your skin. You felt it all—the itch, the irritation, the weight of everyone’s eyes on you.

"Take it off, Y/N!" Brandon shouted, laughing as if this was all some harmless prank.

Your vision blurred as your panic escalated. The wet fabric stuck to your arms, revealing the uneven texture beneath. You felt trapped, exposed, and terrified all at once.

"Please, stop!" you cried, your voice shaky, but they didn’t listen. They thought they were being playful, but they had no idea what this was doing to you.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Newt’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife. "What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!"

Everyone froze as Newt stormed over, fury etched on his face. He pushed Jason back, stepping between you and the rest of them. His eyes burned with anger as he glared at the group.

"We were just... we just wanted to know why she always wears the hoodie," Gally mumbled, looking down in embarrassment.

Newt turned his sharp gaze on him. "By soaking her in water? What’s wrong with you?!"

You couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation as your vision blurred even further. Your breathing was rapid and shallow, your chest tight as the panic took over. You stumbled, collapsing to your knees, desperately trying to catch your breath.

Jason and Gally exchanged guilty glances, their playful demeanour quickly fading. Brandon and Jack stood awkwardly, realising they had crossed a line.

"We were just messing around..." Brandon mumbled, but his voice trailed off when he saw the look on Newt’s face. As he was second-in-command, no one dared to mess with him, for they knew the consequences.

Newt turned his attention back to you. He could see how panicked you were, how your hands trembled as you clutched the soaking hoodie to your chest, desperately trying to cover the patches of eczema that had started to show through.

"Y/N, look at me," Newt said softly, his anger melting away as he knelt down in front of you, shielding you from everyone else. "It’s okay. I’m here. Just breathe with me alright? In and out."

His voice was steady and calm as he guided you through each breath. "In... and out. Focus on my voice. You’re safe."

Your breath hitched, your chest tight, but you tried to focus on Newt’s voice. His steady, calming presence was like a lifeline pulling you out of the storm.

"They didn’t mean any harm," you whispered, trying to defend the others even though you felt like the world was caving in around you.

Newt shook his head. "That doesn’t matter. They had no right to do this to you."

He reached out, gently pulling you into his arms. His shirt soaked up the water from your hoodie, but he didn’t care. He held you tightly, his touch grounding you, making you feel safe.

"Let’s get you out of here," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. With one last angry glare at the others, Newt helped you stand and led you away from the group.

You felt humiliated, your heart still racing, but as you walked beside Newt, something inside you began to settle. He didn’t judge you. He didn’t push you to explain. He was just there, by your side, where you needed him.

When you reached the Homestead, Newt guided you to a quiet spot, away from prying eyes. He sat you down and crouched beside you, his eyes filled with concern.

"I’m sorry that happened," Newt said softly. "They didn’t know... but that doesn’t excuse it."

You nodded, still feeling the weight of everything. "I just... I didn’t want anyone to see. It’s my eczema. It’s ugly."

Newt frowned, reaching out to gently lift your chin so you’d meet his gaze. "It’s not ugly, Y/N. You’re not ugly. Don’t ever think that."

His words hung in the air, and for the first time in a long time, you felt the smallest bit of comfort. Newt’s eyes were full of sincerity—he wasn’t just saying it to make you feel better; he truly meant it.

"I’m here for you," Newt continued, his voice steady and reassuring. "You don’t have to hide from me, okay? I don’t care about the hoodie or the eczema. I care about you."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from panic or fear. They were from gratitude. Newt had saved you—not just from the others, but from the spiral of self-consciousness you had been trapped in for so long.

"Thank you, Newt," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "For everything."

He smiled, that soft, genuine smile that always made you feel better, and gently wiped away a stray tear from your cheek. "Anytime, love. I’ll always be here for you."

As the sun began to set over the Glade, casting the sky in shades of gold and pink, you sat there with Newt, feeling more at ease than you had in a long time. The weight of the hoodie, the eczema, the self-consciousness—it all seemed a little less heavy with him by your side.

And for the first time, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to hide anymore. Not from Newt, he was your safe place.

[yestrday]

is there ever a soft side to your yandere ayato? are there moments when he treats his darling as more of an actual lover compared to a pet? and is he ever vulnerable with them? :o

did i make him that horrible? i thought the whole 'treat you as a pet' thing was kinda hot. maybe my audience isn't really into that... well, i do understand lol yanderes are meant to love you

hybrid sawshark! ayato isn't one to bow to humans, but he acknowledges the changes you've had on his life. while he does get a kick out of bullying whenever he teaches you, he makes it clear that he likes to pamper you. his competitors are fluffy-tailed dogs and soft-eared mammals. his denticles might not be very pleasing to pet, but he still puts a bit of an effort to make you like him. the others think it's to irk them, especially with the sly smile he sends their way after he successfully woos you over, but thoma knows that it's probably because he's a bit insecure about his lack of... fluffiness.

academy! ayato doesn't put much effort at all. there's a clear power imbalance between the two of you, and he treats you more like a trophy rather than a lover. he showers you with lots and lots of gifts, but as a way to shackle you to him. he does get his soft moments though— laced fingers as you walk through the entertainment district, fond gazes as you focus on your homework, and delicate fingers tucking your hair behind your ear as you fall asleep on said homework. he does get soft, but he never makes it shown to you because he's afraid he might lose the control in this imbalance.

househusband! ayato is a lot more comfortable with you. your marriage isn't arranged or forced; you willingly took him as your husband. so he has a bit more solace and is more willing to open up around you. when none of his yandere tendencies are trigered, you two have a disgustingly normal and domestic life. think: giggling while he twirls you to the music on the tv, hugging you from behind as you cook breakfast, taking you on romantic candlelight dinners because he can, casually flirting with you out of nowhere just so he can see you flustered.

[zeroducks-2]

This is quite random sorry but has Dick ever acknowledge (or as close to it) that a lot of things that Bruce did to him are abusive? (this is for a fic I’m trying to write)

Yes and no!

Dick knows Bruce is an assholes and WILL yell at him to stop being an asshole, or at least he used to. Dick would call him out on his BS and wouldn't let him get away with a lot of things, but this was once upon a time, before they rebooted everything and erased decades of character development. The closest he gets to that post reboot is after Forever Evil - everyone thinks Dick is dead, and Bruce wants people to keep thinking that, hence he forces Dick to join Spiral and become Agent 37.

Dick is, as you can imagine, not thrilled. He yells and fights and Bruce beats the everloving shit out of him in a very upsetting sequence, where Dick is half naked and Bruce is wearing most of his gear while he keeps hitting him to the point of leaving him bleeding on the floor of the Batcave.

Dick begs and tries to appeal to everything he can including the "things can never be the same between us after this", to which Bruce essentially replies that it's a sacrifice he's willing to make. Ha. I say that this is especially upsetting because Dick went through a horribly traumatic experience during the events of Forever Evil, in which among other things he was tortured by Thomas Wayne Jr AKA Owlman, who wanted to turn Dick into his own sidekick after losing his Talon. The way Bruce beats and humiliates Dick is drawn in a way which creates a clear parallel between Thomas and Bruce's actions towards Dick, in a way that suggests they're "not that different after all", but this narratively goes nowhere and I don't get why they fuck they even came up with that. But anyway.

All of this gets forgotten soon enough. Despite his own warnings Dick forgives Bruce after a very short time, pines for home and tries to communicate with Bruce in any way he can because he "misses his dad", which to be honest made my guts churn and my bile rise after Bruce nearly beat him comatose. Essentially the story forgets Bruce did all of that and so does Dick, but for the brief time Dick was allowed to be aware of it and angry about it, he was indeed aware that he was being abused even if he never used the word abuse.

This is the case for lots of stories in which similar instances happen, as I mentioned before especially pre-reboot. Dick does call Bruce out on his bullshit - especially if Bruce is being an abusive asshole to someone else, since Dick is way more prone to defend other people than he is to defend himself, like here

or here

But despite being obviously aware that there are issues in the way Bruce does things, to put it mildly, he never uses the word "abuse" (which is sort of a prohibited word for DC standards, kind of like "rape". They're way more likely to say non consensual than rape because it's a less upsetting word apparently).

There is an instance of this post reboot, and it's during a conversation Dick has with Tim. I believe it happens in the Pride comics of 2022, but I don't have the panels on hand at the moment. Basically Tim asks for advice on how to please Bruce, being the man demanding and prone to bad moods, and Dick flat out replies "I spent a very big part of my life trying to please him, and I left when I realized it was impossible" which to me is so interesting since it's the textbook reaction of a former Golden Child who fell from grace and became a Scapegoat (please note that tumblr's definition of Golden Child is completely arbitrary; golden child doesn't mean "good kid", it means a child who the parent holds to the highest standards, on which there are the biggest expectations and the strongest pressure regarding everything the child does. Sometimes a parent lives vicariously through them and perceives them as an extension of themselves, but not necessarily. If you watched Encanto, Isabella is the Golden Child of the family).

Something similar happens during Nightwing's run from the 90s.

Dick lives in Bludhaven and at this point he's gone essentially no-contact with Bruce. Tim, being the new Golden Child, is trying to reel Dick back into the toxic dynamic because he genuinely thinks it's going to be good for both Dick and Bruce.

I'm pointing this out not to fault Tim in any way, he's just a kid what does he know, but to show you that indeed yes, Dick is aware that he's been abused otherwise he wouldn't have left, he wouldn't be on a no talking basis with his parental figure, and he wouldn't reply to Tim that he spent so much time of his life deluding himself into thinking that Batman actually needed him. Of course this also goes nowhere and their relationship isn't allowed to grow or heal (things are just conveniently forgotten after a while), but as I mentioned, Dick knows what's up.

That being said, I believe it's also worth noting that many many times Bruce abuses the fuck out of Dick and Dick doesn't really acknowledge it, just takes it. Sometimes he doesn't have the spoons to fight back, sometimes he thinks he deserves it, sometimes he just doesn't know how to react because Bruce strikes like an unprovoked viper (this happens especially when Dick was still a kid but already a Titan). A very good example of this is what happens after Jason's death.

Bruce doesn't tell Dick that Jason died. When Alfred offers to let him know, Bruce says "I will handle it", and he doesn't. Then there's Jason's funeral and Bruce doesn't tell Dick about it, again Alfred offers to inform him, Bruce says he will handle it. He doesn't.

Eventually Dick finds out for collateral reasons and has an emotional breakdown in front of the other Titans, which are powerless to help him. For reference, this is how he reacts when he has definitive proof that the boy is undoubtedly gone, if there was any doubt that Dick did care about Jason.

So Dick goes to the grave with Kory but then decided to confront Bruce alone, and Bruce, in the abusive feat of the century, blames Dick for not having showed up to Jason's funeral, despite having refused to 1: tell him about Jason's death AT ALL, and 2: refused TWICE when Alfred very gently suggested to inform Dick.

Dick of course argues that he didn't know anything, and so Bruce reacts by gaslighting him, telling him they he never cared about Jason and in fact he was angry that Bruce adopted Jason and not him. Which is not true, Dick just wanted to know WHY Bruce adopted Jason and hot him. Oh and also punches him in the face when Dick tries to argue that Jason was an untrained kid. Please note that when all of this happens, Dick is hurt and can barely stand on his feet, having one of his legs in a cast.

Cherry on top, Bruce explicitly saying that he never should have had a partner and never will again, essentially "our partnership up to this point meant nothing".

In this instance Dick is too neck-deep in his own self guilt to see that he's been through a sequence of extremely abusive behavior, and never really faults Bruce for that, using the easy-coming rationalization that Bruce was in pain, suffering for Jason's death, couldn't see reason etc etc (quick PSA: someone suffering isn't entitled to abuse and gaslight anyone. And even if we really want to enable Bruce cut Bruce some slack because he was grieving, it doesn't make his behavior any less abusive. Regardless of the reasons why, the way he acts here is very damaging towards Dick who in turn did nothing to deserve it, and is grieving Jason too).

See, the problem with Dick and Bruce is the sysyphean nature of comicbooks. Dick is doomed to be the original Golden Child who falls from grace, becomes the Scapegoat, but ultimately can never be completely free of the clutches of the relationship he has and had with Bruce, for better or worse. And since he can't ever truly get out and can't ever completely be independent, the abuse end up getting downplayed. If Dick never truly gets away from Bruce it's because it's not that bad, isn't it? Nay, it's because Dick cant. He is quite literally not allowed to, same as Bruce is not allowed to truly grow from his mistakes and learn to treat his former partner, sort-of-child and dear friend with the respect and love he actually feels for him, because despite all of this and because this is fiction, Bruce does love Dick more than it can be put into words and would set the world on fire for him. But, alas, he also is doomed to keep treating Dick like shit and never really learn from his mistakes.

So again, the answer to your question is yes and no. Dick is aware of how much of a difficult person Bruce is. He's aware of the domineering aspects of his personality. But he will ultimately brush it off in the name of the good that there is and there was between them, and he will keep answering Batman's call every time, because he's not allowed to ever truly grow apart from him. It doesn't matter how much he gets angry and how much Bruce hurts him, they're indissolubly tied in this dynamic and unless there is a huge shift in the way DC execs handle things, I don't see how this dynamic can change in the foreseeable future. Sadly enough, because I'd really like to see something new.

[cosmic-crybaby]

Break My Heart Again - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Part 5

Summary: After being childhood friends, you and Thomas made a promise one day to get married, but when he returned from France, he came back a completely different man.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending.

1934, soon after Tommy's' battle had ended. Three more Shelby's' dead, and one less evil he had to worry about right now. His second wife, Lizzy Stark, was nowhere to be seen and was never found. Neither was his son, Charles. After the alleged affair with Diana Mosley, she left Tommy behind. As he did with the rest of his family.

So, where was he now?

Ireland. Finding himself knocking at the door of the home he knew she resided in. The sun was barely breaking through the forever gloom of the grey clouds, he shoved his hands in his pockets as he turns around, looking at the green grassy hill, cattle grazing the lawns minding their own.

"Who are you?" The voice came from behind him. Tommy moved his body, eyes snapping down in front of him to see a young girl. Around the age of four or five, standing in the threshold of the doorway. Her head was slightly tilted, as she peered up at him with her big eyes. Tommy tried to find the words, as he was speechless. She looked almost identical to Charles.

"I...I am um..." He began to speak, but footsteps cut him off and made him look up again. The front door was pulled open.

And then she appeared. His last breath got caught in his throat when his eyes fell on her. She looked even more beautiful than the day he saw her. The day she left and the day he found her, all those months later. Seeing her up close again, made him feel like he was frozen. His mind was buzzing with a myriad of questions, apologies, excuses. She wore a house dress, her hair was pulled into a bun, pieces of hair framing her slim face.

"[Name]," Tommy said. His voice made her eyes quickly snap up from the young girl to him. She froze for a moment as she saw who was waiting for her. She never thought she would see THE Thomas Shelby...ever again. Everything else seemed to disappear when she locked eyes with him.

"Mummy...who is this?" The girl pulled on her mothers dress, breaking the silence.

[Name] managed to break her eyes away first to see her daughter, Maeve, looking between the two adults in confusion.

"Darling...this is an old friend...Tommy Shelby,"

Old Friend was an odd way to put it. Knowing they were nowhere near that title, it made Tommy chuckle a bit. But the label would do for now. The young girl nods once and smiled up at the tall man.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Shelby," Maeve spoke before turning to her mother.

"You as well, darling," Tommy managed a small smile. [Name] cleared her throat and kneeled down a bit to talk to Maeve.

"Maeve, can you be a big girl and go check on Cian for me? make sure he's still asleep," She suggested, knowing that she didn't want the children to be around while she talked with Tommy. The girl nods with determination, exiting the area and down the hall. [Name] takes a deep breath and moves away from the door.

"Come in,"

The inside of the Byrne estate was large, clean, and full of light. Nothing compared to what Tommy had at Arrow house, but it somehow had the same comfort. The two sat across from each other at the dining table. Tommy would tell it was well crafted and made from the hands of the Tall brunette man he saw before. Neither Tommy nor [name] knew what to say to each other. It felt like hours had passed as they were locked in each others gaze.

"You found me..." She stated.

"I did...I came looking for you, everywhere...Turing to every connection I had...I had to find you [name], " He answered her, not bothered how desperate he sounded.

Because deep down he knew he was.

"Why now?" She questioned. "After all these years,"

"I wanted to apologize, for everything I had done and put you through...I'm sorry for lying, for the things that I left out, for leaving you...everything. You deserved to know, more than anyone," Thomas answered, his words rang in your ears, holding as much sincerity as they can.

The woman across from him nods, her face didn't change as she stared at him. Her glaze bouncing from his eyes to his lips to the worn hands he placed on the table.

"I had wished you well and vouched to never lay my eyes on you again, yet here you are apologizing to me again...You sure made a name for yourself Tommy," She commented, a small smile forming on her face. She couldn't lie, she was proud of him. "It wasn't uncommon around here, my late husband would speak of it every now and then, I would have to pretend like I didn't know who you were,"

"Late husband?...my condolences,"

[Name] nods once and held her hand up for a moment to stop him from going on further.

"He passed just last year, consumption...Maeve was only four and Cian was barely a year," She informed him, a lump caught in her throat and a gloss in her eyes. A knowing look formed on Tommy's features, he would know all about loss.

Greta, Grace, John, Polly, and Ruby.

"Do you have anyone for yourself now?" She asked, changing her subject.

"I did...remember Lizzie Stark?"

[Name] nods, and refrained from rolling her eyes. After she had exposed Tommy for who he really was, she found out about his secret relationship with his assistant. Leaving her spiraling under the realization that again, he chose another woman that wasn't her.

"We got married and had a daughter, Ruby...she's gone now, also consumption, after everything had happened, Lizzie took Charles and left,"

Silence had fallen between them, but it wasn't daunting...it was comfortable. She didn't know what else to say...what else could she really say? She looked at the dining table, her nail slightly digging into its' surface while Thomas held his gaze on her for a moment, admiring her beauty and how, even now, she still looked as youthful as ever. He ultimately made the decision to break the silence between them.

"I don't want to waste any more of your time...Just know what I am still sorry," He said to her, shifting as he felt the heartbreak hit him and standing from the dining table. She said nothing as she heard his chair scrape against the floor, and his footsteps leading him to the foyer. An inch away from grabbing the door handle before he caught her voice calling for him.

"Tommy wait!"

He quickly turned around. Their hearts pounding as she stood in front of him. She looked like she wanted to spill something to him. Tell him everything that she had held away. Her eyes searched his until he asked a simple: 'what is it?' in a breathy tone. Her lips quivered as she tried to find the words. For once, she was speechless in front of him.

"Maeve...she's not..." [name] started. She took a deep breath and Thomas found himself holding her shaking hands in his. She swallows and nods once as he looks into her eyes. 'Breathe'.

"My husband, Andrew, he didn't know...For Christ sake I tried to keep it from him all these years and after he passed, I feel guilty even now...but, Maeve she's not his...she's yours Tommy," Tears pricked her eyes. Tommy stared with wide eyes. He couldn't question her, the time added up, he saw what her late husband looked like and he saw what her daughter looked like. He could recognize those ice-like eyes anywhere. Licking his dry lips, he sighs heavily.

"I know..." He mumbled. "I could see the Shelby resemblance in her when I saw her...I didn't want to believe it at first...but after looking at her again, I saw it,"

She wanted to call an objection to his words but decided to keep her mouth shut, knowing that the Shelby's liked to keep their pride.

Even if it was an exaggeration.

Silence fell between them once again. Tommy steps closer, grabbing one of [names] hands. His hands were ice hold and hers were warm like the flames that roared in the fireplace.

"I'd like to see you again, [Name]" He told her, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

"There is a lot of catching up that we need to do...," She looked down at their intertwined hands. Thomas reaches for the woman's other hand. His gaze softened as he drew in closer, her lids closed slowly as his cold, cracked lips connected with her soft and plump lips. Her heart ignited, that small flame that slowly gave out when her husband passed suddenly blew up. Except this time, it was a different type of love. This version of Thomas Shelby was...new.

The woman tried to keep calm as the gangster pulled away from the kiss, afraid he wouldn't be able to stop once he got started.

"Very well then," Giddy on the inside as she kept her smile small.

"I'll see you tomorrow," He told her calmly, one hand rubbing up and down her arm before he took his leave.

The days and weeks to come, Tommy got along well with Maeve. The more the two got along, the more [Name] saw the resemblance. Cian was more attached to his mother by the hip, usually shadowing her until he was familiar enough with Thomas's presence. With the two in bed together one night, [Name] lifts her head as she felt Thomas digging through his nightstand.

"What are you doing?" She asked curiously as she tried to look in the drawer as well. Thomas held the object in his hand, closing his hand into a fist as he laid back down and looked at his beautiful girl.

"I found this, a few months ago...before I came to see you," He started. "Everything else was destroyed, but I kept this because I knew I would find you again one day, and give it to you..."

"Come on, Tommy what is it?" She asked, sitting up on her knees, trying to reach for his hand. He pulled his hand away and gave her a look. 'Wait' It said.

"No matter what happened between us, I knew I would come back to you, even after all these years...all of this pain...it has always been you...I'm so sorry it took me all this time to realize it," He told her. He grabbed her hand with his free hand and slipped the gold ring on her finger. It still fight like a glove, maybe even more-so now. In awe, she watched as he slipped the ring on her finger. It was cold on her warm skin, causing goosebumps to form on her arms.

"Thomas...?" She gasped. Looking at him, then at the ring, then at him again as her eyes were wide, tears forming in her eyes.

"[Name]…will you do me the honor of marrying me?" He asked. It made her think back to their childhood and that promise they made for each other.

"Oh Thomas...yes," She nods happily. Not hesitating to jump into his arms and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.

"I've loved you from the start,"

---

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[h3artach3]

TLDR AT THE END!

Ignoring how Vivizepop is SUCH a bad person, racism, homophobia, transphobia and all that. I want to talk about how much I dislike the entirety of helluva boss/hazbin hotel.

This is less about the writing of the shows, it is obivous that its just pure ass. There's nothing good about how the writing is. The animation is mid etc etc. I want to go into the characters themselves. Specifically Mammon.

My BIGGEST issue with Mammon is why is he GREEN. I get creative freedom but it makes no sense to my brain. Especially since he's supposed to represent Greed. The sin that is mostly associated with gold, and just money in general. And YELLOW. Yellow.

Yellow has always been Greed's color. Even far back into the 6th century A.D. one of the Popes, Pope Gregory the Great(not really great in my opinion but nevertheless), stated the base work of the sins. Quote ;

Greed (treachery, covetousness) — A strong desire to gain, especially in money or power. Disloyalty, deliberate betrayal, or treason, especially for personal gain or when compensated. Scavenging and hoarding of materials or objects. Theft and robbery by violence. Simony is the evolution of avarice because it fills you with the urge to make money by selling things within the confines of the church. This sin is abhorred by the Catholic Church and is seen as a sin of malice; Dante included this sin in the first poem of the Divine Comedy (the Inferno). Simony can be viewed as betrayal. Thomas Aquinas on greed: “it is a sin against God, just as all mortal sins, in as much as man condemns things eternal for the sake of temporal things.” Greed is represented by the frog and the color yellow. faust.com, seven deadly sins.

Even without Pope Gregory's input, it is commonly accepted within the Christian community/mythology that the colors of the sins are as follows ;

Pride ; Violet - Purple

Lust ; Blue

Greed ; Yellow

Sloth ; Light Blue

Gluttony ; Orange

Envy ; Green

Wrath ; Red.

It makes absolutely no sense for Mammon to be green.

"But what if she used a different classification for the sins?" You may ask.

Mammon would STILL be Yellow. Plus it is stated in Helluva Boss/implied that Mammon is Greed. (not only that but there is no classifaction of the sins where Mammon is NOT Greed so that throws that out of the window).

In both The Lanterne Of Light and Binsfeld Classifactions of the Sins nowhere Mammon is anything OTHER than Greed. It is also clear that she is using the Binsfeld Classifications since Beezlebub is Gluttony. So that also disproves the different classification theory.

Also there's way more to Greed than just MONEY MONEY MONEY. Greed is being wealthy in anything not just cold hard cash. Any material object.

Greed is defined as the immoderate love or desire for riches and earthly possessions. A person can also be greedy for fame, attention, power, or anything else that feeds one’s selfishness. As a deadly sin, greed is believed to spur other sins and further immoral behavior. The Britannica, Greed.

Using strictly the Money aspect (I acknowledge I might be wrong for this but from what I can find, that is his entire character other than being a misogynist), he is such a bland and boring character. Vivzie could've done so much more with his character, its honestly disappointing with how he is.

You can say he also has fame as one of his Greedy traits, but it's so surface level to the point where it is steamrolled by him wanting money.

BEEZLEBUB!

EDIT ; Due to some points that were brought up in the notes of this post, I understand where Vivzie was coming from with the Bee theming and Honey mentioning. That's actually interesting.

Also if Vivzie is using the Biblical meaning of Gluttony, Beezlebub's character would make more sense. I just wish that there was more to the character and she went more into it. Right now(and most likely in the future), Beezlebub seems like still a very bland character. There's little to no personality other than the drugs, partying and binge-eating (side note ; this might be me looking too much into things but since Vivziepop is well known to be extremely fatphobic, the ability to manipulate her body to get rid of the weight she might gain from eating, just gives me off vibes. this is mostly just my opinion so take it with a grain of salt.)

THIS STILL DOESN'T MEAN I ENJOY HOW SHE IS CHARACTERISED ! I still believe there could've been way more to her than the base form of gluttony. Though I acknowledge that Vivzie could be sticking to the Biblical version of Gluttony.

END OF EDIT.

She makes no sense whatsoever to me. It's like Vivzie just saw the BEE in her name and just ran with it without even looking into her. None of her ANYTHING even represents Gluttony. Other than binge-eating, which seems to be the only thing that actually represents Gluttony. (though Gluttony is WAY MORE than just "oh food and eating alot.") Hell, she seems more like PRIDE than anything else. Her not liking when people insult her, having a very high view of herself. Even with the aspects of her that do scream Gluttony, its such a Base Interpretation of Gluttony. Gluttony is indugunce of ANYTHING. Not just drugs, food, drinking, etc. The way she is written just screams "I searched Gluttony on google and used the first results." There's no depth into her Sin whatsoever. Side note ; Her not liking when her guests indugle for self destructive reasons is SUCH a contridiction to Gluttony. Self Destructive induglence is what Gluttony is. That is what the sin IS. Again this makes no sense to me at all.

Her design is also like a unicorn threw up on her in all the wrong ways but that's not what I'm here to talk about.

ASMODEUS! Asmodeus is from my opinion the more well-written of the sins. Then again Lust is such an easy sin to write. I don't have much to say about this guy since Lust is a such a well known and obvious sin. I really wish I could say more about this guy but I truly can't. His character is almost strictly sex related. (hey! maybe the reason he's seemingly more well-written than the others is that the whole show is pretty much sex jokes.)

LUCIFER!

I don't know much about this guy so I'm not going to say anything but once I learn more I'll add onto this post with how I feel about him.

TLDR ; I don't like how the Sins are interpreted in the show due to them being such a surface level version of the Sins, and they could've done much more with them. Maybe this'll change in the future but I doubt it.

Also if I got anything wrong do tell, I'd like to correct myself on things if I am wrong. Provide proof if possible.

[peakyswritings]

Reb!! First i want to thank you for reading the last chapters of my thg! series i read your comments and 🥺❤️. Promise to reply them as soon as I can.

Then if your requests are still open, would you write a Tommy x Nina using this prompt:

"i’m only here for the dog cat"

Maybe it suits them 🤭❤️.

Thanks in advance! And of course there's no pressure at all!!

A/N: thank you so much for sending this, Flor!🤍 and don’t worry about the replies, I’m much behind with them myself! I made a little AU for this one, and I had so much fun writing this! (I also got a bit carried away and became longer than intended lmao)

Nina Ferrante is the OC from my Tommy Shelby x OC series Heart, Body and Soul. This is not set in the series universe, so even if you haven’t read the series, you can read this one.

Summary: the Ferrante family temporarily moves from Sicily to Birmingham to conduct business with Tommy Shelby. However, soon he finds himself stuck with something that doesn’t belong to him.

Warnings: mentions of violence/killing, English is not my first language, no proofreading.

Word count: 1.2k

Send me a prompt and I’ll write something short☀️

Nina regretted not wearing a coat the moment she stepped out the Midland Hotel. The cold hair cut through her clothes, pricking her skin like a thousand tiny needles, setting deep into her bones. It would take more than a week to get used to that kind of weather, or to the stench of coal and iron that permeated the air. Small Heath was unlike the Sicilian village she had grown up in, in many different ways. But as she hurried past the grey buildings, and the crowded houses, and the factories, she found herself unable to pay much attention to it, or to the mud sticking to her shoes. She couldn’t even pay attention to the glances the men around her shot at her. Winston was her only concern.

She had been looking for him in her hotel room for over an hour. Above the closet, under the bed, even in the unlit fireplace, but he was nowhere to be found. She was on the verge of a mental breakdown when the phone rang and a familiar voice on the other side informed her that a certain black cat had sneaked into his office. Nina shouldn’t have been surprised, though. During her family’s business meetings with Mr Thomas Shelby at the hotel, Winston had seemed to manifest a curiosity - maybe even a liking - towards the gangster.

When she walked past the doors of the Shelby Company Limited, a big man with a grim expression stopped in front of her. He cleared his throat, looking down at her. “Who are you?”

“I’m here to see Mr Shelby,” she ignored his question, going straight to the point. She didn’t have the time nor the will for the formalities, and she didn’t like the way the brute was clearly trying to intimidate her.

“What do you want with Mr Shelby?”

“He has something mine.”

The man squinted his eyes in confusion, probably wondering what Tommy Shelby could ever take from a girl like her. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it right away, as if in the middle of some kind of realisation. Nina could almost see his brain cells working to put the pieces together.

“You’re one of those wops,” he noted, and the hint of disgust in his voice was enough to send a wave of irritation through her. Before she had the chance to say something, he reached over to her. “I have to search you, miss.”

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself,” she spat, taking a step back. She glared at him, silently daring him to try and put his hands on her again. Search her. Like Hell.

The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the protocol, miss.”

“You can stick your protocol up yo-”

“The lady’s fine, Scudboat.” A deep voice interrupted her mid-sentence. Thomas Shelby was standing in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, and Nina wondered how it was possible that none of them had heard him arrive. “Let her pass.”

“Yes, sir.” With a single nod, Scudboat moved out of the way, finally allowing her to walk further into the room. “Good luck with this one,” he muttered under his breath as he took his place by the doors again.

A heavy silence fell into the room. Shelby’s icy stare was studying her as he had studied her father and brothers during their meetings, and she would’ve lied if he had said that the thing didn’t make her at least a bit uneasy. He carried himself as if he held all the cards, and everyone else was just another pawn in his game. Even when it wasn’t him who had the upper hand. However, in this case, he did have the upper hand. Maybe going into his territory all alone hadn’t been her best idea. But it was too late to panic, and she still had her knife, safely hidden in her pocket.

Behind his placid expression, Tommy was somewhat surprised to see Vincenzo Ferrante’s daughter herself. He had expected her to send her father, or her brothers. Instead, she had walked through the streets of Small Heath on her own, and entered the doors of his company as if she were untouchable. He didn’t know whether to define her stupid or brave for that. Reckless, for sure. Rather impressed, he granted himself a moment to observe her. Dark strands of hair had escaped her long braid, and her nose and cheeks had a tinge of red due to the cold. She hadn’t even bothered wearing a coat. She wasn’t exactly in the position to make threats, and yet she had held her own with one of his scariest men. She was quite something. The young woman wavered for an instant, then she straightened her back and raised her chin.

“I’d like my cat back.”

Tommy’s eyes stared deep into Nina’s, and she held his gaze with fiery determination. Noting she wouldn’t look away first, he simply turned around, motioning for her to follow him. After a moment of hesitation, she did as he said.

It took Nina a few seconds to adjust to the dim light that filtered through the shutters of Shelby’s office. It was fairly big, furnished in dark wooden furniture, and it smelled like cigarettes, whiskey, and masculine cologne. His desk was scattered with papers and photographs, and a lit cigarette was still burning in an ashtray.

“There he is,” Tommy broke the silence, pointing to the dark fur ball curled up on one of the chairs.

Nina exhaled a sigh of relief, her heart finally finding some peace now that she knew for sure that her cat was safe. He was used to the peace of the Sicilian countryside, after all, and she wasn’t sure he’d survive the danger of the city. Winston raised his little head to look at her, but didn’t move from his comfortable spot. Traitor. He even meowed in protest when she went to grab him.

“Shut up,” she hissed.

Tommy Shelby, for his part, was looking at the scene with the shadow of a grin on his face. She was entertaining, that was sure. While she battled with the beast, he poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Want something to drink?”

“I’m only here for the cat.”

“Right,” he nodded, watching as she finally managed to pick up the animal. She snorted, pushing a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear.

With Winston tucked under her arm, Nina raised her gaze on Thomas. She couldn’t just go away without saying anything, right? He could’ve thrown the animal in the streets and leave him to his fate, after all. As if sensing she wanted to tell him something, Tommy patiently waited, but that only made the task of searching for something appropriate to say more difficult.

“Thank you.”

That was all. Nice and simple. Then she turned around and made her way towards the exit. But just as she was about to leave, a doubt arose in Nina’s mind, one she couldn’t help but voice. She stopped in her tracks, turning to look at him again. “How did you know what room I’m staying in anyway?”

“Ah,” Tommy scoffed, his lips curving in a smirk. “I own this city, sweetheart.”

“Scudboat,” Tommy called once Nina was out on the streets, catching the man’s attention. “Keep an eye on the girl, make sure she gets to the hotel safe. Can’t trust Birmingham.”

“Yes, sir,” the Blinder nodded, immediately going to obey the order.

“Oi,” Tommy called again, making him turn around. “Keep low and keep your distance, cause if she won’t kill you, her family will,” he warned him. “And you wouldn’t like the Italian way.”

Heart, Body and Soul taglist

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

General tag list:

@iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys

@lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989

@call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat

@red-riding-wood @optimisticsandwichgladiator

Tommy Shelby taglist:

@50svibes