#approaching siobhan

[hawleywilby]

[pcktknife]

emily axfords characters are so fucking....oooooooo

[kayla-the-rambling-writer]

My recent-ish and enduring hyper-fixation is now every campaign of Dimension 20 apparently.

[thatanimewriter]

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘 - 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘦.

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❝ 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. ❞ ── 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘹 𝘨𝘯. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

you used to be a bodyguard for sunday and robin, but after a certain accident involving robin, you've been stripped of your job to work for siobhan. you've never seen sunday or robin since until this year's charmony festival.

── 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

dreamflux reef was a stark contrast to the vibrant and bustling golden hour. instead of incessant chatter and music or advertisements competing for attention, a serene hush befell the rooftops and alleyways.

despite the lack of action in the dimly lit town, if one could even call it that, sunday's heart raced as if he'd been chased through penacony. a dull ache ebbed in his torso, and he frantically glanced downwards for what he thought might be a gaping hole in his body. the wings furled around his body twitched uncomfortably.

tentatively, he walked through the alleyway he had been transported to and awkwardly nodded in acknowledgement to those he made accidental eye contact with. his lips pressed into a thin line and his hands shook lightly when he broke into a clearing built of rooftops.

his gaze hardened as he spotted gallagher, marching towards him to gain clarity.

a gentle smile tugged at your lips as you conversed with robin. you hadn't seen her for so long, but you never forgot her melodic voice when penacony plastered her on every surface possible. even little drink decorations in dreamjolt hostelry.

"has this been where you've hidden all these years?" robin wondered, glancing around the reef with an unexpected element of awe. "it's so different to the rest of penacony."

you chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of your neck. "ah... yeah, i guess so." robin looked at you curiously, and you sighed. curse her for her cute looks and kind heart. "i've always lived here. you know i was always more of a servant to the family than anything else."

she hummed disappointedly. "have you ever spoken with my brother since you were let go? i haven't seen you around."

your eyes narrowed at the mention of sunday. "he's the one who let me go, so no. at least, not until you went missing. he's been pestering me daily otherwise."

"he let you go?"

"never mind that. i'm sure he'll be glad to see you when he arrives. you're very blessed to have someone who cares so much for you," you said, giving robin a gentle but genuine smile.

"yes, i'm very lucky to have him by my side," she responded, unable to repress her own smile. "i'm worried about him though..."

"what's he done this time?"

robin sighs as she reflects on her past interactions with sunday before she was 'killed'. "it just seems like there's a lot on his mind."

you nodded slowly, but didn't give your input. you didn't know who he was between firing you and robin's disappearance. you resisted the urge to roll your eyes when you heard familiar footsteps approaching. if one thing hadn't changed since childhood, it was sunday's gait.

"robin!" he called, hair slightly disheveled and chest heaving.

her angelic face lit up instantly. "brother!"

you gave a tight-lipped smile and backed into the shadows as the siblings ran to meet each other in a warm embrace. a bitter chill crawled underneath your skin as you subconsciously picked at your nails. you waved lazily when robin caught your eyes for a moment before turning your back on your childhood friends. you yawned as you slowly drifted through the streets to your front door.

the oak siblings watched your figure gradually disappear into the blue haze that filled dreamflux reef, and sunday sighed. he transported himself back in time to when he broke the news that you would be fired from being a bodyguard. similarly, you turned away from him and the last remaining memory of you was your back until he begrudgingly reunited with you.

"brother, you love them, don't you?" she asked delicately, noting the way his shoulders tensed and his breath hitched in his throat.

"perhaps i was." he closed his eyes, concealing the conflict that thrashed in his golden irises.

"was?"

sunday's jaw clenched and he tucked an arm behind him, disguising his fist behind a wall of normalcy. "they failed to keep you from harm, and some of my attraction may have been due to their capabilities, but you take priority over any fickle romances of our youth."

robin's eyes softened at his rare confession. "we're still in our youth," she joked, hoping sunday's discomfort would ease.

"i need you to be safe, i don't want to take any other chances," he concluded, resisting the urge to reach out and caress her blue hair.

"you should follow them," she suggested.

"why?" his feathers ruffled in retaliation. "there is nothing to gain from chasing after the past."

robin sighed at his stubbornness, wings deflating slightly. "you have not been told the truth about my attack," she admitted shakily. "you should hear the full story, if not to confirm your beliefs."

sunday stared at her in silence, debating whether or not to follow through with her wishes. his arm fell from behind his back to rest by his side, and his fist relaxed. "only because you asked."

a rap at your front door had you carelessly tossing a tea towel onto the counter and a frustrated groan tore from your throat. as you spied an awfully familiar figure through the window, you swung the door open and slammed it behind you, causing sunday's wings to twitch with surprise.

you frowned as you leaned against your door, arms crossed over your chest. "i thought we were done," you said, tapping your foot impatiently.

"i wouldn't be here if robin didn't tell me to be here," he relented. you hummed in response, scouring his face for any sign of dishonesty.

"fine." you opened the door once more and obnoxiously gestured for him to come inside as if you were a personal butler. sunday scoffed, but allowed himself inside your humble abode.

his wings tightened around his torso as your scent invaded his nostrils and embraced his figure gently. his eyes raked over some of the worn out furniture and dim lighting. unlike his quarters, it felt as if someone lived in the space. it was a small apartment, everything shared a room and only makeshift dividers created designated zones.

sunday found himself frozen in your space. what he had always believed to be a grand environment you'd surrounded yourself with had been torn to shreds at his feet as reality burned into his retinas. an unfamiliar twinge of guilt pulled at his heart as he realised, even as a child, he hadn't thought about your life away from him a single time. you were always there until you weren't.

"out with it then," you demanded, seating yourself on your couch.

"what happened that day? when robin was shot."

a silence hung in the air and your eyes widened slightly at his sudden curiosity. you shuffled in your seat and arched an eyebrow.

"you only want to know what happened now?" you pressed.

"robin said i wasn't told the full truth," sunday mumbled, finding himself awkwardly standing by the doorway. his heart pounded at the power you had over him in that moment, and his palms were coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

you pushed the blanket-clad ottoman towards him with your foot. "sit. i know this is gonna be a long conversation."

"thank you..." he mumbled, stiffly taking a seat and folding his hands on top of his lap.

"tell me what you've been told. i can fill in the gaps," you offered, leaning back into the couch.

sunday hesitated slightly. "i was only told that robin was shot in the neck and was admitted to hospital."

you bit your lip and heaved a deep breath. you liked everything in your home — maybe not sunday — and didn't want to ruin the homey aura you'd created.

"and who told you this story?" your tone pierced his ears and sent a wave of adrenaline through his veins as if you were a predator who had set their eyes on its prey.

"gopher wood," sunday responded.

you laughed dryly. "yeah, of course he omits the bit where i died twice in the same hospital robin was kept."

sunday's brain short-circuited at your comment and temporarily, he couldn't hear anything but his erratic heartbeat pounding away in his eardrums. "you what...?" he mumbled weakly.

"i'll get the file for you if you don't believe me," you added, swinging yourself off the couch to dig through a cabinet. "it was on the news, like, everywhere though. not sure how gopher managed to keep it from you, but he always did hate me. probably worried i would break you free of his control," you rambled casually.

the halovian's stomach churned uncomfortably and his throat constricted as you handed him the case. "i..." his voice died in his throat as his hands gently pried open the file as if it would crumble to dust beneath his fingers and bury itself into your rug.

he exhaled shakily as he scanned the text carefully.

shot several times...

knife wounds on the back and arms...

flatlined at 2:31 am...

resuscitated at 2:35 am...

flatlined again at 3:17 am...

sunday licked his lips nervously as he removed some of the case photos from the sleeve. terror constricted around his neck as his eyes widened seeing your once delicate skin bathed in blood and torn apart mercilessly. his mind overlayed the images with your younger self, and he found himself needing to regurgitate his lunch.

you pat his back as he hung over your kitchen sink, breath stuttering irregularly as reality crashed over his head and the shards of gopher's lies dug into his skin.

"come on, lay down," you mumbled, pulling him over to your bed. "gonna take your shoes off, 'kay?"

you weren't entirely sure why you were somewhat pampering him in his episode of shock, disbelief and probably trauma. as you gently pushed him to rest on his back, you noted his conflicted expression when he looked at you.

"i'm gonna go pick something up to make dinner, stay here," you sighed, pulling the covers over him. "won't be long."

his hand gripped your wrist as you pulled away. "don't go," he pleaded. "i'm scared of what i'll do when i'm alone..."

your face softened at his vulnerability. "alright..."

a tense silence filled your home before he eventually sat upright, though he wanted to burrow himself into your soft comforter and nest into your scent.

"can i see?" he whispered. you furrowed your brows at his question. "the scars, i mean."

you opened your mouth to protest, but turned around and removed your shirt, fiddling with it in your lap as you awaited his reaction. tenderly, sunday's gloved fingers ghosted over the scar tissue that decorated your back, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. when his touch ceased, you pulled your shirt back on, awkwardly maneuvering to face him once again.

"i'm sorry. for not learning of the truth sooner," he said, staring into your eyes.

you broke contact first, glancing at your bedside table. "'s not your fault, i guess."

"i'm glad you're no longer a bodyguard, though," he admitted sheepishly.

"what?"

"i don't want you to end up like that ever again." sunday's larger wings tightened around his waist.

you paused at his concern and chuckled awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood. "where's this coming from? you're supposed to hate my guts, i'm kinda scared right now."

"i was wrong for that. i realise that now," he began, debating taking your hand in his. "i don't know... seeing you like that made me think of when we were kids, before you were forced into the bodyguard position."

"well-"

"knowing i lost you twice and i was there with robin makes me scared. maybe not me, but my younger self?" he gave a half-assed smile at his own confusion. "losing you was my worst nightmare when we were kids. i wanted us to be together forever, but i don't recognise you anymore."

you sighed and reached out to ruffle his hair. "people change. even without what happened to robin and i. that's just life." sunday sat in silence at your statement and you leaned forward to tug at his cheeks to pull a smile from him.

"what are you doing?" he asked, words obscured slightly due to your meddling.

you released him from your hold and climbed off your bed. "come on, i need to get groceries for dinner tonight, and robin's gonna come looking for you soon."

reluctantly, he swung his legs over the side and tugged his shoes on again. as you led him out the door, his focus lingered on your bed, memorising the warmth and your fragrance that slept alongside you.

"i guess i'll see you around, then..." you said, scuffing your shoe along the concrete. another spike of discomfort pinged at sunday's chest at the idea of you being stabbed by a monster each time you wanted to return home. the worry grew tenfold as he was reminded of the truth to robin's accident.

without thinking, he pulled you in for a hug, relishing in your presence in his arms. he had been starved of this for years, and only until this moment did he realise how much he missed you.

your lips parted slightly at his sudden embrace, and your vision misted over. slowly, you lifted your arms to return the hug, allowing yourself to relax into his hold. a tear rolled down your face and a hand came to wipe it from your face.

"i missed this..." you whispered hoarsely.

"me too."

TAGLIST: (if your name is in bold, i can't tag you in the post-)

@galagarts @junyueyin @i-am-tiredd @caeruslumiere @abyssmal-skies @jellofishuu @axerrri @the-cottage-dragon @qwnelisa @velovicy @sweetistic @zuoran03 @jar-03 @ukiyo-ikigai @immahuman @tamikahoshiko @b1loop @queenothegeeks @shadowypeachsweets @zoriaisasimp

[rindough]

thinking ab boothill being seduced by someone working with the ipc so they can capture him... take the money and run by tamer... :3 - 💫

cw. gn! reader, fluff mixed w/ angst, strangers to fwb to lovers- then to enemies >:(, implication of suggestive themes

wc. 3,130

notes. STAR ANON IS HERE AGAIN :DDDD and wow this song, i LOVE IT, plus i think it rllyyy goes with the trope u gave. it gives the whole idea some sexy mysterious touch to it UGH but u know what makes it hit in the feels more worst? for this trope to take the "i shouldnt be doing this, but i must" typa route 😈😈 i actually edited the whole draft over the past few days, so i hope it's... understandable??? but oh man i rlly got carried away with this 🫨🫨 so have a seat star anon, get comfy n get something nice to drink and i hope u enjoy this AAAAAAAAAA

This song really, really goes well with the trope- so mysterious, much alluring so that Boothill does not pry his eyes away from your back as he approaches. His thoughts run on how many glasses would it take for him tonight to drown the tiredness that's slowly creeping up to him.

All the running, all the shooting. Boothill definitely needs some touch up here and there later but it's all worth it. His thirst tonight could never beat the thirst for revenge he has for the IPCs, especially for that shitbag named Oswaldo.

Through the waves of people and memos, he observes as he walks. The way Siobhan smiles at you, the way the bar's lighting illuminate your features, how you're dressed, it all suits you, he thinks.

Who is this all too unfamiliar person in his all too familiar bar?

"Usual?" Siobhan asks from the other end of the counter, eyes fixated on the syrup she's pouring into the cup.

"Usual, two big glasses."

As she begins to make your drinks, he finally plops down and takes in the stranger beside him, prompting you to turn to him as well.

It all suits that hard wall he's come to face when you meet eye to eye.

"Why do ya got a wall up like that?" Oh Aeons, it took a while for him to process what he had blurted out. Yet, seeing your eyes widened like that, it intrigues him.

You had felt the way this man has pierced holes through the back of your skull. Even until now does it sting, it burns to be under his gaze like that. Dangerous, yet so tempting.

You study him.

From the boots on his feet to the awfully tight pants he's wearing, there was no denying that those iconic target in his pupils had took your breath away.

He was more attractive in real life than the pictures you've seen in your office and reports.

"Huh, cat got your tongue I supposed..." He pouts and turns to Siobhan, who's just finishing making your drinks.

Finally you spoke, "Where are your manners, mister?"

With how your words slid past your lips in a sly, hushed tone, it pulls him in. Scoffing, he turns to face you again. "Asking me why I got a wall up high instead of my name?"

He rolls his eyes, getting a bit more annoyed since the fact you've taken his usual seat. "Says the one eyein' me down like no one's business. Care to explain yerself?"

What a hypocrite, it was his turn to eye you down now. Going from the crown of your head to the the curves of your shoulders, he comes back to face the color of your pupils and the shape of your nose. Your lips.

He thinks he could spend all his free time looking at you.

"You two know each other?"

Two heads now turn to the bartender, the question lingers in the air but she quickly cuts it off, "Anyways, enjoy your drinks, Gallagher's not here so I can't stay and chat all the time."

Watching as the lady slides off to her next customer, your eyes now fall back to target pupils that have already rested on yours. A smile creeping on your lips at the feel of your knees touching each other, now that you're both facing each other.

"Name?"

"Y/n."

"Y/n... very fitting for a person like you." He coos, smiling as he swirls the malt in his glass. Excitement boiling in him at the shy curl adorning your face. "Boothill."

There begins your interaction with the wanted man. He's a regular in here, yet from your studies there had been some days where the man in question does not come to the bar. However, the days you've picked out last week to visit Siobhan had became fruitful. Knees pointed to one another as you both engage in deep talks and quiet, flirtatious banter. Unsure when he'll see you again, Boothill offers you two days of each week for a rendezvous.

As selfish and attention seeking it may sound, he finds solace in your company, wanting nothing more than to bask under the light of your attention each night you two meet.

Hence, it's now the third week that you're here to visit him. It's a new routine you've been looking forward to in comparison to your work and other things in life. Now you're both here, knees once again touching, smiles exchanged while throwing in some flirtatious comments from time to time. But...

You have to push further. You have to lure the man in further. Partially due to your need to push the progress forward, and also to your dying urge to know him better, you asked:

"Do you feel anything, Boothill?"

He hums, his first drink already downed, leaving his hands to rest on the cool counter by your side. Through his side bangs, he blinks, having caught off guard by the question you've laid out to him. Yet, all he could do was reminisce that time whilst staring at himself through the reflection of the glass in his hands.

Boothill.

What has he come to?

Having put himself on the surgical table back then just to feel alive. Not an ounce of determination left him when he forced the request onto the poor doctor. But regret? Perhaps he did, he regretted back then knowing after the procedure he could not feel anything but pure weight.

"I don't feel anything, I suppose..."

Perhaps he had too much tonight now that he's running high on energy and feeling so many things, or was it the room that's getting more crowded by the second tonight and how vulnerable and alone he feels under your soft gaze?

"I don't exactly feel anything, more like can't feel much."

But what could he do, he drifts away from the glass and turns to you. It's better to look forward to things in his current state than to dwell on the past. It's something he tells himself from time to time, right now being one of them.

"I did it to maself," he puts up a hand between you, a playful look on his face. "But see? I do many cooler things now, this hand of mine's can do and has done many things."

The light weight of your fingers on the palm of his hand brings him to hitch his breath. He can't feel it yet he could tell despite being partially human, you still took into account how sensitive the topic was and to treat his hand like glass. The tension around you grows thick, air inside the bar getting hotter. He no longer feels timid and vulnerable, but more like he's determined to put a brave front for you to see and for you to seek comfort in. Your delicate dance on his metallic limp allows him to soften his gaze, but turns dark after hearing the words that leave your lips.

"What else can it do?"

Push.

"You do not what to know, angel."

"Oh, don't I?" Your gaze falls to how your hands lined up to one another, laid on the countertop. Even the cool countertop couldn't beat the heat that spread along the veins of your arm.

Push.

"What if I want to?"

"Fudgin' hell, ya sure don't give up eh?" He slowly sighs out the air he didn't know he's kept in, the smell of malt waves over your lips. He stood dangerously close, face daringly inching closer as if he was trying to tempt you, to scare you.

Yet, you know what he wants to do, and to be fair you wanted it too. It's hard to keep yourself in check when all you see, all you need- you want- is him. Maybe, you can let yourself go in this one. This one time.

There wasn't any time limit into how long you should capture him but definitely it should be done as soon as possible. That laughter of his that booms just loud enough for you to hear, that grip he indulges when you tug him out of the bar right then and there, and that praise and touch he leaves by the end of each coming rendezvous leaves you falling deeper into Aeon knows whatever this hole is.

Boothill knows he can't feel anything, but he does know that whatever's going on during your rendezvous is addicting. Not in the sense that he could drown himself in pleasure every week but he finds himself turning into someone he doesn't really know, or maybe someone he's lost a long time ago.

The cyborg himself knows he's different.

With a different body unlike his previous one, he could charge himself up to sleep, or be like a normal person and sleep in a bed. He could run on days without sleep and still be busting the IPC's asses and Aeon knows whatever stupid plan he has to ruin someone's day. Malt juice is now his go to for some sleep top-up and quick boost of adrenaline... but he realizes this later that it's unhealthy.

However, ever since this began he finds everyday to be less... taxing. To be less dull, less redundant, and he looks forward to it. Meeting you, catching up with you, ending the night with you, this whole thing is basically like a reward system for him. But because he knows this new routine is starting to change him for the better, he's happier. He's more pumped, getting more sleep, even he begins to try to be a little bit more careful during his fights or shenanigans.

And as the cyborg finds change to be an exciting challenge, he indeed loves it when it benefits both sides. He finds comfort in the way you turn in your sleep to curl into him, how despite you had to rush and leave for the morning you still find time to brush your finger along the scar by his eye. He finds solace in the words you speak and the secrets you shared amongst yourselves.

And tonight, there laid you in between the sheets in the all too familiar bedroom.

You study him.

The way the metallic surface rises and falls in rhythm to his breathing, his mouth slightly agape and head tilted aside in his sleep. How he without fail folds whichever leg in that's equivalent to the side of bed he's sleeping on.

Today, tonight, this time, you do not trace his chest. You mustn't, no matter how strong the urge was especially tonight. Silently cursing at how this had developed into a habit, you slip out of the sheets and into your pants and top.

Quietly into the night you ventured, feet in sync to your quick beating heart with fingers already dialing the familiar digits on your screen.

"Hey."

This mission was a curse. Meeting Boothill is a curse. Being with the IPC is starting to become a curse because this right here? It's self sabotage, but you know deep inside you can no longer keep up the facade.

"Two days from now, 20th system hour at Golden Hour's Dazzle Motel. Got it?"

The first day since the call was less painful, guilt was slowly creeping up to you at the back of your mind but it was bearable. It was easy to stay distracted thanks to Boothill's banter and finally (to the man's luck) trying out his favorite malt drink.

Day two though, was the beginning of your torture. Thoughts flood your mind and focus; it was silent tonight. The cyborg doesn't speak either, simply thinking it's one of those moments where you both fall into deep silence, listening to the crowd and enjoying in each other's presences. So, he finds comfort in the silence and never questions it. But he however questions your choice of seating today, leaving his old seat for him to sit as you sit in his 'new' seat.

But the silence tonight that lingers in the air leaves your heart to ache, it will be hard to end tonight. Especially noting the way his eyes glimmer and shark teeth beaming wide when you chug his usual down like a champ to drown your guilt. But he doesn't know that. He doesn't have to know that.

"Wasn't expectin' to see ya today, Y/n." He tries not let out a laugh, but fails when his amusement finally takes over. Peering through the rim of the tall glass, you smiled at him while swallowing the last bit of malt juice.

"I guess seeing you has become my favorite routine, wouldn't you agree cowboy?"

"Can't say that I disagree there-"

"And Boothill, maybe I want to discover more things about you, inside out." You confessed swiftly, turning back to face the glass in your hold, word vomiting without a care if he's able to catch up to what you're saying.

Eyes widened with a gasp flying out of his lips, your smile widens.

Jackpot.

But oh the pain does not only accompanies your cheeks but also grows in that tear in your heart.

Perhaps you could make it count, now that damage was done.

With gaze so intense he watches the way you lean back slightly, eyes traveling up and down his figure but it's different this time. The weight in your gaze holds such sincerity and fondness, Aeons! He could feel his lips wobbling in happiness.

Was this a move? Is this how you finally make the move on him?

"So, what do you say?" The pair of twinkling eyes he adores comes back to meet with his, the skunk-haired man could only blink, trying to process it all deeply.

He wonders how long has it been since you've been 'seeing' each other... A month? Two? Your meetups for sure have occurred every week.

"No?"

He snaps out of it, your face now turned towards the wall of soda and syrup bottles opposite the counter you both shared. "Well, too bad on my-"

"Y/n..."

You froze, cold fingers slip through strands of your hair and brush along the side of your cheek. Slowly you turned towards him, feeling his thumb rub the skin near your ear, his other fingers resting by your nape. He's got you trapped now, his body hovering slightly over your seated figure.

From his looks alone do you curse a million times again to yourself. From the soft plush and taste of his lips do you know it adds up to the tears that threaten to fall, that would accompany you on your days right after.

By the time you two step foot into the same place you spent every week, the front desk lady knew at this point what you've been up to and no longer pauses to hand Boothill the keys to the room.

You watch him, you study him, you remember him. The tight grip on your hand, the flow of his long locks under the cool hue of the dreamscape.

"Tonight Y/n, let's be honest with each other."

Your lips crash and the door closes with the help of your foot. You both turn round and round with eagerness to lead, hands coming up to pull his jacket with hands coming down to tug the hoops of your pants whilst moving deeper into the room. Each push and pull leaves you hoping, begging for this to be a nightmare that you'll both wake up from.

You'll remember every single part of this, even though it is short-lived.

You hold him back, resting your hands on the edge of his jacket. Catching your breath before you speak, "Wait." The softness of your voice elevates the running of his mechanical heart. Your gentle push right after causing the cowboy to fall back a little as he watches you turn your back and walk away.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Gonna lock the door." You glance back at him. "I want to start slow."

"How slow we talkin', angel?" His voice remains low yet it manages to bring a smile on your lips, just the tone alone could you tell the man was grinning as he spoke those words. "We don't got all night, I know you gotta leave for work by dawn."

"You can't stay back just for the day?" He asks out, despite being by the front of the bed looking all messed up and rowdy, he sounds as if he's holding onto the last ray of hope.

"I can't, Boothill." You turn to him, smiling but he catches how odd it was.

"You know I want to, but I simply can't."

He catches the force in it but oh it was all too late.

Arms now cuffed with the tight grips of the IPC guards, he watches as you exchange a few words with the 'front desk lady'. He don't have to ask what's going on, that look on your face was a dead giveaway to what you had done.

Guilt.

Shame.

His engine runs harder, his fuel boils hotter. The clanks and screech from his thrashing could leave the guards' ears bleeding but he could careless. The noise grew as you stood forward, coming face to face with him.

"Darn it!" He barks at you, pushing forward only to be yanked back in place, his eyes squint with so much focus you're certain it'll pierce through someone.

Not that it hasn't pierced through you already.

"When I get back at ya- Oh, ho ho ho...."

You don't flinch when he jerks forward again, but this time, he stays silent. You don't dare to reach out to touch his face, his eyes bear so much of dying hope and light you couldn't help but to utter out to him in hopes he could forgive you.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah right yer sorry." He growls through his teeth, his words adding to the final weight on your shoulders. "I was lenient with ya, I was careful for ya. Oh Aeons, I knew I shouldn't have let 'em guards down."

"May we meet again, Boothill."

"Don't ever come in my sight." He spits, eyes falling into despair as your figure disappear by the doorframe.

It is your fault.

You could have make this happen in a week's time, but hell- this was four months worth of visits, adding on a confession to a man you know so well could be a step closer to being lovesick. Adding on a confession that could make your dreams and longing come true.

But... what is there for you to do? What could you do now?

Meet him again? The audacity of yours.

The only question you could ask yourself day and night after this was how could you?

What were you doing?

©  2024 rindough, do not repost or plagiarize.

[sloanesallow]

a work of art

Sebastian has a new hobby, and his girlfriend makes the perfect muse. Tags: MDNI, NSFW! This doesn't have sexual content, but it is very suggestive and sensual. Characters are in their 7th year and are 18. Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (Siobhan Sloane) | 1.4k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Tumblr Masterlist]

Sebastian doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.

Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. It was his idea, after all. He isn’t the most talented artist, didn’t even know he was capable until he picked up the hobby to keep his hands and mind busy in the Quiddich off-seasons. But then Sloane discovered his stashed away sketchbooks, and after spending a significant time praising his work and questioning the human anatomy he’d gleamed from textbooks, all he could do was suggest sketching her instead.

Sebastian hadn’t drawn a live model yet, other than Ominis, who had no clue he was being used for references in the middle of the night with nothing but the Lumos-light of a wand. He isn’t too embarrassed to ask for help, but the fear of judgment makes it easier to keep his newfound pastime a secret. To his surprise, Sloane agrees to pose for him—nude.

Despite their blossoming relationship, Sloane remains shy about intimacy. They’ve explored—touched and tasted each other’s skin—but nothing more, not yet. Sebastian isn’t sure what they are waiting for, but if there’s anything he’s learned since meeting her, it’s to be patient.

Two days later he is in the Undercroft, one of the only places in the castle where he and Sloane can truly be alone, especially now that Ominis knows to steer clear of the hidden dungeon. Sebastian sits with his supplies, idly organizing the charcoal and putty and smoothing out a sheet of blank parchment. He’s already taken the time to rearrange the furniture, ensuring the lighting is as flattering as possible from different angles.

“I—”

Sebastian darts his attention to where Sloane is peeking her head out from behind a dressing screen, her cheeks flushed. He smiles, gesturing with his hand for her to step into view. “No need to be shy, sweetheart.”

“You’re the one with all his clothes still on,” she counters.

“I can remove them if you’d like,” he suggests with a wink.

Sloane shakes her head and for a moment Sebastian worries that she’s changed her mind. Before he can placate her with sweet words, she finally takes a tentative step from behind the screen and he sucks in a breath, grip tightening around the drawing board. The sheer chemise she wears leaves little to the imagination, his eyes flicking across her body as she moves toward him.

Sebastian feels the blood rush, the sharp heat that signifies arousal, and is suddenly very glad his lap is covered. He expected bare skin, but this is far more tantalizing. Sloane perches herself on the edge of the settee across from him, fiddling with the short hem of her negligee.  

“Is this alright?” she asks, glancing down at herself. “I know I said I’d pose for you nude, but—”

“It’s perfect,” Sebastian interjects, face flaring with heat as his voice cracks. It’s hard not to appear overly eager, but it’s easier said than done when the singular object of his lustful desires is sitting half-naked just a few paces away. He clears his throat, his fingers trembling as he picks up a piece of charcoal. “I—I need to practice with clothes, too.”

Sloane shifts, her body stiff as if she’s never sat on a sofa before. She looks to him for guidance. “How do you want me?”

The charcoal snaps against the parchment.

“—to pose!” she quickly adds, her blush deepening and spreading across her neck and chest.

Sebastian tries to gulp down the tightness in his throat but it’s no use. “Can I…?” he trails, and Sloane shakily nods. Every muscle in his body is tense as he slowly stands, approaching carefully as if she might startle and run away.

“Lean back, and relax,” he instructs, tentatively guiding her, gooseflesh rising across her skin where his fingers brush. Sloane reclines against the cushions, the golden strands of her hair shimmering in the firelight. He gently grasps her wrists, lifting them to rest above her head. “Just like this.”

Sloane remains quiet, her grey eyes shimmering as they stay locked on his face. It’s reminiscent of the fascinated expression she wore when they first dared to feel one another skin-to-skin. She’s nervous, yes, but she’s said before that her love for him outweighs any other emotion.

Sebastian leans back to inspect the pose, his touch lingering against her knee as he adjusts her to accentuate the curve of her thigh. This close, it’s easier to see the pale pink of her nipples through the taffeta and the shadow of hair between her legs further down. He wets his lips, hungry for just one taste of her banquet.  

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tilting her chin to expose her neck. He sweeps his thumb across her lips as they part with a shaky breath and he chokes back a groan at the slight touch of her tongue against the tip.

He’s half tempted to forget about the sketch and ravish her like he’s been yearning to do for months, but the last thing he wants is to take advantage of Sloane’s trust. Plus, the Undercroft might hold many a memory for them, but it isn’t exactly where he wants their actual first time to be. Sloane deserves a proper bed, flowers and ambiance, romantic confessions and—

Sebastian is getting ahead of himself.

With another gulp he pulls away, nearly stumbling back into his seat. He takes a moment to situate, carefully wiping away the smudge of charcoal on the parchment and nonchalantly adjusting his pants before glancing back up at his muse. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until Sloane’s brow furrows in concern.

“Is something wrong?”

Sebastian snaps out of his daze, flashing a lopsided smile as he starts with a few simple lines. “Not at all, I’m just…distracted by the model,” he says. “You’re much better looking than Ominis.”

Sloane rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile forms on her lips. He looks up at her again, his expression softening. “You haven’t the slightest idea what you do to me, Siobhan.”

Her blush returns, brighter than before. There’s the tiniest shake of her head before she remembers to stay still. She surprises him with a quip of her own. “Perhaps a little.”

A comfortable silence settles between them as Sebastian starts to sketch in earnest, the concentration helping to quash the fire in his gut. The fire in the nearby hearth crackles and the only other sound that echoes through the Undercroft is the scratch and scribble of charcoal against the parchment. He isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually, the shape of Sloane takes form beneath his fingertips and he slows to capture the finer details of her beauty.

“How does it look?”

The subtle strain in Sloane’s voice has him flicking his eyes to her face. Sebastian’s first-hand experience with sex and intimacy is limited, but he isn’t stupid. The way her pupils are blown and the rapid rise and fall of her chest are telling—she is aroused.

Merlin, Sloane is more patient—and perhaps more willing—than he realizes. Sebastian nods, taking a moment to inspect his work with a critical eye. He relaxes, beckoning her with a tilt of his head. “Take a look for yourself, love.”

Sloane stretches as she moves, shaking life back into her limbs as she pads over to where he is sitting. Sebastian smiles, turning the drawing board so she can see. He can’t help but slip his arm around her waist, gently pulling her down to sit in his lap. His fingers are blackened and leave marks on the delicate fabric of her chemise, but she doesn’t seem to care, too transfixed by the sight of herself on the parchment.   

Sebastian presses his nose into the curve of her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of her soap and flowery perfume. “What do you think?” he murmurs between a trail of kisses down her neck. “How do you feel?”

Sloane breaks her gaze away from the sketch to look at him, one of her hands lifting to cradle the side of his face. She kisses him, lips soft and warm and lingering as she grins. “Like a work of art.”   

[sgiandubh]

No nice things anymore

Speaking of Siobhan Mackenzie...

It was enough to have her breathing in the same room as S, at that up-and-coming Scottish luxury brands pop-up shop hosted by The Kimpton Hotel in EDI, yesterday. The traditional troll immediately went after the scent, heavily speculating S and her were an item. And then, of course, the above happened: yes, Elephant Woman is back, in her umpteenth reincarnation, this time on Instagram.

I loved the answer:

There is nothing to substantiate a relationship between S and this lovely young woman, other than the delirious fanfic peddled by a well-known troll. But that was enough to make a really unhinged person go berserk. The same person who (as we all know) already tried to approach S in the open, in Glasgow (and also perhaps elsewhere?), last winter and is always resurrected by Instagram's loose user protection mechanisms.

Why do people even bother to pay for that blue check, if that blue check does not grant them basic protection?

And people wonder why we do not have nice things, anymore?

Look no further. I absolutely understand why and I bet the farm that, during all those last ten years, there have been many more things like this, possibly even scary things, we will never, ever know anything about.

Let's have Elephant Woman blocked again. Please. Everyone. To your keyboards. Now.

The more we do it, the more effective it will be. Thank you all.

PS: that sad, sad Spanish/Latina woman follows S, the spirits business (and its clone!) and is followed by at least 15 of S's clones. This is what happens when people with serious, real mental health issues are left to their own devices in an almost completely deregulated online environment.

[fazedlight]

Plummet (Cat's perspective on Falling)

Cat had started so optimistic. Kiera, finally dressing as an adult? It was a promising development for her executive-assistant-slash-vigilante, one that suggested the kryptonian could possibly grow a backbone in the near future. Goodness knows Kiera desperately needed to come out of her shell. 

Cat had ignored the… well, cattiness emanating from the blonde. A bit of cynicism would’ve been icing on the proverbial cake, had it not heralded something darker.

But when Siobhan marched proudly into Cat’s office, showing her the security footage of Supergirl letting a dangerous criminal go, Cat knew something more was going on. And this morning she used my personal elevator. Perhaps she’s truly lost her mind, Cat thought. “It could be another Bizarro,” Cat said to a disapproving Siobhan, “Put this under your hat until we figure out what’s going on.”

---

Kiera seemed to only get more haughty over time. “You’ve branded me in the media as a girl scout,” the kryptonian said bitterly. “Everyone knows real people have a dark side.”

Where is this coming from?, Cat thought. Psychotic break, brainwashing? Carter loved that old TV show with the star treks, and once spent an entire month talking about mirror universes. Was this an evil Kiera with an invisible goatee? “I fear that you're having some sort of mental breakdown,” Cat said, “Don't worry, it happens to the best of us-”

But Kiera snapped back. “You are the most arrogant, self-serving, mean-spirited person I know.�� Tell me how you really feel, Cat thought to herself, but she had to admit that those words struck a little close.

But that hurt was very rapidly replaced by a more primal fear as the kryptonian approached her. “You want to see what powerful really looks like?” Kiera said, “Watch.”

---

They say your life flashes before your eyes. That’s not what Cat saw. Nor did she have a single coherent thought, other than Carter’s face and endless screaming.

Luckily for her, her assailant didn’t kill her. Cat collapsed inelegantly to the ground, turning back up in a panic as the scornful kryptonian stared down at her. “True power, Cat,” Kara scoffed, “Is in deciding who will live, and who will die.”

Somewhere in the back of Cat’s mind - a stray thought as she tried to calm her pounding heart - she understood. She has all this power, but she couldn’t save her planet. Kiera was just as frustrated at her own powerlessness; her history would be enough to cause anyone to have a psychotic break.

Unfortunately, it didn’t change what Cat had to do next.

---

“People are in danger,” she said to James and Winn, as she shared her plan for a televised broadcast on the kryptonian’s erratic and terrifying behavior, “The public needs to be warned.”

“Miss Grant,” James started, “Look, I am sure that Supergirl is going to be fine soon-”

“Can you guarantee me that the public is safe?”

James and Winn shifted guiltily. I know this isn’t her, Cat wanted to say, I know this isn’t who she is. But Cat couldn’t carry a death on her shoulders of someone who trusted Supergirl because of her words. And Cat suspected that Kara - if the girl ever recovered - couldn’t bear that guilt either.

But she hated every moment.

---

Is there any recovery from this?

Kiera had been a wreck at work that day, scurrying around the office with slumped shoulders and stressed eyes, avoiding Cat entirely. Cat supposed she was breathing easier now that Kiera was back to normal, but it still evoked the same question - What happens with Supergirl next?

As Cat walked into her office that evening - intent to pour herself a stiff drink - she was surprised to find a metal tube set on her desk, with a folded piece of paper propped up against it. “I’m sorry,” the letter read, in familiar loopy, feminine writing. “I wasn’t myself.”

Cat opened the tube, noting a strange green glow inside. Kryptonite, she realized, sighing internally at the thought of Kara entrusting her with this sort of protection. “I don’t want you to feel unsafe. If you want me to stop interacting with you, I will,” the letter read. Cat closed the tube, mulling again over her assistant’s state of mind. Sighing, she placed the tube in a drawer, pouring herself a drink as she had planned, before making her way to her balcony.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see the super when she stepped out, but somehow she was. Kiera sat far from the door, quiet as she looked out onto the city lights. Cat knew the super must’ve heard her, but she didn’t face her - perhaps waiting for the sendoff she thought she deserved.

Cat stepped forward quietly, reaching the railing of the balcony. And that’s what gave Kiera the courage to speak. “I love this city,” she said solemnly.

Cat stood silently, listening to the kryptonian’s words - weighing the tender passion with the agonizing remorse. “What I did to you, Miss Grant-”

“Oh please,” Cat said, shrugging off. “I’ve base jumped Kilimanjaro, do you really think you scared me?”

Well, that was a lie, and they both knew it. “Okay, yes, you did scare me.”

“I scared the whole city,” Kara lamented.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Cat said. “But if anyone can win this city back, it’s you.”

Kara nodded gratefully, biting back unshed tears. “Can I just… stay here for a while?”

“Of course,” Cat said softly. 

In the soft breeze and the quiet night, the two looked back over the city, and wondered what was to come.

----------------------------------------------------

I found it a really weird writing choice that Kara never apologized to Cat - or didn't seem to understand the fear she must've instilled in her, after throwing her off a building - so I tried to fix it here. (I have thoughts on Kara's relationship with kryptonite, but I will spare this post of that ramble.)

[dropoutconfessions]

I fully relate to the anon that has complicated feelings over Emily. I think part of it is that she reminds me a lot of my own playstyle, and I'm very anxious about accidentally being a spotlight hogger or too impulsive. So I'm very likely projecting.

That being said, I do feel like she often is overly concerned with getting her moments and getting credit for every smart thing she does, while the other players are more concerned with being teamplayers. In Zac's cool moment of tricking Brennan into letting him go into a rage, Emily immediately made sure to let everyone know that she had told Zac how to approach it. In the same moment, Siobhan made a joke along the lines of "we all noticed and Brennan didn't", and I think its only thanks to Siobhan that ppl didn't think that the whole thing was just Emily, like Zac hadn't noticed the opportunity by himself at all.

There's lots of weird moments like that, and I know she has said stuff about being a female player and the struggles that come with being recognized and taking up space that come with that - but she most often reacts subtly jealous of/competes for moments with Siobhan? She accused her of trying to steal her dragon egg in CoC when the group was trying to reach it, and when Adaine gifted Ayda the spell, she swept in with "but I like translating subtext for you", not letting them have a single friendship moment. Actually as much as I love Figayda, Im rlly sad on how it eclipsed that friendship. Like, what tf did Brennan mean when he implied that Fig was the first person ever to reach out to Ayda. Adaine tried to connect with her when Fig still thought of her as a creature. Siobhan is also probably the one that gets talked over the most, everytime she starts talking and just doesn't finish the sentence, I die a little inside.

Im not alone in noticing these things either, I watched an AP with a friend and Emily asked Murph "What was the thing I did that you said was cool?" when they were talking about other ppls moments, and we both groaned in unison... I'm happy she fights for herself, but I wish she fought as hard for everybody else.

-

[d4isywhims]

the fyres household, windenburg.

moira and dominic have been together since university and are still deeply in love with each other. from moira being named one of san myshuno's bestselling children's book author to dominic's rocky career in music, the two have experienced numerous highs and lows. now as they approach their golden years, moira has retired from writing books and spends her afternoons tending to her garden while dominic continues to work in the entertainment industry as a professional pianist. their eldest, siobhan, has moved into an apartment in the city to pursue a career in business. while windenburg's former "it-girl" is taking san myshuno by storm, her younger sister morgan is busy causing havoc with the renegades. but is this chaos truly what she desires? probably. anyway, is paolo rocca single?

hiiii! :D i moved siobhan out to san my because i just KNOW she'll thrive <3 also i noticed that morgan has the outgoing and good trait which kind of makes me think that she's just faking being mean to fit in with the renegades idk :/ ALSO in the trailer, paolo and her were making out but she's still a teen in my game???? what's that about lmaooo

[kikimurphys]

Behind Closed Doors (Part 13)

Pairing: Cillian x Y/N.

Warnings: Blood.

The next week was a blur of early mornings and late nights on set, where you and Cillian crossed paths in heavy silence. The tension between you was almost unbearable. You were still fuming, nursing a sense of betrayal over what you saw as his cowardice. Yes, his career was at stake, but it felt like he owed you more than secrecy and vague reassurances.

One afternoon, Tori, your work friend, suggested grabbing lunch together. Over salads and sandwiches, you unloaded everything that had been weighing on you. You recounted the whirlwind romance, the intense arguments, and how you had ended things with Cillian, telling him to leave your apartment just days ago.

“I just don’t get him,” you said, absentmindedly pushing your salad around with your fork. “He says he loves me, but then he acts like he’s ashamed of us.”

Tori nodded sympathetically. “That’s a tough situation, but you have every right to feel the way you do. You deserve to be more than a secret.”

You let out a heavy sigh, a mix of frustration and sadness. “I know he’s trying to protect me, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he’s protecting himself.”

“That’s probably true,” Tori agreed. “But you’re doing the right thing by standing your ground. You need stability, especially now, with everything that’s coming.”

“Yeah. I think it’s just better this way, as co-parents,” you murmured. The idea of continuing a romantic relationship with Cillian felt like setting yourself up for more heartache, especially if he couldn’t make up his mind soon. Staying on good terms and focusing on raising the baby together seemed like the best path forward.

The conversation with Tori offered some comfort, but the emotional turmoil lingered. You threw yourself into your work, trying to push thoughts of Cillian aside, but it was getting harder. Every time you saw him on set, you couldn’t help but watch him. The way he talked with his hands reminded you of how those same hands used to trace every inch of your skin. The memories made your stomach flip, but you quickly shook them off, refocusing on your tasks. Passing him in the hallway, you avoided eye contact, unwilling to let him see how much you still missed him. Each night you came home to an empty bed, the exhaustion of the day weighing on you, and you couldn’t help but wish for the comfort of his presence. He was still part of your life, but not in the way you needed.

A few days later, you found yourself leaning over a table near the catering station, labeling costumes for next week’s shoots. You had woken up with a headache, a familiar discomfort that had been coming more frequently, and the nausea that you thought was behind you had returned with a vengeance.

Cillian, meanwhile, was having one of the worst weeks of his life. On top of the tension between you and the longing he felt for you and your baby girl, he was buried in meetings with producers and his lawyer. His ex, Siobhan, was making it difficult for him to see Max, resenting him for leaving her to raise their son alone. All Cillian wanted was to make things right, to get his life in order so he could be the man you needed.

That morning, he woke up thinking of you, as he had every day since the fight. He wondered how you were feeling, if you had any new symptoms, or if the baby had been moving. You were 23 weeks along, and your bump was growing more prominent by the day. Today, you felt especially pregnant—hungry, but everything made you nauseous, and your body was weighed down with exhaustion.

As Cillian walked down to grab a coffee, he spotted you bent over the table, engrossed in your work. You were wearing your reading glasses, and your hair was piled into a messy bun. He couldn’t help the rush of emotions—and desire—that surged through him at the sight of you, especially the way your leggings and tight sweater accentuated your growing belly. Coffee cup in hand, he approached you, his heart pounding with anxiety.

“Morning, Y/N,” he mumbled, taking a sip from his cup.

You straightened up too quickly, causing a wave of dizziness to wash over you. “Morning yourself,” you replied, placing a hand on the table for support.

“Whoa, you okay?” Cillian asked, his voice filled with concern as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

You nodded, though the dizziness lingered. “Yeah, just stood up too fast, I think.”

He frowned, worry etched across his face. “You sure? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine, Cill,” you reassured him, though your voice was softer than usual. “Just a bit tired.”

He nodded, sensing your exhaustion. “I actually wanted to talk to you. How about I pick you up after work?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Yeah, sure. Pick me up at 6,” you agreed, trying to keep your composure, but your nerves betrayed you. Why was it so hard to stay calm around him?

You attempted to return to your task as he walked away, but something suddenly came to mind. “Oh, actually,” you called after him, “I have to grab groceries for the week. I’ve run out of pickles.” You forced a smile, mentally kicking yourself for sounding so trivial.

Cillian chuckled, his expression softening. “I’d love to help you out.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to bother you with fruit picking,” you joked, trying to deflect your embarrassment.

“No, not at all. That’s what I’m here for, Y/N,” he said earnestly.

“Well, thank you, Cill. I’ll see you at 6?”

“See ya,” he smiled, walking away, leaving you with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Later that evening, you found yourself pushing a cart around the fruit and vegetable section, Cillian by your side. As you browsed through lettuces and spinach, the conversation turned to the holidays.

“So, are you going to Cork for Christmas?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Yeah, I plan to,” he replied, though there was a hint of frustration in his voice. “But I’d like to be with Max too, so I think I’ll go there for New Year’s.”

“And you?” he asked, glancing over at you as you reached for a head of lettuce.

“I was thinking of going home. I haven’t seen my family in ages, so I hope I can get away for at least a week,” you replied.

You had left London over four years ago after receiving a job offer on an actual movie set, a significant step up from organizing rich people’s closets. But Dublin, despite its opportunities, often left you feeling homesick. Your family was tight-knit, and being away made it difficult to stay connected. When you told them you were pregnant, they were thrilled but also concerned. They knew the challenges ahead, and they urged you to come back home so they could support you.

The thought of returning home had been on your mind a lot lately. Being a mother was going to be demanding, and you weren’t sure how you would manage it all on your own. The fear of doing this alone was what kept you up at night, gnawing at you, especially during quiet moments like these. You could feel Cillian watching you, as if he sensed your inner turmoil.

“Your family must be really excited to see you,” he said, his voice gentle, as if he was aware of the heaviness of your thoughts.

“Yeah, they are,” you admitted, trying to keep your tone light, though the underlying worry was hard to mask. “My sister says she wants to see my belly. She’s probably going to love seeing me this fat,” you joked, gesturing to your growing bump.

Cillian chuckled, finding your self-deprecation endearing. To him, you looked even more beautiful now that you were carrying his child. “Oh yeah? How’s the bump doing?” he asked, glancing at your belly that seemed to grow a little more every day.

“Good. She’s been moving around a lot. I feel huge, though. Nothing fits anymore,” you replied, feeling a mix of discomfort and pride.

Cillian nodded, and for a moment, there was an awkward silence as you both browsed the endless rows of chocolates. Even after all the time you’d known each other, the tension from recent events still hung between you, making things feel uneasy.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” you finally broke the silence, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“Just wanted to see how you both were,” he said, looking at you with sincerity, though you could sense there was more he wasn’t saying.

You gave him a skeptical look. “You could’ve texted me, you know,” you huffed, still feeling a bit of lingering frustration. “That’s what we agreed on. You don’t have to be here just to check in.”

“But I want to be here,” he said, stepping closer to you. “I don’t want to just text you or catch a glimpse of you at work.” He paused for a moment, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle, but it sent your heart racing, and you felt the baby kick more vigorously, responding to your nervousness. “I want to be here. To help you with groceries, to satisfy your cravings. And I don’t want to push you—I know I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. I just want to be there for you, Y/N.”

His words hung in the air, and you could feel the sincerity behind them. You couldn’t deny how much you missed him, how much you craved his support and companionship. But there was still a part of you that was hesitant, unsure if you could fully trust him with your heart again.

“I know you want to be there,” you said softly, weighing your words carefully. “And I’m sorry I pushed you away, but let’s just… take things slow.”

Cillian nodded, understanding the caution in your voice. “Okay, let’s take things slow.”

As he drove you home, the conversation was light, easing some of the tension that had been between you. You mentioned that you had an appointment on Monday to get checked for gestational diabetes and asked if he wanted to come along.

“I’m not worried, really,” you assured him. “The midwife said it’s just a precaution.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he replied, his hand reaching over to pat your knee gently. “I’ll be there.”

When you arrived at your apartment, Cillian insisted on helping you carry your groceries upstairs. As you walked up the stairs, he carried the heavier bags, making sure you didn’t have to strain yourself.

Once inside, you set the bags down on the kitchen counter. Cillian began unpacking the groceries without hesitation, handing items to you as you put them away. The simple domesticity of the moment felt oddly comforting, even with everything unresolved between you.

“Thanks for helping out,” you said, smiling at him as you placed the last of the groceries in the fridge.

“Of course,” he replied, returning your smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

As you both finished up, the atmosphere in the apartment felt warm but still tinged with the unspoken complexities between you. He lingered for a moment, seeming hesitant to leave.

“I guess I’ll head out,” he said finally, his voice soft. “But I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah, Monday,” you nodded, walking him to the door.

Before he left, Cillian turned back to you, his expression tender. “Goodnight, Y/N. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Goodnight, Cill,” you replied, feeling a small warmth in your chest at his concern. “Drive safe.”

With a final smile, Cillian stepped out into the hallway, and you closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as you processed the evening. The feelings you had for him were still strong, but you shook them off as you made your way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The uncertainty of your romantic relationship weighed on you, but you knew one thing for sure—Cillian could be trusted with this child and with you if anything ever went wrong.

Later, as you brushed your teeth, you noticed a small streak of blood in the sink. It wasn’t the first time—bleeding gums were a common symptom during pregnancy, something you’d read about online. Still, it gave you pause for a moment before you continued with your nighttime routine.

Rubbing some oil on your growing belly, you reflected on your pregnancy so far. You’d been fortunate—no complications, and everything had been progressing normally. You hoped with all your heart that things would continue this way for the remaining weeks. As you laid down that night, you whispered softly to your baby, feeling her tiny kicks in response. “Stay safe in there, my love,” you murmured, your hand resting on your belly. “I love you so much.”

Meanwhile, Cillian lay awake in his own bed, staring at the ceiling. He missed you terribly, and the regret gnawed at him. He knew he’d made mistakes, been unfair, and caused you pain. But he also knew how much you loved him, and he was determined to prove to you that he could be the man you deserved—the father his daughter deserved. He’d made his share of mistakes with Max, but he was resolute not to repeat them this time. He owed you that much.

After only a few hours of sleep, you were jolted awake by a sharp, stabbing pain in your stomach, like a cramp. Panic surged through you as you instinctively grabbed your belly, trying to calm yourself. Reaching over to turn on the bedside light, you lifted the covers, and your heart dropped at the sight—blood staining the sheets beneath you.

tags:

@mamawiggers1980 @xsweetcatastrophe @galactict3a @thistheivyseason

[mandobatemans]

intrigue (Tom Wambsgans x f!reader)

warnings: infidelity, fingering, unprotected piv sex, soft!dom tom, size kink kinda, biting, greg, do NOT have sex with the head of conservative news organizations irl!!!, i am a shivcel fr anything negative abt shiv in here i didn't mean it ily siobhan 🫶, NSFW UNDER THE CUT

word count: 4,740 (i got carried away)

A/N: this is loosely based on s4 e7 but there's no real timeline so it probably takes place like somewhere around season 3 or 4? this is my first succ fic so...enjoy 🤗 & also this took me SO long to write i'm so deeply sorry to anyone who was waiting

also posted to ao3

Tom had never been a fan of the whole “open marriage” arrangement. When he thought back to that fateful night (fateful night…who else would say that about their wedding night?) what he remembered most was the look on Shiv’s face when she told him that she wanted an open marriage. On their wedding night.

It was more for Shiv anyway. Tom rarely thought about actually acting on the arrangement, whether it be out of love for Shiv or loyalty to her father, he wasn’t sure. Sure, he had kissed someone here or done oral there when high on coke, but he had never actually fucked anyone else.

Something was different, though, tonight. Firstly, they were hosting a Waystar/ATN event at their apartment, and despite being chairman of ATN, he wasn't even sure what the evening was for. Shiv had told him about it last minute, casually mentioning it as they were being driven to work, like it was dinner at Logan’s rather than hundreds of media moguls and politicians to host. Actually, dinner at Logan’s felt equally, if not more, important than tonight. A better equivalent for how nonchalantly Shiv had mentioned it would be Connor inviting them somewhere.

Secondly, Shiv had suggested, outright, that they both find someone to hook up with at the party tonight. Earlier in their bedroom, after getting dressed in silence, Shiv had turned to Tom while putting her earrings in to share the idea. He knew she would be acting on it whether or not he did, and why shouldn’t he? It had been a while since he had gotten laid and was verbally (and physically) assaulting Greg a lot more as a result.

Did he just pick someone? How did you approach someone and say, “Hey, I’m in an open marriage but I’ve never actually done anything more than get my dick sucked with anyone else…anyway, let’s fuck!”

Tom fidgeted with his glass as he surveyed the room.

Despite your personal beliefs and the endless human rights violations that Waystar was affiliated with, their (and by extension ATN) events were some of the most lavish you'd ever attended. As a political journalist, it was standard for your company to send a journalist or two to whatever soirée the Roys were throwing. Everyone took turns, and this time you had drawn the short straw. It hadn’t been too bad so far, you thought, although perhaps you were jinxing yourself. You had kept to yourself mostly, chatting with other journalists you frequently saw around the city on assignments, snacking on the hors d'oeuvres, and listening to the ridiculous conversations political and media bigwigs were having.

You had been to an event hosted by the Roys before, but they were usually at ATN, Waystar, or some expensive venue. Being invited as a member of the press to Shiv Roy’s apartment felt strangely intimate. You were certain this was some calculated business move on the part of one Roy or the other, but you honestly didn’t really care. Whatever drama was happening within Waystar Royco was contained within the Roy family. You were simply here to supplement a piece your coworker was writing on the atmosphere of this political season.

It was only an hour into the party when you had collected all the quotes and interviews you needed, and sampled almost all of the hors d'oeuvres. Your boss expected journalists to stay for most, if not all, of the night for these things, in case some political bombshell were to happen. You were pretty sure nothing too monumental was going to happen in this room full of suits, especially with all of the Roys notably absent from the festivities. Even Shiv, whose house it was, looked like she wasn't paying any attention to what was going on in her home. In fact, she had been in the corner all night, talking to some prominent New York and D.C. women, important enough that you knew their faces but not important enough for you to attach any names to them.

You checked your phone for the time. You could probably get away with leaving in another hour if you made up some family emergency as an excuse for your editor. Even another hour seemed like ages. Maybe you could re-interview some people? Speak to some guests whose quotes would never make it in the article just to kill time? Sighing, you opened your messages, thumbs hovering over the chat with your editor, putting your journalism degree to use by brainstorming an excuse to get you back home in your bed before ten o’clock. When you turned around to pace while you typed (a nervous habit), you found yourself face-to-face with one of your hosts.

It felt like a fucking cliché. Literally bumping into someone at a party? If one of your writer friends wrote something like this, you'd tell them it was bullshit and things like that didn't happen in real life. Yet here you were, inches away from–

“Tom Wambsgans, Chairman of Global Broadcast News at ATN.” He introduced himself, reaching out a hand for you to shake.

You returned the handshake, grateful that he wasn’t offended by you bumping into him. “I know who you are.”

“And I know who you are.” He paused. “That sounded stalkerish, didn’t it? I meant, I know who you are because I’ve read your articles.”

“You have?” You were surprised. Your company and your articles in particular were considered left-leaning, the very opposite of the stories ATN ran.

He nodded. “Gotta keep up with the competition. I’ve seen some of your features on the network, as well.”

“Really? I would have thought you would just watch ATN all day,” you teased.

Tom made a face and then shook his head. “No, no, no. Plus, I wouldn’t really call any of our journalists ‘journalists’ so much as pretty faces. You do your own research and look good on the camera. That’s impressive.”

You raised an eyebrow and Tom’s eyes widened, processing what he had just said.

“God, I do sound like a fucking stalker.”

You laughed, “Just a little bit.” You let him cringe for a second, then smiled to reassure him. “No, but I’ve seen some of your interviews since you took over ATN. You look good on the camera, too.” You paused, before adding, “Maybe that makes us both a little stalkerish.”

His eyes lit up at your response, earning a genuine laugh (the first one that night not faked for some suit, he noted).

“Uh, sorry for bumping into you. I wasn't looking where I was going,” you explained, waving your phone in your hand for context.

“Ah, cell phone. The curse of the twenty-first century.”

You furrowed your brow involuntarily for a moment. He wasn't how you expected the spouse of a Roy to be like. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, you weren't yet sure.

“I’m making a huge ass of myself, aren't I?” He sighed. “I’ll leave you to the party–”

“No! It’s okay. Stay,” you heard yourself say. It was Tom’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Okay. You found him attractive. And even despite his eccentric comments, you also found yourself wanting to talk to him more. You were, however, purposely avoiding looking at the wedding ring on his finger.

To Tom, it all seemed too perfect. You, for example. He was being honest when he said he had seen and read some of your work and that he enjoyed it, and he did sometimes watch other networks to get an idea of the competition, but he had left out the fact that there was something about you in particular that made him watch the entire segment when you happened to be on air. And the fact that sometimes he'd scroll through your articles online and imagine you reading them aloud to him. But he wasn’t a stalker. And now you were here, in his house, on the night that his wife had all but shoved him into the bed of anyone that he wanted.

But still; one pleasant, slightly flirtatious conversation didn't mean you wanted to ride off into the sunset with him. Or, more accurately, go upstairs with him.

He scanned the room for Siobhan. Although it had been her suggestion, and he knew she had acted on the arrangement before, he still felt like it was somehow a trap. Like she’d hire someone to hide behind the bedroom door that night and catch him with his pants down (literally) to use as blackmail.

But sure enough, she was across the room, laughing at something some lobbyist had said, and resting her hand on the other woman’s arm slightly longer than a casual touch would last.

The longer he thought about it, the more confident he felt. If you were interested, he wanted to spend the night with you. And maybe more. But he was getting ahead of himself.

“It's kind of loud over here. Come on,” he gestured with his head toward the opposite corner of the apartment, one not occupied by any guests save for an elderly politician snoring on the couch.

You followed him, nodding when he asked if you wanted another drink before picking a champagne flute off of a passing server’s tray. He handed it to you once you reached the corner, your hands touching during the exchange. It seemed like even more of a cliché to feel sparks fly at this tiny touch, so you ignored that, as well.

“You host these kinds of things often?” You asked, leaning against the wall and taking a sip of your champagne. The room was full of very important people, though none of them seemed to be talking about very important things. You couldn't quite wrap your head around why a high-level executive who had married into one of the largest media conglomerates was wasting his time talking to you (flirting with you?), but you had seen stranger things in this city.

He grimaced and shook his head. “No, no. I’m usually just a guest.” Tom laughed and took a sip of his drink. “And not a very important one, at that.”

“I’m sure that's not true. I mean, how many people watch ATN? And you’re in charge of what airs or doesn't air.”

“1.89 million,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink, “Outside of the office, nobody’s really worried about what I think.”

“Not even your wife?” You stopped after you said the words, giving your brain a second to catch up with your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect, I–”

“No, no, no, no, it’s okay,” he assured you, reaching out to rest a hand on yours consolingly. Tom leaned in closer so only you would hear him, unnecessary considering the secluded corner you two were in.

“But no, not even my wife.”

Your eyes darted to his hand atop yours, suddenly aware of how large his hands were. They almost completely covered yours, and they felt so comfortable and right there, like–

“We have an open marriage,” he suddenly said.

“Oh.”

Tom seemed disappointed with this reaction, quickly removing his hand from yours and adding, “That’s just to say that, our marriage is, uh, unconventional, so her not caring what I have to say isn’t that unusual.”

You were still processing the feel of his hand on yours, much less the revelation that he actually might be flirting with you and that it actually might go somewhere. By the time your thoughts caught up with you, it seemed like he was about ready to excuse himself and go scream at his reflection in the bathroom.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” you responded, mirroring his gesture from before and resting your hand on top of his to comfort him. “You don’t deserve that, really.”

He scoffed. “You don't know what I deserve.”

You looked up at him, taking the time to absorb the look in his eyes that revealed just how much he was going through.

“Uh, Tom?”

Tom rolled his eyes and turned away from you to snap at the source of the interruption. “What, Greg? Can’t you see I’m having a conversation?”

“It’s just–well, Shiv is leaving with someone.” The taller man gestured at the door, where sure enough, Shiv was weaving her way through the crowd toward the elevators with the lobbyist from earlier, her hand guiding her by the small of her back.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. “Well, Greg, we do have an open marriage. So, everything’s fine. Now, scram.”

Greg looked between the two of you and hesitated for a second before nodding and disappearing back into the bustle of the party.

Tom turned back to you. “That’s Shiv’s cousin, Greg. I’ve sort of taken him under my corporate wing, so to speak. Showing him the ropes and all that.”

You nodded, finishing your champagne.

“Well,” he said.

“Well,” you echoed.

He paused for a minute, though it seemed to last much longer than that. “You’re writing an article about this party, right?”

“Yeah,” you responded, unsure of where he was going with this.

Tom leaned in, lowering his voice. “What would your editor say if you got a behind-the-scenes look at the party?”

You raised your eyebrow.

“Of course, you'd have to come upstairs…” Something shifted in his tone. You were well aware of what the change implied, and you’d be lying if you said you didn't want to jump at the offer. This wasn’t you, though. Sleeping with a married man? On top of that, not just any married man, but the host of the party that you were covering for work. It sounded like a problem you’d encounter on an Intro to Ethics exam. But any moral qualms you had about the issue were pushed out of your head when you registered the way Tom was looking at you.

“Of course,” you repeated, nonchalantly, setting your empty champagne glass on a nearby table.

Something flickered in Tom’s eyes. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Wambsgans,” you replied, gesturing dramatically.

Neither of you spoke for the entire walk away from the excitement of the party to the quiet of Tom’s bedroom. It looked much like you had expected it to look: modern, chic, and impersonal. You were sure Tom (or Shiv) had some personal items somewhere in the house, but the bedroom was so clean and styled that the only indication anyone slept or dressed in there was some of Shiv’s makeup and jewelry strewn haphazardly on the vanity.

When he had closed the door behind you, Tom stepped closer to you experimentally, as if he was afraid you'd flee like a wild deer if he moved too fast. You stepped closer as well, which seemed to give Tom the permission he was looking for. Within seconds, his mouth was on yours, his hands cupping your face, all tongue and teeth. There was hunger and desperation in the kiss, but it was hypnotizing, beckoning you deeper and deeper. He was almost doubled over to reach you (god, he was tall), so you shifted your weight to stand on your tiptoes.

Tom broke the kiss, leaving you with a confused look on your face.

He shed his suit jacket, throwing it carelessly on the floor. Next, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. Tugging on the length of his tie, he loosened it enough to undo a few buttons at his collar, revealing an inviting expanse of chest hair.

“Turn around,” he told you, snapping you out of your male-stripper-fantasy gaze.

You did as he said, something in his tone going straight to your core. You felt him run his hands from your shoulders down your arms, then down your hips and up to your waist, the action bunching up the fabric of your dress. He moved your hair to the side, pressing hot kisses to your neck that made your eyes roll back.

“Can I take this off?” He whispered, his lips trailing up to your ear.

You nodded in response, trembling momentarily under his touch. Tom unzipped your dress, helping you push it down your body and step out of it. He unhooked the back of your bra without moving further. It occurred to you then how wrong this was, to be sleeping with someone else’s husband in their own bedroom, but to your surprise, you didn’t care. The only thing you cared about was the heat of Tom’s gaze on your bare back. You took your bra off the rest of the way and discarded it on the ground next to your dress. Once in only your underwear, you turned back around to face him, watching his eyes follow every curve of your body to drink in the newly exposed skin.

“Wow,” he said, simply, reaching out to grab you by the hips and pull you closer to him. “You’re gorgeous.”

Grinning, you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him again, cradling his face in your hands. You felt him smile back into your kiss. Before you knew it, he had you pressed against the wall, totally enclosed by his larger form. He went from kissing you on your lips to your neck to behind your ear to your chest, as if he couldn't decide which spot deserved the most attention or for how long.

One of his hands slid down to the waistband of your underwear, the cold metal of his wedding ring a shock against your hot skin. You made eye contact with him as his hand slipped between the fabric and your skin cup your cunt, whining when you felt his touch. He seemed to get off on that, capturing you in a kiss again at the same time he slipped a digit into your wet heat. You were too hot; you pressed your hand to his chest to stabilize yourself and pushed your underwear down your legs and kicked them off. Tom smiled at this, getting right back to pumping his finger in and out at a pace that almost made you melt down the wall.

It was probably a power trip thing, you thought, you totally naked and him almost fully clothed. You didn't mind because it was kinda hot, but it wasn't what you had expected from Tom based on the unassuming, Midwestern image of him that was circulated in columns and by the Roys themselves. But, then again, you hadn't expected to find yourself in this position at all when you left your apartment earlier that night.

The pace of his fingers felt so good, so intoxicating, that now that you had him, you needed more of him.

“A-another one,” you whined between kisses.

When you opened your eyes to look at him, Tom had a smug look on his face. Sure, it was arrogant, but it turned you on, so who really cared? “Yeah?” he asked, “You want another one?”

“Tom,” you hissed, gripping onto his shoulder as his finger curled in just the right way that it made your legs go numb.

The look remained on his face, but he added another finger nonetheless. Tom appeared to inhabit both extremes when it came to sex: he really wanted to pleasure you but he also really wanted to do what he wanted. Luckily, those two wants aligned.

He was making you feel so good that you needed to have more of him. Your kisses got sloppier, each so desperate to be further molded with one another that your tongues tried to push impossibly further into the other’s. Tom shifted his hand so he could angle his thumb to rub slow, tantalizing circles on your clit as he continued to pump his fingers. Your grip on his shoulder tightened–you feared your fingernails would leave dents in his skin–but like so many other things tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You could feel the pressure rising in your middle, your cunt clenching around his fingers in anticipation of your impending orgasm, but then it stopped.

You opened your eyes that you hadn't realized were squeezed shut to look at Tom, who had his hand in front of your face, fingers glistening with your slick. “Open,” he encouraged. You obeyed, accepting his fingers into your mouth and licking them clean with a ‘pop.’ He stared at you like you had hung the stars in the sky. He jerked his head toward the bed. “Sit.”

There was authority in his commands, but you didn’t fear him; from the short amount of time you had spent with him, you knew he was at his core a sweet man. You would admit to yourself that you had been curious how his awkward, nervous energy would translate into the bedroom, but once alone, he seemed to be a different man.

You watched him strip off the rest of his clothes eagerly, smiling up at him once he rejoined you on the bed totally naked. He must’ve noticed you staring, because he asked: “Do you want me to put on a condom?”

You shrugged, shifting your eyes back up to his own. “No, it’s okay. I'm on birth control.”

He sighed in relief. “Good. I don't even know if I have one in here.”

“Then why’d you ask?” You laughed, encouraged by the smile that crossed his face when you did so.

“Seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. If you said yes, I would’ve sent someone to go get one or borrowed one from–”

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Just fuck me already.”

“Alright. If you say so,” he teased, leaning down over you to kiss you. Both your lips were red and puffy from all the kissing and some biting, but it didn’t matter. You could feel his cock pushing against your stomach from the angle, so you reached down to take him in your hand and pump his length.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin, face buried in your neck as he pressed kisses to the every inch of available flesh, “Fuck…Can I?”

“Please,” you responded, noticing a little desperate hitch in your voice that you ignored. Tom licked his hand and cupped your sex with it, running the pads of his middle fingers through your folds a few times to collect the wetness between your legs. Gently, he guided his length into your opening

inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of discomfort before bottoming out.

You should’ve expected his dick to be big from his height, the size of his hands, his nose, whatever, but you hadn’t considered just how big. It was quite a stretch to take him fully, but he gave you all the time you needed to adjust and get comfortable. When you were ready, you bucked your hips up into his to give him the okay.

Tom took your permission to move and ran with it, grabbing your left leg and placing it over his shoulder before pressing you down further into the mattress with his body weight so he could thrust into you at a deeper angle.

You lifted your head to meet him to return to making out, the sensation of his tongue down your throat even more erotic now that he was inside of you, as well.

His thrusts were deep but not as aggressive as he had been with his fingers. He wouldn’t vocalize this, or even admit to himself that he was thinking this, but he wanted this to last. As much as it was supposed to be a hookup–emotionless sex–he found himself wanting it to happen again, despite his attempts to push those thoughts deep into the recesses of his mind.

One arm was thrown around Tom’s neck, hand gripping a fistful of his hair. Your other hand went down to your clit, beginning to rub circles to match the pace of his thrusts.

“You wanna cum again?” He teased, “Again, when I haven't cum once?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, playfully, slipping your finger down from your clit to lightly stroke the length of his cock that wasn't fully inside of you.

He let out a moan, eyes twinkling as he snapped his hips a little harder, snickering when you gasped in response.

Tom caught you in another kiss, resting his weight on his forearm that was positioned next to your head. You arched your back up into him, urging him deeper, which he obliged. “Touch yourself,” he said, disconnecting his mouth from yours just long enough to give the command.

You smiled into his lips, rubbing your clit again as his thrusts became sloppier and jerkier. He was holding on until you came again, despite his earlier cockiness. The moment he felt your walls tighten around him, he let go, spilling inside of you with a grunt.

He pulled out, rolling off of you to lay beside you.

Tom was still catching his breath, and you watched his chest heave for a few moments. “Hey, you okay?” He asked. “Everything alright?”

You smiled, nodding and reaching over to kiss him again. “I'm good, yeah. You?”

“Perfect, actually.” Tom smiled back at you. He found himself lost in the moment, lost in your eyes, lost in the connection you two had just had, and it was too much for him. Quickly, he sat up, ready to change the subject. “You need to clean up?”

You furrowed your brow at the sudden shift in his demeanor, but going along with it nonetheless. Despite him just having been inside you, you didn't feel like it was your place to mention the change. “Yeah. Can I?” You asked, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. Go ahead. Towels are above the sink.”

You flung your legs over the side of the bed and stood, heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll just clean off real quick, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No, no, no. I mean, you can stay the night. If you’d like, that is. I could call you a car, though, if I’ve made some awful faux pas and you don’t want to look at me for another–”

“Tom.” He focused on you again after his brief spiral. “I would like to stay.”

He grinned. “Great, that's great.”

“Just let me–” You waved your hands around your lower body, “–clean all this up.”

“Yeah, of course, sure. I’ll be here.” He added the last part in a quasi-sing-song voice.

At the sound of the shower turning on, Tom rose to locate his clothes and try to clean up. He pulled his boxers back on, taking his dress shirt, pants, & jacket to be thrown into the hamper. They really should be dry-cleaned, he considered, but found that he couldn’t be bothered. As for your clothes, he wasn’t sure what exactly to do with them, so he laid your dress across a chair in the bedroom and left your bra and underwear on the floor. He was still considering whether he should pick them up or not when you came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your torso.

Once you had dressed in your undergarments again and Tom had given you an undershirt to sleep in, you started to wonder what all this meant. If it had just been a hookup, why were you staying the night? You had thought you’d feel dirty and disgusted with yourself, spending the night in someone else’s bed with someone else’s husband, but you didn’t. You didn’t know what that said about you, what it meant that you were perfectly comfortable talking into the night with Tom, both laughing and sharing stories long after you had agreed to turn the lights off and get some sleep. That almost made it worse, you thought, that it wasn’t just sex. That made it dangerous.

After you had drifted off, Tom spent a few minutes watching you sleep. He tucked a stray hair behind your ear, watching the worries of the day wash off your face while you slept. He knew it was wrong to be more comfortable in this bed with you than he was with his own wife. But that was something to deal with (or repress) in the morning. Here, now, with you wrapped in his and Shiv’s bedsheets, your form against his chest rising and falling with his breaths, he could pretend it was meant to be like this.

@swiftcession @greenwrldsz @zirrocom @lukas-matsson @ledtassoo @bluecruz97 @rita-lean @grainyimag3

[epphfervescent]

Full term Siobhan?

Siobhan waddles, graceless, down the hall of the inn to the room she shares with Veena and their firstborn, supporting her turgid belly with both hands. Getting up the inn’s narrow stairs had been slow and careful going—and walking through the commonroom was, as always, novel. As a Ranger, Siobhan is used to passing unnoticed, but this town doesn’t have many orcish residents—at least, not heavily, exaggeratedly pregnant ones. She’s stared at wherever she goes. 

It might’ve been uncomfortable, if Siobhan weren’t too swollen to care. 

As she reaches the door, a braxton hicks contraction squeezes her pelvis. Siobhan waits for it to pass, breathing through it. They’re more uncomfortable than painful, but they’ve been coming more and more often lately, reminding Siobhan that her time is fast approaching. 

The contraction passes and Siobhan gets inside her room—and is obliged to stop again, as the real consequence of the placebo contraction makes itself known: Siobhan’s belly-muscles squeezed tight enough to wake one of the babies. The one crammed in next to her kidney, it seems; she can feel their thrashing localized there. 

Siobhan massages her distended side, grimacing. “Oh, don’t,” she says down to her stomach. “You know you’ll wake the others—fuck,” Siobhan sighs. Too late—the painful kicks are spreading across her belly. 

Siobhan’s waddle is even more pronounced as she shuffles to the bed, laying back to give herself a bellyrub, hoping to quiet the five squirming babies in her gut. 

[queenshelby]

Our Little Secret (Part 19)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity

Following mediation with Danielle and, within a short ten-minute walk, Cillian and Siobhan arrived at a bar downtown which was well known for its delicious cocktails and extensive wine lists. 

As they entered the bar, the scent of premium liquor and appetizers lingered in the air as if conjuring a promise of pleasure to come and Siobhan was quick to order two Whiskey Sours for them, which was a beverage that her brother would not usually drink.

"What is this, Siobhan? Are they out of beer?" Cillian chuckled as his sister handed him a drink, causing her to roll her eyes at him.

"You're such a lightweight, aren't you?" she giggled as he sipped his whiskey sour and grimaced slightly before responding, "Oh, please, I can hold my own. Just not...whatever this is..." Cillian chuckled and Siobhan laughed heartily, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement before she spotted a familiar face, namely her colleague Amanda. 

Amanda was quick to wave at Siobhan, who immediately abandoned her conversation with her brother to greet the older woman. Amanda wore a sleek black dress that hugged her curvaceous form, her short dark hair framing her angular face like a striking portrait. She looked like a model and Cillian watched Siobhan approach her and exchange whispers with her before pulling her over towards Cillian. 

"Cillian," she began. "This is my workmate and friend, Amanda O'Connor. She is from Cork too," Siobhan then explained and Cillian's interest piqued.

Amanda's gaze fell upon him, scrutinizing him with a mix of surprise and intrigue. "It is a pleasure to meet you Cillian," Amanda said, biting her lower lip. 

"Likewise," Cillian replied, offering her a warm smile, which caused Amanda's pulse to skip a beat.

"So, what brings you here, Am?" Siobhan asked, her voice softening as she studied her friend. "I mean, it takes a lot to drag you away from your work."

The corners of Amanda's mouth curled upwards, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Well, I thought I needed a break from the case I am working on and decided to unwind a bit. I actually have taken two weeks off now," she explained while looking at Cillian directly, sending an irresistible vibe that even the dullest person could notice.

A few moments passed without any sound but the soft hum of music playing in the background creating a comfortable silence between them and then all three of them talked, about work, legal cases and politics while sharing a bottle of wine before, after a little while, Siobhan called it a night, leaving Amanda and Cillian to their own devices. 

For some reason, Amanda seemed intrigued by Cillian. The way he carried himself, his self-confidence, and that unique aura about him that attracted her instantly were all factors driving her feelings wild, and she couldn't help but find herself wondering how things might turn out if she allowed herself to enjoy a little flirting with him. 

"So, Cillian," Amanda started, her tone low and husky now that Siobhan had left, "Tell me, how do you spend your time outside acting? Any other hobbies or interests?" 

"I like music, jogging, reading," Cillian replied casually, "meeting up with my sister and her attractive friends," he teased, his piercing blue eyes met hers, and Amanda felt an electric charge pass through her body.

"I take this as a compliment, Mr Charming," Amanda remarked jokingly, unable to mask the sudden spark of attraction that ignited beneath her skin.

"I am just being honest," Cillian responded, grinning boyishly and Amanda raised an eyebrow, amused by his boldness.

"Speaking about honesty, I live just around the corner from here," Amanda offered, taking a sip of her wine and winking suggestively. "And I am about to go home, so..." she paused before asking "would you care to join me? For company, I mean."

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Cillian replied, shrugging nonchalantly, yet inwardly he knew that something exhilarating lay ahead, especially considering the sultry tension simmering between them.

As they exited the bar, the cool breeze caressed their faces, carrying the intoxicating aroma of blooming flowers. Their eyes locked momentarily, each sensing the palpable chemistry brewing between them as they walked side by side, the moon cast its ethereal glow on their path.

Amanda led Cillian down a dimly lit alleyway lined with graffiti-laden walls. The flickering shadows danced on their faces, adding an air of mystery to their encounter.

Amanda, with her athletic build and green eyes, exuded confidence and poise, while Cillian's rugged charm and piercing blue eyes radiated an undeniable magnetism. As they continued walking along the cobblestone streets, the scent of damp earth mingling with the sweet perfume of blossoms filled the air. Amanda gently brushed aside a loose strand of dark hair, exposing her graceful neck. Her fingers grazed Cillian's arm, and a shiver coursed through his veins as he felt the heat of her touch.

"How much further?" Cillian queried, breaking the silence that followed their last exchange.

Amanda smirked. "Not far," she said. 

"Good, because I don't know how much longer I can keep my hands of you," Cillian replied flirtatiously, peeking sideways at Amanda whose green eyes sparkled playfully under the shadowy street lamps.

"Oh really?" Amanda gasped, feigning shock. "That so? Well, I guess we'll see about that." Amanda chuckled, brushing past Cillian's shoulder as they reached the entrance to her apartment building.

"Ready?" Amanda asked, turning back to look at Cillian who stood only a couple steps behind her.

His presence made her feel like the ground beneath her feet was shaking, and the intensity of his gaze made her knees weak. "Sure, let's go," Cillian replied, reaching out to gently grasp Amanda's hand, intertwining their fingers together. His grip was firm yet gentle, sending a surge of electricity coursing through their bodies.

As they ascended the stairs leading to Amanda's apartment, the air thickened with anticipation and unspoken desires. The creak of footsteps echoed in the stairwell, each step closer to her destination feeling like an eternity.

Amanda hesitated for a second before opening the door to her apartment, her heart pounding against her chest. In the dim light, she gestured for Cillian to follow her inside, and he did. Once inside, she turned to face him, their gazes locking in a heated stare. The air crackled with anticipation, and the room seemed to get smaller with every passing second.

"Would you like something to drink?" Amanda asked, trying to hide the anxious tremor in her voice but he shook his head and simply closed the gap between them.

His lips pressed firmly against hers, his tongue slipping past her parted teeth with a slow, sensual kiss, their bodies melding together as one. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he ran his hands up and down her exposed thighs underneath her dress. It felt like they'd been making out forever, standing there in the middle of her living room while the wind whistled loudly outside, threatening to expose them both to the world beyond these four walls.

"You know what, Cillian?" Amanda murmured breathlessly, pressing her forehead against his.

"I want you. Right now." Cillian kissed her again, deeply and passionately, his hands roaming across her bare shoulders and back. He lifted her effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, spreading her legs with his knee. She gasped, clutching his shirt as their tongues dueled furiously.

"I need more than kisses, Cillian," Amanda whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible. "I want you inside me."

He nodded, his breathing ragged as he pulled her dress over her head, tossing it aside. Her bra followed, revealing her luscious breasts.

Cillian's eyes widened, his breathing growing heavier as he stared entranced at her naked flesh. He reached out, cupping her bosom, squeezing gently as if assessing their weight. Amanda moaned softly, her nipples stiffening beneath his touch. She grabbed his belt buckle, undoing it hastily, revealing his erect cock.

"Fuck," Cillian muttered, running his fingers through her silken hair while staring intently at her tits. "I want every inch of you." Amanda arched her back, presenting herself willingly to him.

Her hands slid down his chest, tracing lines of desire as they explored his toned torso. She reveled in the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips, the rippling muscles flexing in response to her touch. The intimacy of it all overwhelmed her senses, and she eagerly awaited his next move.

"Cillian," she murmured, her voice hushed and seductive. "Fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard."

He obliged, swiftly removing his clothes until he stood fully naked before her. His erection stood proudly, evidence of his arousal for her.

Amanda reached out, wrapping her fingers around his hardness, guiding it towards her wet pussy. Cillian groaned, his hips thrusting forward, entering her with a single forceful plunge. Amanda cried out, her body arching back as she savored the exquisite sensation of his massive cock filling her tight hole.

"Harder, Cillian," she urged, clutching his backside, urging him deeper. "Fuck me harder!"

Cillian complied, his powerful strokes driving Amanda wild, her cries echoing through the apartment. Each thrust sent shockwaves coursing through her body, intensifying her pleasure. She clawed at his muscular arms, her nails digging into his flesh as she struggled to maintain her balance on the countertop.

Each thrust brought them closer to the edge, the raw power of their connection overwhelming them both. Cillian gripped her waist tightly, his movements becoming faster and more urgent. Their bodies slapped together rhythmically, their sweat mixing in a potent cocktail of lust and desire until, after almost an hour, they both reached their release together.

"Fuck," Cillian growled through gritted teeth, his entire body convulsing as he pumped his seed deep inside of Amanda.

She threw her head back, screaming with ecstasy as her orgasm consumed her whole being. Her nails dug into his back, her fingers gripping him tightly as her muscles contracted violently.

Afterwards, they collapsed onto the countertop, panting heavily, their bodies slick with sweat.

"Wow," Amanda managed to utter, her voice strained and broken. "That was amazing."

Cillian merely nodded, too exhausted to speak.

His breath came in shallow gasps, his muscles still quivering from the intense workout they'd just shared. After several minutes, they finally mustered enough strength to separate themselves, stepping away from each other and allowing their bodies to cool down.

"Thank you," Amanda whispered, her voice still hoarse from their passionate encounter. "That was incredible."

Cillian smiled tenderly, his gaze never wavering from her face. "No, thank you," he replied sincerely.

"You took me completely by surprise tonight. I wasn't expecting...this."

Amanda smiled shyly, her cheeks reddening slightly. "Neither was I," she admitted quietly. "But sometimes life throws us curveballs, you know? And we just have to swing for the fences."

Cillian laughed softly, nodding in agreement. "Indeed," he agreed before suggesting another round in her bedroom. 

***

Meanwhile, you were alone at your new house for the first time, expecting Cillian to come over for a bit to help you settle in, just like had promised. You couldn't stop thinking about the mediation session earlier today and how upset Cillian must have been.

"I just wished I could be there for him," you thought to yourself, pacing restlessly around the living room. "Maybe I should call him?" you mused, glancing at your phone but, when you did, he did not answer.

Frustration gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, but you tried to push it away, focusing instead on the task at hand - settling into your new home.

You tried to call him again a little later and, again, there was no answer, which was something that worried you. 

It was unlike Cillian to ignore your calls and you feared it meant something had gone wrong during mediation. So, you decided to text him. "How did it go?" you asked and, eventually, after about half an hour

of calling and texting Cillian, he finally called you back.

"Hey," he sounded tired, but he quickly changed his tone to show he was happy hearing from you. "I am sorry I didn't let you know earlier, but all went well," he confirmed, his voice still sounding exhausted as, in the background, you heard some music and a woman calling his name. 

The woman did not sound like Siobhan, which instantly confused you. Yet, you knew that Cillian's personal affairs were really none of your business.

"Are you still coming over tonight? I made lasagna," you asked before telling him that the kitchen in your new house was well equipped, so you took advantage of it. "It's almost ready. Do you want to drop by?" you invited him, adding that it would be great to see him.

"Shit, I am sorry," Cillian stammered. "I wish I could, but I can't make it tonight," he apologized, his voice growing softer and more apologetic as, unbeknownst to you, he was with Amanda, the woman he had met at the bar.

"I am meeting with my agent," he lied, his voice strained and desperate. "Sorry, Y/N," he breathed heavily, his thoughts racing frantically as he searched for words to comfort you. "Perhaps I can swing by tomorrow in the morning?" he attempted to soothe you, his voice quivering slightly.

Your heart plummeted at his words, and you swallowed hard, struggling to find any words to respond. "It's fine Cillian, don't stress. I have classes in the morning," you informed him, swallowing down the disappointment that washed over you since, over the past week, you felt as though you had connected with each other again somehow.

"I will see you at the ultrasound appointment at 3 o'clock tomorrow though, right?" you added brightly, hoping your cheerful tone would convince him that everything was okay.

"Of course," Cillian replied before wishing you a good night. "I will see you tomorrow afternoon," he repeated before hanging up the phone and returning to his rendezvous with Amanda while you decided to put on the TV.

The house you were in came furnished and whilst everything was beautifully arranged and designed, you couldn't help but feel a little out of place in home like this.

You were young, now living on your own in a house not even most middle aged people could afford. 

It was beautiful, with high ceilings, large windows that overlooked the city, and rooms filled with modern furniture. Everything seemed perfect, except for the fact that you were alone. Your friends all still lived with their parents or at shared accommodation in town, except for Cillian of course.

Cillian was much older than you and lived just around the corner, but you knew that you could not expect his company regularly, even in spite of your little arrangement. 

You could not help but feel a twinge of longing for him, but you brushed it away, determined to enjoy your newfound independence. "I have to learn to let go," you reminded yourself, watching the evening news with a glass of your favorite soda in hand while wondering how, on earth, you will cope bringing a child into this world.

To be continued...

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[sloanesallow]

give you my wild

Nearly a decade into their marriage, Sebastian and Sloane lead a peaceful, idyllic life in a coastal cottage with their toddler-aged son, Antony. As their anniversary approaches and they have the opportunity to spend some much-needed alone time together, Sebastian wonders if it is time for their family to grow. ✨Sebastian Sallow x F!MC Tags: NSFW! MDNI! Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, overstimulation, dirty talk, and Sebastian's fanon breeding kink. Also domestic bliss, sharing a bath, tooth-rotting fluff and Dad!Seb. [Read on Ao3] | [Read on Wattpad]

The Sallow homestead is a quaint, modest cottage on the English coast, surrounded by rolling hills and sprawling fields as far as the eye can see. It is paradise for Sebastian and his wife, their own little slice of heaven away from the hustle and bustle of the wizarding and muggle worlds.  

Wife—Sebastian’s lips turn up in a lopsided grin at the word as he thinks about how lucky he is to have Siobhan—Sloane—as his bride. Ten years now he’s known her, and for ten years they have been inseparable, blossoming from friends to lovers to soulmates to parents. Every day is a blessing, the peace hard-earned and well-deserved after the turmoil of their younger years.

The decision to settle down came only after the birth of their son, Antony. His arrival was not necessarily planned, but welcomed nonetheless, allowing the married couple to retire very early from their Ministry positions. Instead of traveling the world as a curse-breaking-healer duo, the two focus on research while raising their young tot. To Sebastian’s everlasting surprise, fatherhood comes naturally to him, and he thrives, wondering why he ever cared about notoriety when life’s greatest treasure is family—home.

Despite the isolation, their location is in close enough proximity to Nottingham, where Sloane’s father resides. A few hours by muggle means, Mr. Sloane—Grandpa Sloane—is always ready to lend a helping hand. He is the type of parental figure Sebastian always dreamed of after losing his parents, forever grateful for the older man’s patience and guidance. That, and Mr. Sloane’s willingness to care for his grandson.

Even though Antony is a quiet and well-behaved child, he gets into his fair share of messes if left alone for even a second. At nearly three, he is an avid explorer, constantly covered in dirt from the garden, running in and out of the house to show off whatever bug or amphibian he’d dug up. His interests would not be an issue if Antony wasn’t also obsessed with sticking anything and everything in his tiny mouth, as if to learn more by taste.

Maintaining intimacy while nurturing such a curious child is not an easy task, especially when Sebastian and Sloane are still so enamored with one another, even after all these years. The so-called honeymoon period has endured, a bliss neither seem interested in losing. More times than not they are interrupted by the pitter-patter of feet in the hallway, and even when they do manage to copulate, it is usually with hushed whispers and rushed movements to avoid waking their son.

There’s been even more of a dry spell as of late, between Sebastian’s research and Sloane’s travels to Hogwarts and Beauxbatons to lecture students on advancements in Herbology. Antony has been rather clingy too, insisting on sleeping between his mummy and duddy every evening.

Suffice it to say, Sebastian is eager to spend some time alone with his beloved wife. Very eager. With their wedding anniversary on the horizon, it is the perfect opportunity for Antony to stay with Grandpa Sloane in Nottingham for the weekend. His son barely mumbles a goodbye, too distracted by the barn cats and the promise of a sweet treat to notice his father apparating away.

The sun is setting by the time Sebastian returns to the seaside cottage, the chilly salt air tousling his dark hair as he makes his way up the stone pathway. Smoke billows from the chimney and he can smell the Shepard’s pie Sloane is cooking as he approaches the front door.

“Sweetheart, I’m home!”

Sloane doesn’t seem to register his return, continuing her idle humming in the kitchen. Sebastian quickly shucks his boots, hanging his cap and coat on the nearby rack before moving closer to where she’s standing in front of the largest counter, diligently kneading a large mass of dough. He watches her as he rolls up his sleeves, a content smile on his face as he wonders for the millionth time what luck or divine intervention led her to him, made her stay. There’s a nervous flutter in his gut when she peeks over her shoulder and greets him with a bright smile.

“Welcome home, dear.”

Is it possible to fall more in love every day? They’ve grown up together, matured from the fire of youthful love to the deep, abiding connection of a shared life. Well, mostly matured. That passion is still present, a burning flame ignited each time their eyes meet. Sebastian struggles to tamper it down as he closes the distance, resting his hands on her hips, leaning over her shoulder to kiss her cheek.

“How was the trip?” she asks. He can feel the muscles in her back and shoulders flexing as she continues working the dough. “Is Ant alright?”

“He’s fine,” Sebastian murmurs, already distracted by his racing thoughts and the anticipation of what the evening might bring. “I think Ant loves his Daideo more than us.”

“I think Ant loves ice cream,” Sloane suggests, plopping the rolled dough into a large baking dish and setting it aside. She dusts the countertop with more flour, white specks sticking to her fingers and apron. “That’s at the top of every toddler’s hierarchy.”

Sebastian hums in response, unable to resist the urge to kiss her exposed neck. He smirks when she sucks in a sharp breath, the subtle tilt of her head inviting him to continue. Still, she squirms when he wraps his arms snug around her waist, pressing himself close and trapping her between his body and the countertop.

“Seb!” she playfully scolds as he nips the soft skin, kissing a trail up to the shell of her ear. “You can’t wait a few more hours?” she asks. “Aren’t you hungry?”

He slides one of his hands up to fondle a clothed breast. “Starved.” 

“Sebastian!”

“Can you blame me?” he softly chuckles, not-so-subtly rolling his hips so she can feel how impatient he really is. “How long has it been since we’ve had the house to ourselves, hmm?”

Sloane sighs, melting under his touch. Too easy. “At least let me wash up, first. I smell like…mashed potatoes, hardly an aphrodisiac.”

“You don’t know that,” he jokes, barely pausing in his lavishing of her neck. He undoes the first few buttons on the back of her blouse so he can kiss her shoulder, too. “Sweetheart, you could be covered in troll guts, and I’d still devour you.”

Sloane’s laugh melts into a delighted moan as Sebastian continues, bunching the fabric of her skirt up until he can snake an eager hand beneath. He strokes her thigh before squeezing the flesh of her bottom, grinning at the silky feel of her underwear.

“These are new,” he comments, appreciatively.

“From my last trip to Paris,” she explains with bated breath.

“Bénis soient les français.”

He slides his fingers between her clenched thighs and groans at the warm slick he finds, the thin fabric saturated with her arousal. Slipping past the barrier, he rubs two fingers through her folds and up to circle her clit with a featherlight touch, one that makes her buck against his palm. Sloane’s head lulls even more to the side as she whimpers and rocks her hips, seeking friction.

“That,” he whispers against her ear as he slowly sinks his fingers inside her heat. She clenches around him and moans as he drags his digits back before plunging back in.  “That is my favorite sound in the world, love. The sound of you falling apart under my touch.”

“I’ve been dreaming about tonight, Sloane, of having you all to myself,” Sebastian is reminded of just how long it’s been since they had the freedom to be loud, how long it’s been since she’s screamed his name in ecstasy. “Do you still want to wait?” he teases, darkly chuckling when she quickly shakes her head.  

He crooks his fingers, expertly finding the sweet spot that makes her gasp and knees tremble. Sloane grips the edge of the counter as if it is the only thing anchoring her to the earth, and Sebastian presses his weight against her to keep her upright.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, lips trailing down the slope of her shoulder. “Be a good girl and come on my fingers. I want you drenched before I take you properly.”

Sloane’s core is a vice as she unravels, the back of her head resting against his shoulder as her mouth falls open in a silent scream. A surge of possessive pride courses through him—he is the only man who can gift her this pleasure, he is the only man with the honor of seeing such vulnerability. She is still shaking when he retracts his fingers, bringing them to his lips to taste her sweet nectar.

She slumps forward a little, breathless. “Jesus—”

Sebastian knows he’s done a good job when she gets sacrilegious. He doesn’t offer much of a respite before spinning her around, swallowing her surprised shriek of laughter with a hungry kiss that is all teeth and tongue. He effortlessly lifts her by the waist, perching her on the edge of the flour-dusted countertop. Sloane senses the urgency, humming against his lips as her hands drift from his messy hair down to the clasps of his trousers. He leans away for a gulp of air and to watch as she tugs at the fabric, bunching up his shirt and pushing his pants down just enough to expose his cock.

“Fuck,” he hisses as soon as her delicate fingers wrap around him, the softness of her palm threatening to make him come right then. He blinks hard—he won’t last, but they have all evening, all weekend, to be slow. Right now, he’s desperate, needy for the feel of her cunt around his throbbing shaft. Her name comes out as a deep grumble, “Sloane.”

When he snaps his eyes open, her stormy gaze is already locked with his, pupils blown and expression just as wild as his. Sebastian doesn’t mean to be so rough when he yanks her hips to the edge of the counter, but her breathy laughter and sound of approval as she falls back is enough encouragement to spur him on. He bunches her dress up again, scooping her legs up so her ankles rest on the width of his shoulders.

With one hand he grips himself, pumping his length with a few strokes as he presses against the crux of her thighs. He pulls the soiled band of her panties to the side and drags the swollen tip of his cock against her entrance. If it were any other time, Sebastian might tease her more, edge both of their pleasure until it is too much to bear. But he is already hanging by a thread, the friction of silk and the tight, velvet heat of her encompassing him, welcoming him home.

He grips her thighs tight, pulling her closer as he slides halfway before snapping his hips forward to fill her completely. Sloane’s sharp gasp morphs into a deep moan and he repeats the motion over and over again. The recoil of his frenzied pace rattles through her body and she grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white as the flour that dusts the air and their bodies.  

The kitchen is filled with the sounds of their labored breathing and slapping flesh, names murmured between pleading whimpers and desperate moans. Sebastian is unyielding, transfixed by the sight of his wife spread out beneath him, so beautifully undone as the pleasure he gives pushes her ever closer towards another release. As glorious as the image is, he can’t wait to shed their clothes and have his way with her more thoroughly, to worship every inch of her skin with his tongue and hands until she’s a writhing mess, begging for more.

He can feel the tight coil of his own release winding in his gut, his movements erratic as he pushes them both over the edge. With one hand braced on the countertop, he leans forward, almost folding her petite body in half as he loses the tempo and ruts against her like the uncaged animal he is. Sloane grips his forearm, nails biting into his flesh as her inner walls flutter and her body seizes. She cries out in blissful agony, and Sebastian echoes the mind-blowing sentiment, collapsing against her after spilling himself deep.

When there’s enough energy for their eyes to meet, they share a knowing grin—the night has only just begun.

After taking some time to satisfy their more practical hunger, the two eventually make their way to the bath, leaving the kitchen a mess to be cleaned up in the morning…or perhaps the morning after that. If Sebastian has it his way, they aren’t going to be leaving the bedroom any time soon.

For now, however, the two lay comfortably in the large, claw-footed bathtub of their ensuite, the heated water relaxing their aching muscles and washing the day away. Sebastian rests his head back against the porcelain rim, eyes closed as the steam soothes his body and soul. Sloane is settled against him, her back flush with his chest, their arms resting across her waist beneath the bubbly surface.

Silence used to be unnerving until he met her, learning that two people could simply exist. Sloane is the only person who understands him without the need for words, interpreting his moods and emotions with a simple glance or touch. To think only ten years have passed when it already feels like a lifetime—he hopes the love between them lasts for an eternity.

She lets out a contented sigh, her pinned up hair tickling his chin as she adjusts. He peeks open an eye, letting out his own cozy hum. His words are heavy and mumbled against her temple, “dun wunna get out.”  

“Me either,” she whispers with a breathy chuckle. “Are we losing our youthful energy?”

“I certainly hope not,” Sebastian huffs, tightening his hold around her. He and Sloane have always had a very active sex life—fervent, wild passion, unable to keep their hands off one another. “The day I can’t pleasure you with my body is the day you take me to St. Mungos to be put out of my misery.”

“So, in ten years?”

Sebastian pinches her thigh in response to her tease, causing her to yelp and squirm with laughter. “At least we’ll have more privacy by then, to experience embarrassing sex injuries without traumatizing our son.”

“Ant will be off to Hogwarts, and we’ll have an empty house.”

He smiles at the shared assumption Antony will inherit magic. It’s not always a forgone conclusion with wizarding parents, but he doubts their inquisitive son is a squib. Another thought crosses his mind, and he shifts to sit up a little, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Would we really be on our own?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Sloane is momentarily puzzled. “Oh, well…I suppose father will still visit, though as he gets older it’ll be best if we go to him—”

Sebastian traces his fingers across her abdomen until his palm is flush against her skin. “I’m not talking about Daideo.”

Judging by her soft inhale, she realizes her husband’s meaning. The thought of growing their little family has been tickling at the edges of his mind, the idea of Sloane growing round with another child and glowing with maternal beauty—it is a vision that makes his heart swell and his loins ache with excitement. 

“You know…” he drawls out his words, carefully pressing his lips against her damp skin. “I always thought we’d have more. A whole brood to envy the Weasley’s. Mornings filled with the patter of tiny footsteps and laughter…a house full of so much love.”

She doesn’t respond at first, her body somewhat tense beneath his touch. He glances up at her profile to see a hesitation in her expression he didn’t expect. As long as he knew Sloane, he thought she wanted the same—a large family to call their own. Had something changed?

“You don’t—”

“I do,” she quickly affirms, turning sideways in his embrace to look at him. “Perhaps I’ve been selfish in wanting to keep things the way they are. We’ve been so blessed with Ant…a part of me is…a little scared of changing that.”

Sebastian’s gaze softens and he dips his face closer to kiss her mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he whispers, smiling against her lips. “I’m scared too. What if…our baby is a dark wizard, or worse, a Gryffindor?”

“Be serious!” she chides through her snickering, playfully smacking his chest.

“I am!” Sebastian is equally amused, snatching her hand to lace their fingers together. She studies him, as if trying to determine how sincere he is about expanding their family. He brings her hand up to kiss her knuckles, the cold metal of her wedding band against his lips. “I want another child, Siobhan.”

The silver flecks in her storm-colored eyes shimmer as Sloane realizes immediately this isn’t some flippant suggestion, but a genuine choice, a heartfelt desire for their future. He studies her face, watching as she thickly swallows and slowly exhales, processing his words. The corner of her lip twitches as her cheeks flush with a brighter shade of pink, and not from the steam.

Sebastian takes that as a good sign.

“Even if I were to agree,” she eventually replies, not quite conceding to the idea, even as she bites back a smile. “It wouldn’t happen as soon as you say. I’d have to stop taking my contraceptives, not to mention the herbal tea you think smells like feet.”

“Because it does smell like feet,” he mutters, leaning forward to pick up the slow trail of kisses along her neck and collarbone. “Doesn’t mean we can’t…practice in the meantime.”

His grin widens into something wicked as he thinks to himself; “aren’t those the same precautionary potions you were taking when you fell pregnant with Antony?”

“That’s…beside the point.”

“Is it?” he hums. “That just means…well, I managed to beat the odds before, so who says I can’t do it again?”

Before Sloane can respond, Sebastian is lifting her from the tub as he stands, the soapy water splashing over the edge and onto the oakwood floor. She clings to him, a surprised shriek quickly turning into laughter as he carries her from the bathroom to their marital bed. He places her carefully across the fluffy duvet, her blonde hair spreading out across the pillows like a golden halo.

He covers her body with his own, hips slotted between her legs as he kisses her, their breaths hitching as his arousal presses against her belly. The levity fades as Sebastian’s hands smooth over her body, slow caresses pulling little sighs from her lips. It’s a struggle to hold back from ravishing her like he did before, his movements measured as he places kisses across her chest, balancing his weight on one arm so he can cup a breast in his hand.

Sloane arches into the sensation, her craned back as his lips wrap around a nipple, sucking it into a pebbled peak. He repeats the action with her other breast, spurred on by her labored breath and tiny moans. Her skin is still rosy from the heat of the bath, flecked with droplets of water that he laps up on his slow descent to the apex of her thighs. Sebastian spreads her a little wider, fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs as he settles before her bared sex.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across her sensitive skin. He glances up to lock onto her gaze. “The mother of our child—our children.”

Sloane’s only response is a strangled moan as he drags his tongue along the seam of her folds, licking up from her entrance to her clit. He wraps his lips around the bud, alternating between gentle sucks and flicks of his tongue. Her hips twitch up against Sebastian as he expertly coaxes out her pleasure, quickly bringing her to the edge of ecstasy.

Her breath hitches again as he moves one hand to assist, spreading her arousal with his tongue before plunging two fingers past her slick petals. Her core clenches and flutters around his invading fingers, a sharp whimper escaping her throat with each thrust and curl within her core.

“Right—right there,” she rasps, her words dissolving into another shaky moan as he strokes deep, fingertips rubbing against the spongy spot within her that sparks a tidal wave. Sloane trembles, hands snapping to clasp at Sebastian’s hair as her body tenses. “Ahh—Seb—Sebastian!”

He lets out an appreciative groan against her, lapping up her sweet release like a man starved. He’s consumed, rocking his hips against the sheets to give his aching cock some temporary relief. The exquisite sight of Sloane writing under his touch is something he’ll never tire of. Sebastian keeps his fingers wedged inside of her, gently coaxing her through the sensations as her walls flutter with the aftershocks of her climax.

“Mmm…” Sloane sighs as he gradually pulls away, giving her sensitive folds one last pass with his tongue before kissing her quivering thighs. He eventually pushes himself so he’s kneeling before her, one hand caressing her leg while he strokes his length with the other.

“Sloane,” her name comes out as a husky sound, a plea and a question all in one. He lowers himself, teasing the tip of cock against her, ready to plunge into her depths. “I need you to say it. Tell me you want—” he darts his tongue out to lick his lips, prodding against her entrance. “Tell me you want another child with me.”

“Yes,” she pants, eyes wide as she stares up at him. Sloane reaches for him and begins to loop her legs up around his waist, guiding him to her heat. She manages a reply between gulping gasps. “Sebastian, yes. I want—I need you to—” a moan interrupts her train of thought, and she presses her hips up, needy as ever for him to take her. “Mmm…please, please—f—fuck—a baby into me…”

Not expecting such filthy words from his wife’s mouth, something wild takes a hold of Sebastian’s mind. He lets out a gruff sound, something between a deep growl and rumbling moan.

“Roll over,” he grunts, not bothering to wait before leaning back on his knees to help flip her onto her stomach. Sloane lets out a surprised squeak as he yanks her up by the waist so she’s on her hands and knees.

He traces over each knob of her spine with his thumbs, squeezing the flesh of her arse as he widens his stance behind her, spreading her legs further apart with his own. She pushes back against him, seeking his touch where she needs it most.

“Please,” she whimpers, looking over her shoulder at him with a half-lidded gaze.

Sebastian struggles to maintain his composure, steadying himself as unfiltered desire spills from her lips. Her plea, laced with the promise of creating new life, stokes the fire within him into a blazing inferno. With a less than gentle grip on her hips, he positions himself once more, pushing the crown of him just past her entrance before pulling her back to fill her in one powerful stroke.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, the hot stretch of her around his girth wiping his brain of any coherent thought. All that is left is the primal need to claim what is already his, mark Sloane from the inside and plant his seed deep within her fertile ground. It’s an overwhelming feeling, all encompassing, and one that surges through him with every thrust.

At first his movements are slow and deliberate, eyes locked on the lewd sight of his cock pulling out of her before driving back in. But it doesn’t take long before Sebastian picks up the pace, his pelvis slapping against her thighs as she rocks back to meet him. Every sound that escapes Sloane’s mouth is pure sin—sweet, high-pitched cries intermixed with the most ragged moans he’s ever heard.

He can feel the tension of her body as it responds to his unrelenting force, his rhythm faltering as her core clenches tightly around him. Sloane’s orgasm shakes through her entire body, her limbs spasming as she cries out, her back a beautiful arch. Sebastian control frays at the edges and he spirals, falling over the edge after her with one last surge of his hips. With a loud, guttural roar, he comes, the intensity of his release blurring his vison.

Sloane’s arms wobble until her front half collapses onto the mattress. Sebastian keeps her propped up as he gasps for breath, clutching her waist and hips as his cock continues to twitch inside her. The overstimulation causes her to shiver, and she whines into the pillow as he lets out a litany of curses and incoherent praise.

When he finally, painstakingly pulls away, his eyes snap down to the pearlescent evidence of his release trickling out of her and staining her thighs. By some miracle, Sebastian is able to stay upright, swaying a little as he rests on his heels and tries to blink the haze from his vision. Sloane slumps and he catches her boneless form, easing her down against the sheets where she practically melts with a sated sigh.

As soon as she is splayed out on her back again, Sebastian collapses across her petite form, barely keeping his weight from suffocating her as he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the aroma of her sweat-slick skin. Her arms lazily encircle his neck, and he grins as a raspy laugh falls from her lips.

“Oh my God,” she softly exclaims, her hands smoothing across his shoulders, one threading through the hair at the back of his neck. “What was that?”

“Dunno,” is all he can say with equally breathless amusement.

Perhaps of his own volition, or because he’s still burning with a longing to see her fat with his child, he lowers his groin down to drag against her mons. They both hiss at the contact, Sloane’s nails biting into his skin. Sebastian lifts himself up just enough so he can glance down between their bodies.

“Is it too much?” he whispers, wondering if he’d even be able to stop if she says it is.

But Sloane shakes her head and arches against him, silently pleading for more, as if she is also being driven by some unseen force. He shifts his balance, lifting one of her legs to slip around his waist before guiding himself back to her awaiting centre. It might be his imagination, but he can almost feel his cock pushing his come back into the depths of her channel. Sebastian bites down on his bottom lip until the taste of copper hits his tongue.

He stays close, their chests pressed against each other as he rolls his hips, keeping a languid pace for both their sakes. Sloane sighs, hitching her other leg up to ensure he strokes deep, and rests her head against his as he pants against her shoulder.

“I love you,” she declares, and it doesn’t matter that it’s the thousandth time she’s said it, the words encompass Sebastian in a warmth he never wants to leave.

He finds the strength to lift his head so their lips can crash together, matching the fervor below. He reaches to grab one of her arms, interlocking their fingers before pressing her hand into the mattress near her their heads. “I love you.”

Sebastian slips his other hand under her and lifts her hips, supporting her lower back as he grinds down, straining to keep himself balanced so he doesn’t crush her. It’s a gradual build this time, but the lingering sensitivity brings about their shared climax much sooner. Sloane’s breath hitches and her thighs tighten around his waist, her barely audible whimper preceding more whispered declarations of love. He spills again with a strained grunt and remains nestled against her as they gradually float down from a kind of bliss they write stories about.

Sebastian could drown in the storm of her eyes and the way she looks at him with all the affection in the world. He slides his hand across her waist to splay his fingers across her belly, the two sharing a quiet, knowing look. Realistically, he knew it was unlikely anything would come from their union—unions—this anniversary weekend. But that didn’t mean Sebastian couldn’t hope or pray that he and Sloane would be blessed with a child once again.

Little does he know.

Five years later

“Pancakes!”

“Oatmeal!”

“PANCAKES!”

“OATMEAL!”

Sebastian flicks his gaze from one child to the next, feeling a little more than frazzled as his twin boys argued, Cailean and Finlay debating as fiercely as any four-year-olds can. Their shouting turns into menacing glares, prompting Sebastian to glance at his eldest who was sitting at the table watching his siblings with an annoyed expression.

“What do you want, Ant?”

“To be excused,” the eight-year-old mumbles in reply.

Sebastian frowns, still unsure of how to deal with Antony’s sullen mood-swings. He looks at his youngest, Ewan, who was sitting in the highchair with a cheeky, toothless grin. At least he hasn't started talking in complete sentences—yet.

“PANCAKES!”

“OATMEAL!”

Cailean and Finlay start shouting again, this time chasing one another around the kitchen, prompting Ewan to erupt into a fit of giggles. Antony rolls his eyes and shakes his head, letting out an exasperated sigh that sounds well beyond his young years.

Sebastian never thought in a million years that at the age of thirty he would have four sons, his genetics wreaking havoc on his peaceful life and blessing him with nearly identical copies of himself. With the exception of the twin’s blonde locks and Ewan’s grey eyes, most days it feels like he is surrounded by children under the guise of Polyjuice. And they don't just look like him, either. They all have some aspect of his wild personality, making him mumble apologies to the afterlife—was he this much of a handful for his mother and father?

Maintaining his patience, Sebastian manages to stop the toddlers in their tracks, trying not to laugh at their scrunched-up faces when they attempt to protest.

“Hey now, remember we’re supposed to be quiet so mummy can sleep,” he explains in a gentle tone, thinking of his wife who has been plagued with a cold for the last few days. “Why don’t you all go outside and play—”

“NO!” the twins shout simultaneously, and Sebastian really considers he’s been cursed, the universe delivering him his karma in the form of two rambunctious offspring.

Cailean and Finlay wiggle out of their father’s grasp and attempt to run out of the kitchen, only to skid to a halt when they see their mother standing in the archway. She’s a little bleary from a restless sleep, but as beautiful as ever. The two flash sweet smiles, folding their hands behind their backs.  

“Now you’ve done it,” Antony mutters, scooting his chair up to stand. He plucks Ewan from the highchair, the babe reaching out to squish his older brother’s cheeks. They exit through the nearby door to the garden.

Sloane tilts her head as she observes the remaining two, who are trying their best to appear innocent. She tuts, shaking her head. “You heard your father.”

They are out of the house as if they’ve apparated, dashing through the kitchen door. “Yes, mother!”

With all four children outside, Sebastian sighs, welcoming Sloane’s embrace as she comes to stand next to him. He greets her with a soft peck, “sorry if we woke you.”

“It’s alright,” she says softly, plucking a stuck piece of parchment from his back that reads, dummy. Sloane stifles her laughter as Sebastian groans. “I’m saving this for later.”

He smirks, wrapping his arms around her waist as he rests his chin on her shoulder, the two glancing out the kitchen window to watch their children play. Antony is sitting in the grass with Ewan in his lap, chatting to his babbling baby brother about the plants and flowers that surround them as Cailean and Finlay run themselves ragged, screaming incoherent, toddler obscenities.

As hectic as the days are, Sebastian enjoys his life as a busy father and husband, finding comfort in the chaos. He kisses Sloane’s cheek, smiling against her skin. “I love you.”

She tilts her head back to look up at him and he raises a curious eyebrow at her devious expression. He nervously chuckles, “what is it?”

Sloane grins.

“I’m pregnant.”

[tornadotree]

Whether done intentionally or not, I like how the ways of Rida and Jodie trying to help Cam just allowed him to push them away whereas Siobhans allowed him to feel safe talking to her so much so he went towards her rather than pushed her away.

Jodie and Rida are worried about him, but they comment on his state in a way that I feel makes him defensive. Jodie sarcastically asks if he has a busy day ahead. Rida comments on it not being normal to watch so much daytime telly.

Jodie states "Look at the state of you," she says that he's "wallowing," that "it's been weeks since baby Chloe died" and questions whether something else is wrong after telling him they've all lost patients and they've never acted in such a way.

"Are you sure there's nothing else?"

He's unable to tell them there is something else and he feels worse for this because his friends seem burdened by his behaviour. He's not acting his usual self and this is brought up as a nuisance for Jodie and Rida from Cam's perspective rather than a concern.

"You should come to the Schwartz later." It's what he should do. Not what he wants, but what he should do to stop being so burdensome.

Siobhan, however, validates his struggles, telling him it's okay to feel that way. She offers a way for him to open up, reassuring him that "whatever it is, it's okay."

When he pushes back, she doesn't try and pull it out of him. She takes his word and tells him that they can talk about the babys death again-no "it was weeks ago" or "we've all lost patients." She doesn't try to make him feel worse for feeling this way. She tells him that everyone is in the same boat, reinforcing the fact he is not wrong for feeling this way and he is not alone.

She asks him if he'll attend the Schwartz later, telling him he doesn't have to do it for himself, but he can do it for the team. He hates everything about himself right now but this gives him something outside of himself to focus on. She confirms with him that Schwartz have helped him in the past, so maybe this may help him feel better too.

It's not to stop being so burdensome on those around him, it's for him.

When he's approached in the pub by Teddy, Jodie and Rida, they question whether drowning his sorrows is a good idea, another critique that he'll no doubt hate himself for. They tell him "We'll put you in a taxi-" they don't allow him a choice in the matter. Jodie tells him its a problem to drink when he is "the way he is at the moment"- again something he will take as a jab due to his fragile state.

And then he breaks.

He's been crowded by people with good intentions but who are allowing him the room to push them further and further away. And he takes that room and shoves them completely out of it.

But then Siobhan arrives.

She reassures him. "This isn't like you Cam." She wants to understand and she allows him that space to reflect. She knows he's not himself, and he needs to get out of the mindset that this is just how he is.

"Something else?" She's careful not to make any assumptions. She wants him to be able to get to a point where he can open up. She allows him that space to tell her.

"Tell me if I'm wide off the mark" again allowing him that agency he was denied with Jodie and Rida to talk about his feelings. She asks if he believes Bobby. He doesn't respond and she doesn't press him to. She tells him she can see he's hurting-again validating how he's feeling.

He says, "I trusted him."

She responds, "Of course you did."

She's relieving that blame on himself ever so slightly, she's soft and gentle in her approach, and she shows him the warmth and validation that he's needed all these years.