#is it good to help others? of course. now extend that sympathy you feel to animals.

[snekdood]

it feels good to be undeniably correct.

[moonstruckme]

Hi! I love your writing so much and was wondering if you could write Remus giving super lovey dovey aftercare to the reader? (Like maybe the reader gets really tired or has a bit of muscle pain after the deed and it’s just Rem taking care of her)

Thanks sm for requesting!

cw: definite implied smut, but no real details

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 798 words

It’s almost embarrassing that you’re hurting. You’d been talking big a little while ago, all I can take it and don’t stop, feels so good, and that had felt very (very) true at the time, but now that you’re coming down from your high, the ramifications of going so hard are catching up to you. You wish Remus wouldn’t notice, because it wasn’t long ago that he was telling you how good you were being for him and you’d hate to lose that reputation, but of course Remus misses nothing. 

He’s trailing a finger lazily up and down your side when he stops just shy of your hip. “You’re tense,” he murmurs, prodding carefully at your lower belly. “Are you cramping?”

“It’s not bad,” you try, and he frowns. “Just a little, uh, muscle pain.” 

“Dovey.” He pouts, and it’s almost comical, the mouth that had teased and bitten at you minutes before all pursed in sympathy. He begins rubbing your stomach with his palm tenderly, one hip bone to the other and back again. “Where does it hurt, love?”

“Right…there,” you hiss as he adds a bit of pressure, and Remus stops immediately. “And—and my legs.” 

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” He moves his other hand to rest on your thigh, like he can banish your pain with just his touch. “I knew I shouldn’t have been so rough with you.” 

“Worth it.” You grin at him, and you’re rewarded with a low chuckle. 

“Still, I think I’ll work on having a bit more restraint in the future.” Now it’s your turn to pout, and Remus thumbs affectionately at your cheek, following his touch with a kiss. “I’m gonna go get your heating pad, see if that helps. Just relax, yeah?”

You start to shiver after he goes, the slight chill in the room more apparent now that your blood isn’t flowing like it was. You’re considering going under the covers, but when Remus comes back he grabs one of his sweaters, passing it to you wordlessly as he plugs in your heating pad. The knowingness of the gesture warms your heart, and you wonder that you don’t see it glowing softly through the material of Remus’ sweater. He lifts up the hem, adjusting the heating pad over your stomach before letting it fall back in place. You widen your eyes at him pitifully, and Remus smiles as he leans down, obliging you with a sweet, lingering kiss before he sits on the bed and takes your leg in his hands. 

“It’s here, yeah?” he asks, pressing his fingertips to the taut muscles underneath your thigh. 

“Mhm.” 

“Alright, love, just straighten your leg out for me.” 

“Rem.” 

“Hm?”

You flush. “Can you not talk like that, please? I mean, right after?”

Remus’ smile is sheepish, but you don’t think you imagine the glint of smugness in his amber eyes. “Sorry, darling.”

You extend your leg on the bed, and Remus begins to knead at it, testing the stiffness of your muscles and then working it out with long, skilled fingers still sticky with sex. You make a sound in the back of your throat when he pushes at a particularly tight area, and Remus coos, dipping his head to drop a light, conciliatory kiss to the top of your thigh. 

“My poor, lovely thing,” he murmurs, resuming his ministrations even more gently than before. “Didn’t mean to put so much strain on you.” 

“Remus, please, I asked you to,” you sigh.

“Shh, darling. I’m talking to your leg.” 

You make a sound of startled amusement, but Remus keeps his composure, his expression grave as he sets down your thigh and moves to your other side, starting on the next. 

“It gets a kiss, but not me?” you ask, suffusing your tone with a good helping of neediness. 

“You’ve already had a kiss,” he reminds you, but doesn’t hold out more than a second after you pout, leaning over and taking your face in his hand. He squeezes your cheeks together, keeping your lips pushed out for him as he presses a kiss there, to your cheek, to your forehead. “My poor. Lovely. Girl,” he says between each one, dropping once more to your lips for good measure. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes.” You smile, not caring that it’s all mushed up in his hand. “But only if you mean it.” 

He rolls his eyes, feigning benevolence, but he can no longer suppress the lopsided curve of his lips. “I mean it,” he sighs. “Do you think I’d be offering you free reign of my chocolate stores if I didn’t mean it?”

You brighten. “Really?’

“Just for tonight,” he says sternly, but it’s all for show. He’ll give you anything you want, whenever it pleases you.

[thesummerestsolstice]

Part two of my series on Rivendell's resident guards. This post is about one of Thingol's old bodyguards and how she came to live in Rivendell. Here's part one, about the Feanorian lieutenant Hrivossa.

Thingol's Old Bodyguard: Celecoll

The name means "Silver Cloak;" she got it as an adult for being basically a shadow for Thingol and stopped using her other name (which she'd never been fond of) after that

She was born a bit after the Journey to Valinor, among the part of the Teleri that stayed behind

Her earliest years were spent being harassed by Morgoth's forces, one of her first memories is the day Thingol and Melian appeared in the Teleri camp to lead them to the peace and safety of Doriath

Ever since that moment, she's wanted to dedicate her life to the Sindarin king

As a young adult, she fought in many battles at Thingol's side before the girdle was ingrained enough to keep Doriath hidden, making her something of a war hero to the Sindar

She's deadly with about half a dozen weapons, and when she wasn't serving as a bodyguard, she often kept her skills sharp by ensuring that none of Morgoth's forces even thought about getting near the girdle

Still, after the girdle was established, she rarely ventured far out of it

She fully trusted Thingol and Melian's judgement on who should and shouldn't be into Doriath, so while she felt some sympathy for those who were turned away, she thought it was for the greater good

Now she had very little sympathy for the Noldor; murderers who showed up in Beleriand after thousands of years only to (in her mind) immediately antagonize Morgoth and start demanding Thingol risk the lives of everyone in Doriath to help them on their borderline insane mission to defeat a literal god

She saw herself as a protector, and was generally a gentle, kind soul with the Iathrim, always happy to spend a day helping some of her people plant that season's crops, or teaching some elflings basic swordplay (safely, of course)

But she had a very binary "us" and "them" view of the world, so the sense of responsibility she felt towards the Iathrim didn't extend to the other peoples of Middle-Earth

She didn't like Thingol asking for the Silmaril, but that was more because she thought Luthien should be able to marry when she wanted than because she had any moral qualms about Thingol taking the Silmaril and not giving it to the Noldor

Though she did notice that the Silmaril had some... worrying effects on him after he got it

Sometimes, he would spend days locked in his vault looking at it, and she'd have to pull him out to get him to eat and sleep

Still, as worried as she was, it was clear to her that Thingol wanted the Silmaril, that it made him happy, and she refused to go behind her king's back, even when some of her fellow guards wanted to

I mean, Doriath is still thriving– what's the problem if he spends more time out of the public eye? What harm could it cause?

Things continued like this right up until Thingol died as a direct result of the Silmaril, shortly followed by Melian forsaking Middle-Earth

This was an earth-shattering event for Celecoll

Her king, who she dedicated her whole life too, just died a pointless death on one of the few days she was not around to protect him, because of something she chose not to do and now the queen she put so much faith in is gone and so is the girdle

Lots of the Iathrim look to her to try and fix things, because she was still a hero for many of them

She handled this about as well as you would expect

By which I mean she packed her weapons and exiles herself out of guilt and the feeling that she'd horribly failed her kind and people and needed to do penance

As for how she eventually meets Elrond and moves to Rivendell, that's a story for part three

[cloverskentwells]

random snippet of a 73rd Games Victor Cato AU that probably wont see the light of day. For context: Cato is the D2M Tribute in Catching Fire instead of Brutus, and Katniss has vivid memories of his Games.

---

The Recap then transitions to District 2. Onstage stands the typical Victors I would expect from a Career District. To the right is Enobaria Salinas: obsidian hair cascading down her back in perfectly styled waves, baring her sharpened teeth to the world, dark eyes glowing embers of an emotion I would describe as excitement. A Two Victor being thrilled to reenter the Arena - no surprises there.

Next to her is a younger yet much larger man, eyebrows raised at the crowd as if arrogantly challenging them, jaw clenched tight, cold blue eyes looking directly at the camera with the obvious desire to intimidate. I know him because he's a recent Victor - Cato Hadley, from the Games before mine and Peeta's.

He was infamous for his terrifying brutality and unhinged nature, for how the necks of his fellow Tributes were little more than twigs in his unforgiving grip. What set him apart from his peers, however, was his unorthodox reaction to his District partner's death - Careers are no stranger to violence, and the Packs typically fight amongst themselves for the right to the crown once everyone else is gone.

Although I try to forget the Games after the mandatory watching as soon as they are over, for some reason his stayed with me, probably because it was so unusual. Watching him kneel beside his fallen partner and gently brush her bloodstained hair away from her face, hands shaky, begging her to stay with him, almost made him appear normal, like the rest of us.

Of course, he quickly returned to violence afterwards, and thankfully any misplaced feelings of sympathy I had faded. The Tribute who had killed Cato's partner was subjected to a more intense aggression than any of the others, but otherwise Cato might as well have been just like any other Two Victor. Even now, separated by a TV screen, I feel the fearful effects of his gaze locked on me, promising a sadistic end.

"He's one to watch out for," Haymitch seems to agree, but something in his voice softens.

"What was that girl's name? The one he went in with, who died?" Peeta's curiosity spreads to me, and I wait for an answer. The train speeds across the rails in a soothing glide motion, designed to prevent motion sickness, but acrid bile rises in my throat nonetheless.

"Clove," I whisper as I recall the name. He screamed it back to her when she called for his help, desperation making his voice crack. Also, I remember he did an interview with Caesar last year to promote his own Tributes, and the conversation somehow derailed to the swirl of dark ink across his chest that was made visible by the V neckline of his shirt. His face went completely white when Caesar commented on how his tattoo, evidently of her name, was "such a sweet way to pay homage to a dead partner."

Needless to say, he wasn't interviewed again. Why exactly I noticed any of this, I'm not sure.

"He and Clove had a history," is all the information Haymitch gives us. "And now he's going back in. Young, fresh from his previous Victory, and still as strong and Trained. A little crazier too. Stay as far away from him as you can, probably for your safety."

"I was planning on it," I mutter. Nothing good ever came from extended contact with a Career. Still, now I can't shake the image of him and that girl dying in his arms from my mind.

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Prompt: Kim/Kinn/Chay, fucking machines

“Does—does your brother—know you’re—” A deep moan cut off Kinn’s question. Across from him, Chay smiled sweetly. 

“Of course!” he chirped, sliding the silicone cocksleeve down Kinn’s length. “Hia taught me. Not everything, but a lot.” 

Not for the first time, Kinn thought of how much he loved Porsche, how blessed he was to have his lover—both Kittisawat’s, really—in his life. That blessing could also be a curse, however. Chay pumped the sleeve up and down, squeezing his hand around it to make it even tighter, until Kinn was aching to come. Then all at once he stopped. 

Evil little minx. Kinn gritted his teeth and groaned; if he complained this early on, Chay would only extend the torture. 

Giggling at his restraint, Chay attached the sleeve to the… contraption he’d rigged up and strapped Kinn and Kim into. No doubt courtesy of Arm. That bodyguard had access to all manner of awful things. Tankhun had little interest in sharing his bed with another, which meant he was forced to find his pleasures in other ways, and Arm was very good at finding new and inventive ways to fuck.

“Your turn,” Chay said, his voice overwhelmingly fond as he stepped around to Kim. 

Kim was, without a doubt, in a far worse state than Kinn. His cock throbbed with sympathy. 

Unlike Kinn, who’s spent most of the day in and out of meetings, Kim has been free to spend the last several hours under Chay’s careful, merciless attention. 

Chay had Kim bound to some kind of bench, lying on his stomach, his hips lifted and his legs indecently spread. The leather padding was slick with sweat, his entire body glistening and flushed. His hands were bound somewhere beneath him, and his ankles were tied to the legs of the bench. He could probably escape if he wanted to. Eventually. But until then, he could barely move. 

“How are you feeling, love?” Chay asked. He fiddled with the buckle at the back of Kim’s head and slid the gag out of his mouth. Kinn couldn’t see his face; he imagined his brother’s mouth was wrecked, his lips swollen and red already. 

“Angel, please—” Kim gasped, his voice rough, hoarse after hours of torment. “Chay—”

“Sh, shh, shhh. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” Chay carded his fingers through Kim’s damp hair. “Don’t I always take care of you?” Kim nodded. He let his head drop back down, basking in Chay’s kind touch for the few moments it was offered. Chay watched him with an indulgent smile, petting him gently. 

Then he bent down over Kim’s back, skimming his hand down his spine until he reached the plug buried in his hold. Kim jolted when Chay pressed on it, pushing it that much deeper. 

“That feel good?” Chay murmured. He played with it, grasping the flared base to twist and thrust, enjoying the way Kim squired, until he finally pulled it out. His hole was red and swollen, just like Kinn imagined his mouth; he knew Kim had to be achingly sensitive by now. Kim twitched when Chay’s delicate fingers circled his rim. Chay still had his other hand buried in Kim’s hair, cupping the back of his neck comfortingly. 

Having had enough of the teasing, Chay left Kim in search of new instruments of torture. Kim made a mournful sound as he was abandoned, but Chay hushed him again; he was only a few feet away, perusing a set of devious toys. 

“Which ones have you already used?” Kinn asked. He couldn’t help himself. HIs curiosity always got the better of him; he and Kim were alike in that regard.

“Most of them,” Chay answered. He drummed his fingers over a thick dildo, bright blue and gently sloped, thicker in the middle than the base and tip. The change was gradual; it would be a smooth transition. Kim’s ass had already taken enough punishment today. 

Having chosen his prize, Chay came to stand beside Kim with the dildo in one hand and a half-empty bottle of lube in the other. He made sure to position himself so that Kinn could have an obstructed view. 

“Are you ready, Kim?” Chay asked. He laid the dildo on Kim’s back for lack of any other convenient surface—Kinn wondered if he could recognize the shape of it—and slicked up his fingers. Kim’s only response was a groan, then Chay pushed two wet fingers into his hole. 

For Kim’s sake, he was fast, and didn’t tease too much. Just got him nice and slick and ready. Then he affixed the dildo to the other side of the machine, covered that in lube as well, and guided it into Kim’s hole. He whimpered as it sank inside him. 

“All done.” Chay stepped away from both brothers. He made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed—taking the lube with—and picked up a remote. “Ready?” 

They weren’t. Kinn was certain of that. But he nodded anyway, and Kim made a sound that could have been an agreement, and Chay pushed a button that spurred the thing to life. 

The machine had two sides with the fulcrum perfectly in the middle, making it perfect to torment them both. The thick dildo slid out of Kim at the same time that the silicone sleeve slid down Kinn’s cock, a mechanical imitation of fucking each other, too slow to be anything more than an awful tease. 

After a few carefully timed thrusts, Chay increased the speed. Kinn squirmed a little bit, but Kim writhed, his skin squeaking against sweat-slick leather as he tried to escape the punishing sensation, or push back onto it for more. Kinn wasn’t sure. 

Chay watched from his vantage point on the bed, spread out beautifully and stroking his cock, his cheeks flushed and eyes brought. He was beautiful. Kim, with his neck twisted so he could look at Chay, his cheek pressed into unforgiving leather, no doubt thought the same.

Send me horny prompts!

[itsmpmpmp]

it’s fine and good to read all of the non-protagonist characters of shenself as separate and independent entities but personally i think it would be a pity to not at least consider the interpretation of those characters as different incarnations of the same person: the shenself protagonist, or zhou shen, you decide—the protagonist is himself an incarnation of zhou shen anyway.

shenself uses worldbuilding as a tool for introspection and vice versa, introspection as a tool for worldbuilding. through the construction of the “outside world” [”the world 200 years from now”] you get great insight into the protagonist’s “inside world”. and since it is his inside world, the other characters can be construed as different incarnations of himself. for example, the narrator in ‘the giver’ was introduced as an AI companion—familiar with all facets of the protagonist’s life, especially his interpersonal communication/relationship—whose conscience and empathy were awoken after witnessing the protagonist’s self-destructive behaviors. in interpreting this companion as an incarnation of the protagonist, we could understand that the protagonist became aware of his own habits (or had always been aware?) and desperately wanted to curb them, though with little success so far despite constant warnings, which is unfortunately often the case with overcoming self-destruction. the representation of these emotions as an independent “companion” also means he desires a support system who may help him heal and keep him accountable in his healing journey.

the tailor robot (and family) in ‘fix you’ bears many similarities to this AI companion: a robot deeply compassionate towards its patients (incarnations of the protagonist). it was portrayed as “missing a heart”—in other words someone who had not experienced the same emotional pain their patients had—yet displayed such sincere understanding, acceptance of and a strong desire to heal that trauma. an incarnation of “sympathy/empathy” that should manifest in many ways: one the protagonist should allow himself in the process of healing, one he should give his childhood self, one his peers should have given him, and one he should extend to his peers. on another note, the very notion “一个没有心的机器人，能缝好一颗流血的心吗？” to me is the reminder that healing inevitably can only be done and achieved by the person with the pain: the protagonist.

the fact that these incarnations take the form of robots has interesting connotations. does it suggest that healing/empathy/and by extension, kindness—is a commodity? something that only exists as a service? something humans are incapable of giving themself? or does it suggest that it must be brought into existence by humankind? something perhaps widely available and accessible to people? something so incredible it inspires the “soulless” and “heartless” to feel for them? you decide.

of course… i could just be reading into it way to much, but the album IS called shenself. even as you get to explore the many facets of the ‘world’ at large, it ultimately carries a kindness and hope and determination that could only be a reflection of this little guy moving through that world.

[writingattemptsxx]

Bottling up Emotions

Vil has a lot on his plate, but he doesn't want to rely on others. It takes Crewel to snap him out of it.

—

I read a Divus Crewel/Eric Venue and Crewel being Vil’s dad and I absolutely fell in love, so I made a quick write of a story.

The story is “Sympathy for a Villian” by Pink_Beep on AO3. 100% recommend it.

—

Divus’s class had ended a while ago, yet for some reason, his pup remained. He decided to stay to work on his notes and get organized before leaving. It wasn't something new, far from it, but it was getting more and more common. Vil is, and always has been, a good and hard-working student who took after his fathers. Even if it was in character, it wasn't above the poor pup’s father to worry.

“Pup?” His only answer was a small ‘hmm?’. “You’ve been staying after class more and more often. Is anything confusing you?” There was only another hum. He's not paying attention, is he? Just staring at his textbook as he jots things down on one of many papers. “Your Papa and I are leaving modern society and have no plans to return.”

“Hmm. Wait what?” Vil snapped his head up, his writing freezing in its tracks.

“Do I finally have your attention?”

His pup’s face immediately fell into a displeased expression. He takes a breath, sets down his pen, and closes his book with a paper inside to keep his place. “Hilarious joke, father.”

“Of course it is.”

Vil just sighs. “Now what is it you need? My club starts in a few hours, and I need to make sure I have all my notes done before then.”

“Are you struggling to understand something? You’ve been staying behind more and more. I'm just… Worried.”

“No? I'm fine. Writing notes is a completely normal thing.”

“You completely dodged the question. What's wrong?” Divus’s pup definitely took after his fathers, for better or worse. Even if you were nothing but direct with your questions or worries, he would never want to open up. A closed and locked book.

“I’m fine.” A huff comes from Vil as he opens his book and grabs the dropped pen. “There is nothing you need to worry about.”

“Somehow, I don't believe that.” Divus walks over to his son and stands there, waiting to be acknowledged as Vil continues to work. Sadly, that acknowledgment didn't come. After a few seconds of waiting, he gets fed up. He is his pup’s father for seven’s sake! If something is bothering his son, he should be one of the first he reaches out to for help. His hand acted before his mind and he snatched the book.

“Father!”

“I am absolutely not letting you bottle up your emotions! What is wrong?!”

Vil stands up from his seat. His face was red, only growing more so. He was bottling up a lot, most definitely, and this was the last straw. “Oh? So stealing from me is the way you ensure that?!”

“You never tell anyone anything! I'm running out of options!” Both were silent, just staring at the other as the swirl of rage ran through them. After what felt like years, but in reality was likely only a minute or so, Divus sighed and placed the book back on his son’s desk. “I’m sorry. I acted before thinking. While my reaction wasn’t the way I should have, you can't just ignore negative feelings and shove away anyone who gets worried. I'm your father, and want to make sure you're ok. Even if you can't talk to me, I want to know you have at least someone to go to.”

Vil sighed in return. “Things have just been stressful. I have a lot on my plate. My career. My schoolwork. My clubwork. My dormhead work. I'm just dealing with a lot.”

“Pup, if you are struggling with too much work, you could have just told me and I would have helped reduced your schoolwork or at least extended the deadlines. Your Papa can also help with anything involving acting. He's an actor, just as you are.”

“I have to be able to deal with work on my own though. I can't rely on my fathers’s favoritism forever.”

“Part of learning how to grow up is learning how to rely on others, not how to ignore them. While self-reliance is important, it's not the be all end all. And us helping you is not favoritism. Your Papa and I would help anyone in your position. I’m your teacher and he's your mentor.” Divus put a hand on his pup’s shoulder. “Even if it's not relying on us, there are good people who you can rely on. Just don't bottle things up.” That's the one thing he wished his pup never had picked up on and copied.

Vil lets a small giggle loose as Divus wraps him in a hug. “Thank you. And I’ll talk to Papa later today.”

[ratmom819]

tw: forced dieting, hunger, sneaking food, restricting a child's food

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it's summer 1994, dudley is on a strict diet on his doctor's orders, and harry is forced on the same diet on petunia's orders. everyone is fairly miserable because none of them are eating enough.

harry is honestly used to it, because the dursleys never really gave him enough food. harry is also fairly sure that vernon and petunia are eating normal food after harry and dudley are sent to bed. but dudley has never been hungry before, not like this. harry can't help but feel a little sympathy for him, because harry understands better than anyone what it's like to be hungry.

of course, harry has never settled for hunger, intense self preservation instincts baked into him from the time he was one. he sneaks out of his room one night after he's sure vernon and petunia are asleep, choosing the right pattern on the steps so they won't make a noise.

he's not in the pantry long before the sound of someone creaking down the stairs meets his ears. he panics, leaves the pantry, but realizes that he has no good hiding places without crossing the view of the stairs. the best hope he has is hiding in the dark pantry and praying that whoever it is will only open the fridge.

he listens at the door, hearing the unmistakable sounds of someone trying to be quiet and failing spectacularly. probably vernon then, because petunia is frighteningly good at moving quietly when she wants to. harry hears the fridge open, hears some jars rustle around, and he has a glimmer of hope that maybe he'll get away with this.

but then he hears footsteps come towards the pantry door, and he braces himself for whatever punishment vernon will dole out for this. probably locked in his room for the rest of the summer. he backs away from the door as it opens, and someone flicks the light on.

"dudley?" he says, just as dudley says, "harry?"

it's quiet for a moment as they both process what to do, both of them caught sneaking food. harry can't help but feel nausea at the thought of dudley running up to tell his parents that he caught harry out of his room. but dudley looks as nauseous as harry feels, probably some combination of extreme hunger and fear of harry's magic. that strange sympathy wells up in harry again, for the hunger, mostly.

"i'll tell," dudley says, attempting confidence, but there's a shake to his voice. "you'll get locked in your room again."

it strikes harry, oddly, as absurdly brave. dudley's only experience with magic is a twisted combination of his parents' lies and traumatic bodily injury in the form of a pig tail and a ballooning aunt. he would have no defense if harry used magic against him, but he's threatening harry anyways.

dudley has been horrible to harry for the entirety of their relationship, has never done anything but hurt him, and yet harry also knows that dudley has vernon and petunia for parents, and that, even as he looms in the pantry doorway with clenched fists, he is a hungry kid. and so harry extends an olive branch that dudley probably doesn't deserve.

"don't take too much of one thing," he says.

"what?"

"when you take food, don't take too much of one thing, or they'll notice."

"...okay?"

"and if it's something like a pack of biscuits, shake them forward a little so it looks fuller than it is."

dudley is staring at harry with the most peculiar expression on his face.

"why are you helping me?"

harry shrugs. he doesn't have a coherent answer to that at 2am. he tells himself it's just because if his aunt and uncle realize someone (other than them) has been sneaking food, he'll be the one in trouble regardless of guilt. but harry knows that's not really his reason.

harry doesn't say any of this out loud. he takes a step forward to leave the pantry, and dudley skitters back into the kitchen, eyes wide. harry puts his hands up in surrender, slowly steps out of the pantry. they're both standing in the kitchen now, still staring at each other, unsure how to end this odd encounter.

"well," harry finally says. "night dudley."

"yea, night harry."

harry follows his usual path up the steps, thinking about how that's probably the first time that he and dudley ever wished each other good night.

harry lies in bed, expecting vernon or petunia to come knocking on his door at any minute, but they never come.

[all54321]

Father Spore Spy AU Chapter 5

It’s back! And on a Saturday too.

Summery: Grian and Mumbo react to the video and Father Spore returns to the main camp.

“Oh my Void,” Grian mumbles, staring at the video as it plays. His mind has been running through worst case scenarios for a while now, but there was no way he’d ever consider that this is what happened. His horror only grows as the video continues, as Scar one by one takes care of the guards. Grian can almost feel the menacing aura the other is emitting. The video ends and Grian still is at a loss of words, Mumbo seems to be just as lost.

Cub breaks the silence after a minute, “whatever that stuff is, it… changed Scar. That’s not- it’s not Scar,” he adds in a whisper.

“Can… can you… unchange him?” Grian asks quietly, fear lacing his tone.

“I’ll keep trying until I do,” Cub swears, although the sliver of doubt in his voice is clear to Grian. “I‘ll keep working until I figure out a way to undo all of this, to bring him back to us.”

Grian stays silent as he processes that, letting Mumbo reply. “We should get to work on that as well, including getting people to completely stay away.”

“That’s a good idea,” Cub replies, “I need to get back to looking into what we collected. The first step to fixing this is to understand what it is.”

“Right, of course,” Mumbo replies, while Grian is still unable to form words. There’s a click as Cub hangs up, leaving them alone again. Grian slumps in his seat, curling up a little, seeing Scar like that… it hurts to see him so… so not himself. That look in his eyes… Grian really hopes they find a cure, but they don’t even know the first thing about what happened to him. How can they find a cure to something so unnatural and wrong.

He startles out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. Grian looks up to see Mumbo staring at him, sympathy in his eyes, mixing with his own worry. After a moment he says, “we… we should make an announcement.”

Grian takes a slow breath, nodding after a moment, “y-yeah. I… I could get on that now.”

Mumbo gives him an assessing look, “you sure?”

“Yeah.” He needs something to do, he doesn’t trust himself to be left to his thoughts at the moment. Grian grabs some paper and a pen from around Mumbo’s office to draft an announcement, not wanting to be alone either.

They sit in silence as they do their own things. It doesn’t take that long for Grian to finish with a rough draft. “What do you think of this?” He asks, turning the paper around for Mumbo to look at. He picks it up and reads through it. Grian speaks before he can finish, “it’s just a basic idea, nothing final.”

Mumbo nods, “I think it’s good, it gets the important parts down.”

“We should probably have posters around as a constant reminder, in addition to the speech.” Grian adds, leaning back in his chair, “we should get someone to design it soon, if we do.”

“We should do whatever we can to help. The more people who catch that… whatever it is, the more cure we’ll need.”

“Which might be difficult to get,” Grian finishes for him, wincing at the thought. He really hopes that they can figure out a cure soon. He hates the idea of leaving Scar like that for an extended period of time.

“We can trust Cub on this, he’ll figure something out.” Mumbo’s tone sounds confident, but it’s clear he’s just as concerned as Grian is. How it’s a desperate hope.*

“Yeah…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Father Spore returns to the main camp and watches silently as his new sporelings get settled in. They have a good area cleared for living spaces, but it will get overcrowded sooner or later.

As he looks across the area, Father Spore feels a twinge in the back of his mind, something he can’t place. He follows the feeling, dropping down next to one of the glowing mushrooms. He lightly touches the under the cap of it and raises his hand. It grows along with it, continuing up until he can’t reach anymore. The cap spreads as he pulls his hand across. It casts a pretty light across the area.

He walks along the pathways, doing the same thing to other mushrooms. It feels… not familiar, but definitely not foreign. Father Spore surveys the clearing after he fills the area with the glow. He smiles, it looks better this way.

As he continues looking around, he notices a lot more things he can add or change to improve the aesthetics. He’s not sure why it’s so important to him suddenly, but it feels wrong to not have it look pleasing.

Father Spore supposes he can take a moment’s break from planning to pretty up the area.

[hed-romancer]

Something something something the dichotomy of camp camp being about an angry boy with shitty parents realizing that another cheerful adult does care about him for who he is while moral orel is about a cheerful boy with shitty parents realizing that they will never care about him no matter how good he is.

I think the big question for a moral orel x camp camp crossover is if it happens before or after moral orel’s nature and before or after the original summer in camp camp

before both would be an interesting time because Orel and David would be coming into the situation with their innocence/naivety fully intact, with max at his surliest. David has a lot of terrible ideas and it would be wild if he had someone who was as on board with them as he is (and god help everyone if they got Nikki involved). Meanwhile poor Orel is finally interacting with an adult who is genuinely kind to him, while still leading him completely astray. Max is just hating everything.

I think in this situation The Order of the Sparrow goes differently because Orel is going along with David’s bullshit this time around, so David probably doesn’t get to utter breakdown territory like he does in canon. Maybe instead Orel would get upset that Max is trying to constantly ruin things for the one person who does actually care for orel, meanwhile max is angry Orel keeps enabling David and jealous David likes Orel so much. Max asks why David cares so much- about Orel, about the camp, about him, and David says he cares because somebody fucking has to. Orel overhears and is shocked to hear someone so vehemently say they care for him.

I think Orel and max would get a lot closer over the course of camp camp’s season 2. I’ve always been a sucker for how, immediately off the bat in season 2 you can see how much more max trusts David than he did before (going to him for help with Daniel) and i think that would extend to Orel too once he gets a glimpse of just how fucked Orel’s life is in the season 1 finale. Before he thought Orel was just some religious nut, but now he genuinely feels sympathy for the kid, and isn’t that a weird feeling. Orel on the other hand has always been kind to max but is kind of falling apart emotionally after the realization that David does care for him, and starts trying to earn his love, which horrifies Gwen and max but David thinks Orel is just being his usual helpful self

I think in this situation that Parents Day goes mostly the same, with max still frustrated that everyone else’s shitty parents still bothered to show up while his didn’t, meanwhile Orel is oblivious to how shitty his parents are treating him, which is obvious to Gwen and David. Orel and his parents get through the showcase fine, albeit with extreme disinterest from bloberta and clay being drunk, and then the rest of the ep goes as in canon, with David Gwen and max getting pizza while everyone else waits with their parents as Campbell is arrested.

Basically i think David and max’s relationship would be about the same as camp camp canon while Orel slowly starts to realize how shit his parents are via how not shit David and Gwen are. Max is closest to Nikki and Neil still but learns to tolerate Orel and Orel likes max okay enough from the beginning and is closest to Nerris and space kid (even tho he disagrees with both magic and science)

At the end of the summer David and Gwen technically kidnap both max and Orel.

Have we forgotten the golden idea that is the Moral Orel x Camp Camp crossover? Do I have to actually make it happen? 😭

a.k.a

Orel gets sent to Camp Campbell and immediately wins over David with his lovely personality and interest in nature and camping. Max gets jealous. Featuring loads of Dadvid.

[broodingboysimp]

Is It Really For the Best? - pt 6

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: The mating bond between the reader and Azriel clicks into place, but with the potential war with Hybern on the rise, the risk of having that bond fall into the enemy’s hands has the reader and Azriel questioning their partnership.

*takes place after the events of ACOTAR/ACOMAF*

Warnings: angst, violence/blood

Author’s Note: Sheesh long hiatus. I am so so sorry, but I finally finished up with school for this semester and found some free time to sit down and write! 

You woke early the next morning to put yourself back together, a warm bath much needed to ease the stinging that ran through your bones. To your surprise, the house had also been put back together, no doubt by Rhysand’s magic. He stood overlooking the city, eyes distant, as if he too had had a reckless night of sleep. 

“This place looks much better,” Rhys turned to look at you, dawned in your Illyrian leathers, and sighed. 

“I wish I could say the same for you,” You stuck out your tongue as you strode over to share the view with him.

“I’m sorry,” You kept your eyes on the city.

“What is there to be sorry for?”

“All this,” you gestured behind you, “this mess. Other messes,” You sighed, raking a hand through your freshly washed hair.

“I could smell the bond a mile away, I think everyone could,” You didn’t bother trying to fake a surprised look. Rhys faced you now, and you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes swirling with an intense darkness. “Look, Y/N, the mating bond is a deeply rooted occurrence, one that still can’t entirely be defined. Denying that bond can be dangerous-”

“I didn’t deny it,” You interrupted, “just.. Postponed it?” Even you sounded unsure of yourself.

Rhys let out a dry laugh, “Whatever term you want to use, it all feels the same to Azriel. I just need you to understand his motives.” 

“I thought this… arrangement would be for the best. Hybern’s cruelties know no depths, I just can’t risk this,” ‘Can’t risk us’ you said to yourself, “ending up in the hands of the enemy.”

“I know, and I sympathize with you. I just need you to extend some of that sympathy to Az.” 

You stared back out over the city, a mixture of sorrow and frustration swirling deep within. It was silent for a few moments before Rhys spoke again. 

“Do you love him?” His eyes seemed pleading, as if desperately seeking only one answer.

“Of course I love him,” You sighed again, this time sorrow overtaking everything, “but there is always something.” You trailed off, and took the silence that followed as a cue to take your leave and head to the training ring. You peered back towards Rhys as you left, noting how his shadows seemed to surround him slowly, gently, as if they too could sense something heavy in the air.

✦✦✦

Punching something was always a reasonable way to let off some steam. Or at least that’s what you told yourself as you wrapped your wrists in cloth, preparing to spar with the makeshift opponent that was a tree wrapped in blankets. 

Each step through your routine felt good, rewarding, even as the blows to the tree had your wrists stinging. Step by step, your fist swung harder. Each hit bounced off the target, and with it bounced around a new thought in your head. 

Why do I have to be responsible for these stupid mating consequences?

Crack. 

 Yes I feel bad, but I’m being reasonable. 

Crack.

Am I being reasonable? 

Crack.

Why can’t Az just grow the hell up?

The last crack of the bark was louder than the others, breaking you from your trance. You assessed the damage, and took the split in the wood as a sign that your sparring for the day was complete. 

As you continued through the steps of your training, you couldn’t help but feel the thoughts still stumbling around in your head. You felt bad for Azriel, but your choice was justified. 

But even with all the justifications, all of the convincing you had done, you still felt it. Felt that urge, like an invisible tug. Something primal, almost feral, kept you on your toes, and each time you saw Azriel, each time you even caught a second of his scent, you could feel every inch of your body screaming with desire. 

You trained for hours, mind still racing as the sun set over the city.

✦✦✦

Azriel didn’t return back to Velaris for 3 days. During that time, you kept your shields down, occasionally sending words down the bond, hoping for any response to ease your anxieties. But none came, which was why his presence at the dinner table one evening came as such a surprise. 

“Az…” You breathed out as you saw him already digging into his meal as you entered the room. His back stiffened at the sound of your voice, the action confirming a lack of injuries and filling you with slight relief. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate and gave you a slight nod. 

Rhys could feel your sadness from his reaction practically radiating from you. 

He’s had a rough few days, Rhys’ voice jolted you from your frozen stance.

Tell me about it… 

You took your spot at the table directly across from Azriel, trying your best not to stare, assessing for any signs of external injuries. The meal went silently, conversation from your friends lacking as well. After Feyre and Rhysand’s trip to visit the Bone Carver, word of Hybern’s search for the pieces of the Cauldron had everyone in a solemn mood. 

“Our request to visit the Summer Court has been granted,” Rhysand stated to the room, sparking everyone’s interest. 

Feyre especially, who had been tirelessly training her powers and combat skills with the help of you and Cassian for the past few days, seemed intrigued. 

“When do we leave?” She stared at Rhysand eagerly.

“And who does we include?” Amren, to your surprise, also seemed interested. 

“Feyre, Amren, and I will be leaving tomorrow morning,” both women seemed to perk up at this. He turned to face Feyre, still addressing the whole room, “Feyre will be using her new abilities to seek out the Book of Breathings.” 

She flushed, nerves taking over her face, but Rhys gave her a gentle look. You laughed under your breath at the sight of it. 

“As for the rest of you, I have some errands I need you to run.”

The idea of finally having a mission to complete sent an excited jolt through your body. While this extended break had been appreciated and necessary, you were excited to get back out in the field. 

“Cass, I need you to return to the mortal lands and check on Feyre’s sisters, make sure they’re safe and see if they’ve heard anything from the queens.” Cassian didn’t hide the uneasy look that covered his face, no doubt thinking of his next encounter with Nesta. 

“Azriel, I need you to go to Cesere,” The temple where the first leg of the Cauldron was found, you remembered, “See if you can gather any information on Hybern’s methods, moves, anything of importance.” Azriel nodded his head at Rhysand’s request. 

“And Y/N,” He looked in your direction now, “you will be tagging along with Azriel.” 

You stared at him blankly, not quite processing his words. 

“We don’t know what kind of danger could still be lurking at the temple, and I need someone I can trust to keep an eye out for my shadowsinger.” 

His words were laced with irony. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You stated, voice unwavering. The whole table turned to look at you, Azriel kept his face fixed on Rhys, his shoulders now tensed after his friend’s orders. Amren smirked slyly as she glanced between the two of you. 

“I am your High Lord, and you will follow my orders.” His face was unreadable. 

You prick, you seethed, seeing Rhys flinch as you sent white, hot rage into his mind. 

When he didn’t respond, and you had finally had enough of the awkward stares coming from around the table, you pushed back your chair and stormed off to your room. 

✦✦✦

You paced around your bedroom, thoughts racing as fast as your feet moved. 

What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t have been thinking. Sending you and Azriel on a mission together, a potentially life threatening one at that, even though the two of you hadn’t held a civil conversation in weeks. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door. You swung it open, a mix of surprise and anger filling you as you saw Rhysand standing on the other side. You sneered at him, but allowed him to push past and enter. 

“Y/N I-”

“Oh, save it, Rhys. I don’t get the big idea, and honestly I don’t know if I want to hear it.” You returned to your pacing to try and contain your anger. 

“I was serious about needing someone to keep Azriel safe, and I trust you to do so.” You stopped pacing and met Rhys’ eyes, which seemed almost pleading, “He’s been stupid lately…”

“Tell me about it…” You rolled your eyes.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair, seeming stressed, “No, not like that. Well, not just that. He’s been… reckless”

“Reckless?” That was never a word you would have used to describe the shadowsinger, always so careful and thought out with his moves. 

“Just be careful out there,” that was all Rhys said as he left you in your room. 

You laid in your bed, eyes shut, trying everything to calm your mind. But the idea of this mission with his Azriel had you feeling nervous, but you couldn’t tell if it was in a good or bad way. 

✦✦✦

The following morning you stood in the foyer next to Azriel and Rhys, your thick Illyrian leathers making the burn of your skin even worse. 

“All I need is information, anything that could get us the upper hand on Hybern’s intentions. We know they have a leg of the Cauldron, but we need to find out their intention for staying.” Rhys looked between the two of you sternly.

Behave, Rhys purred through your mind. 

I wouldn’t count on it if I were you, you mused in return. He gave you a playful smile. 

Az took your hand into his, rough scars startling you out of your thoughts. You concentrated on keeping your palms dry.

He didn’t so much as squeeze your hand before you both stepped forward, enveloped in the darkness of winnowing. 

The darkness was quickly replaced by a thick layer of fog, dense enough that your visual fields were limited to faint glowing in the distance. You could make out what you assumed used to be the temple of Cesere, now reduced to piles of rubble. An ache in your heart formed as you recalled what had happened here, as if the pain was as tangible as the fog. 

Az was scanning his surroundings as well, chin held up as if he wasn’t even aware of your presence next to him. 

“Alright, if we’re going to be doing this together we should at least act civil.” Az just lifted his eyebrows, “Oh, don't act confused. We haven’t had a real conversation in weeks and Rhys expects me to save your ass if you need it. I’ll be damned if I’m saving anyone who is going to act like I don’t even exist.” 

Azriel just turned his head again to continue his scanning. 

“God, you’re such a selfish prick,” You scoffed under your breath. 

“Excuse me,” His harsh tone was jarring, causing you to turn on your heels and meet his drilling gaze “You’re calling me the selfish one?” 

“There you go again, playing dumb. Well your acting is superb.” 

“At least I’m playing my part. If you’re going to be a bitch you might as well commit to the act.”

Your hand made contact with his cheek before either of you could register what happened. It stung your palm, you couldn’t imagine what his face felt like. 

“Don’t you dare,” You kept your gaze unwavering even though Azriel’s words stunned you. He huffed a light laugh in your direction. 

You couldn’t handle the rage that burned up inside you, and you didn’t want to see it released, so you once again turned on your heels, making steps in any direction that was away from him. You were fuming, you could have sworn literally. He had LAUGHED in your face. The anger kept you walking, not sure where you were going. Step by step, you let any hope of reconciliation between the two of you sink into the wet ground with your shoes. 

You finally gathered your thoughts enough to turn around and apologize, not because you felt bad, but for Rhys’ sake, only Azriel wasn’t there. You backtracked a few steps, hoping the fog was masking his figure somewhere, but nothing. The Illyrian was nowhere in sight, no footsteps behind you either. 

Your nerves spiked then, realization kicking in that you had foolishly separated the two of you, but the realization was quickly burned out by a searing pain in your right thigh. You dropped your leg to the ground, noting the ash arrow deeply embedded in the back, quickly yanking it out before its poison could spread any deeper. Adrenaline was the only thing that allowed you to get up and start running in the opposite direction of the arrow, narrowly avoiding another as it flew from behind you. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You felt like an idiot, but you had to push those insecurities down, had to find Azriel. 

Az! Where the hell are you? You screamed down the bond, but it was weaker than before, nearly a whisper. Something was wrong. 

“Azriel!” You screamed out loud this time, but the fog swallowed up the sound. 

The Hybern soldiers were long behind you now, but that didn’t stop your steady pace as you backtracked, following your deep steps into the mud, until you finally reached the location where you had winnowed in. 

Azriel was nowhere to be seen, the only evidence he had even been there were the footprints he had left, and a fresh pool of blood. As soon as the stinging scent hit your nose, you knew it was his, and the panic in your chest became even more palpable. You knelt down, ignoring the searing pain from your leg, and dipped your fingers into the pool. It was still warm, meaning Az couldn’t be too far off. You noticed two new sets of prints now, leading in the opposite direction you had come from, no doubt left by the Hybern soldiers now dragging Azriel along. 

The poison from the ash arrow was starting to circulate through your body, ailing your ability to follow his scent. You started in the direction of the exiting tracks, a mild pace being held together by pure anxiety pumping through your veins. You had to hurry. Was Azriel okay?

But you had your answer already, the bond between you nearly untouchable, the emptiness in your body a sharp contrast to the pinging of panic. 

It felt like hours before you finally reached the outskirts of the Hybern camp, confirmed by the swarming presence of soldiers surrounding the vicinity. So many, too many. You wished you could call out to Rhys or Cassian, but no help would be coming. 

Assessing the situation, you determined the best choice of action would be to sneak in and sneak out. Your winnowing was impaired by the ash arrow’s poison, so you would have to rely on old skills to get the job done. You carefully made your way around the outskirts of the camp, the searing pain in your leg only growing more intense as you crouched in nearby bushes. 

You knew which tent Az was being kept in as soon as you saw it. 5 soldiers stood outside, large swords in hand. You cursed silently, knowing that in your condition you wouldn’t be able to take them all on, or take on whomever was inside. Your best bet was to wait for the guard change.

Azriel had been hurt too long, and the longer you waited the weaker the bond felt. Too many emotions were filling your body, you had to focus, shove them down. 

An hour passed, and as the afternoon sun finally shifted towards dusk, the 5 soldiers took their leave. You only had seconds to act before the next group took their places, so you didn’t hesitate to lunge towards the tent, stiff legs burning as you sprinted under the fabric wall. 

Relief filled you instantly as you realized no soldiers were inside, but that relief was quickly replaced as you noted Azriel’s condition. He was strung up by thick, black chains, bare chested and knees on the floor. His head slumped against his chest, and blood…. There was so much blood. 

Your heart ached, wanting to hold him and heal him right then and there, but you knew better than to hesitate. His chains seemed to radiate with magic, no doubt spelled to impair the use of his siphons, which meant your magic would be useless against them too. Body drained from pain and mental exhaustion, you channeled all of your strength into ripping his cuffs, your hands bleeding in the process as you tore the metal apart. Az’s limp body fell forward, and you caught him just before he hit the ground. His heartbeat was faint, but it was there. You sighed with relief, but perhaps too soon. The doors of the tent swung open, bringing an influx of soldiers, dozens of ash arrows threatened in your direction. 

You held onto Azriel with everything you could, scraping the last bit of magic from the pit of your stomach, and winnowed back to Velaris. Back home. 

[rocorambles]

Unnatural

Pairing: Vampire Oikawa x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Blood...a lot of blood

Summary: You don’t realize just how right you are about there being something different about Oikawa.

There’s something unnatural about Oikawa.

Your fellow managers and assistants for Argentina’s national volleyball team just giggle and tease you when you tipsily voice your concern one day. But you adamantly continue voicing your impromptu dissertation.

Isn’t it weird that he’s never tired? He never even seems to break a sweat!

They wave you off, awestrukenly raving about how hard he works and practices. Of course his endurance is above and beyond the norm.

Strike one.

Fine, but isn’t it a bit strange that he always insists on eating alone?

They shrug. You’re not entirely wrong. It is a little unusual, but lots of people don’t like others watching them when they eat. Besides, he’s Argentina’s new star player and every star has their quirks.

Strike two.

Your fuzzy brain is running out of definite points and you’re well past the number of shots your tolerance allows. Maybe that’s why you blurt out the latest observation that has all your fellow female coworkers shrieking and fawning over Oikawa Tooru.

He literally sparkles in the sun. How is that even humanly possible?!

Don’t be so dramatic. We know you don’t like to admit you’re just as head over heels for him as we are, but even you have to admit he’s eye-catching. No judgement here. After all, none of us can take our eyes off him either when they practice outside in the sun.

They playfully nudge you, grinning and letting you know it’s all in good humor. And you know you’ve officially struck out, all your concerns easily waved away as they order another round of shots and urge you to drink up.

Unknown to you, your doubts aren’t nearly as subtle as you think, although you can’t be blamed for not being aware of Oikawa’s heightened senses. He can feel your eyes intensely examining him, different than the vapid heart-eyes your other companions give him. He can hear you whisper to them about all the little ticks he’s surprised you’ve even noticed.

If he’s honest, he’ll admit you’ve got him off-guard, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in centuries. Was he getting sloppy with mixing in with humanity and hiding his true nature? Was he getting weaker? He tests his glamour just to reassure himself, satisfied by the loud squeals he hears from the rest of the female staff on the sidelines when he gives them a wink and a peace sign. But he pouts at your much less enthused figure.

Why doesn’t his glamour work on you- Oh. He hides a smile as he focuses in on the rabid beating of your heart. Interesting. It does work on you, you’re just a little more resistant about your desires than most.

Mystery solved. You’re not the first hard-headed woman who’s tried to defy the intoxicating nature of his glamour, of his being. And he pays you no more mind. Someone as straight laced as you would never come to the ridiculous conclusion that he’s a vampire.

Except as fate would have it, it’s not you he needs to be worried about. It’s himself that he should be more cautious of.

He can see it all happen in slow motion, knows that his teammate isn’t jumping at the correct angle, knows that the ball is going to go flying errantly. And all he can do is watch in sickening fascination as the volleyball goes hurtling directly at your face. The force of the object crushing your nose echoes in his sensitive ears and he winces in sympathy only to freeze as the most alluring smell begins to overwhelm the gym.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

He’s not a rookie changeling or a newly turned vampire who has no control of his urges. He’s fucking royalty, a pureblood, ancient and well versed even by the high standards of his species. And you are hardly the first human whose blood he’s been around.

Yet it feels like he’s experiencing his first century all over again and it takes every bit of self control he has left not to let chocolate orbs bleed crimson, to let his fangs extend, to drink you dry right there and then. You smell absolutely divine and he humorlessly chuckles at the irony of the predicament he’s in now after his arrogance has led him to criticize so many of his peers over the centuries who’ve given into their base desires and instincts.

Maybe he does owe little Tobio an apology…

But that’s neither here nor now and he focuses on the crowd forming around your fallen figure.

“I’ll take her to the nurse.”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes when his panicked teammate who had caused your injury insists on being the one to take you, guilt evident in the slump of his shoulders. And instead he smiles in an award-worthy act as he adds a bit of glamour to his voice.

“It’s not your fault. Accidents happen in sports. I’ll take her and you just focus on getting your head back in practice. You can apologize as much as you want when she’s all healed up.”

Oikawa always gets his way and he smugly grins as he easily hauls you to the nurse’s office where all it takes is another few glamoured words to have the room emptied and at his disposal. And then it’s just you and him and he hungrily eyes the way blood trails from your nose, down the side of your face, until crimson begins to stain the once white bed sheets.

“Oikawa?”

Oh poor thing. Your voice is nasally, tone confused as you blearily try to understand what’s happening and where you are through the pain. All the better to glamour you with and he coaxes you into laying back down and relaxing, telling you that he’s just there to help you.

You barely register the swipe of something across your face and you assume Oikawa is wiping off the blood. And in a way you’re right. Except instead of a wipe, it’s his tongue languidly licking you clean.

You taste even better than you smell and he can’t hold himself back. He had only wanted a little taste, but there’s no turning back now. Your whimpers of confusion as cold fingers swiftly undress you are quickly shushed and then all you know is a blinding piercing pain followed by an ecstasy you never thought was possible.

All he had wanted was a meal, but you’re insistent on giving him a show as well and who is he to deny your gracious gift? He groans as the scent of your arousal intermingles with the heady tang of your blood, fangs sinking in slightly deeper than he had intended as he unconsciously ruts against your hapless body. With a gasp he lifts himself from your neck, practically growling in impatience and lust as he shoves his shorts and boxers down until his throbbing cock is freed.

He cruelly laughs at how you writhe and moan beneath him, pitifully begging for more, more, more. Pathetic little human. You don’t even know what you’re asking for and his cock twitches at how cute you’d look, terrified at the realization of what he is, what he had done to you, and how you had liked it, loved it even. He’s almost tempted to pull you out of your forced haze now, wondering if your horrified screams would be even more melodic than your wanton moans. But there’s no time for that now and he wants his first time to be uninterrupted, even as adorable as you are when you fight back.

With all your walls forced to come crashing down, you really are an insatiable creature and he darkly grins at how much of a slut you truly are, practically gushing and cumming with every bite. He sinks his fangs into the swells of your breasts, smirking at how your own hands come to roll and twist your nipples, a silly smile spreading across your face. He travels down, moaning as he sees how much slick you’ve accumulated between your legs, piercing your inner thigh and forcing your thrusting hips to stay still as he feasts on you, mixing the blood with your sticky nectar.

You’re so close to another high and he can practically taste the way your heart is skyrocketing, feel the way your body is tightening. He’ll be damned if he misses his opportunity to be intertwined with you as you break apart once again and he rapidly adjusts himself, once again roughly sinking his fangs into the crook of your neck as he slams balls deep inside of you in one thrust.

The dual sensation is more than enough to have you tumbling over the edge and your scream echoes as your vision turns black and white as your eyes roll into the back of your head. But unlike the previous times where Oikawa had shown mercy and given you at least some time to recover from your climaxes by slowing down his ministrations and licking your open wounds close, this time he only becomes rougher as your orgasm crashes around you.

His hips thrust in and out of you at an inhuman pace. He’s drinking so much from you that you can feel the beginning of lightheadedness from the blood loss. You’re literally dying, but all you can do is take it and moan, lost in the pleasure, lost in the haze he’s enveloped you in. And just when you think this is the end, that your life is over, you whimper, clutching the rumpled linens tight as he slams one last time inside of you and fills you full of sticky seed.

You’re a sight for sore eyes, looking absolutely fucked silly and blissed out despite the borderline grotesque rivulets of blood staining almost every inch of you. It’s like you were made to be a blood pet and despite having just had his way with you, he can feel lust stirring inside of him once again at the thought of you collared and bound to his throne, his bed, your only purpose to sustain him with the lifeforce running through your veins.

But all in due time and he calls the nurse back to attend to you once all hints of foul play are gone before walking back to practice, a thoughtful smile on his lips as he begins to plan, already thinking of what else he has in store for you and eager for another taste of you.

Didn’t you recently say you were living alone?

[storiesforallfandoms]

i don’t need your help ~ jace herondale;shadowhunters

word count: 2524

request?: yes!

“Alec Lightwood or Jace Herondale (either one works) smut? If you're comfortable with writing for shadowhunters, ofc <3″

description: after a run in with a demon that almost turns bad, a fight between her and one of her fellow shadowhunters turns into something so much more

pairing: jace herondale x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, smut

masterlist (one, two)

Izzy helped me limp into the Institute, my body feeling run down and exhausted already. She laid me down on a bed and it took me a moment to register that it was my own bed. I was aching all over, but I tried to keep a brave face. At least, I thought I was keeping a brave face. For all I knew I was sobbing like a baby.

“I’ll get my stele,” she told me. “Just...just stay awake, okay?”

I tried to respond but it came out as a pained moan instead. Izzy quickly raced from my room to her own. I could hear her in the distance furiously looking for here stele. I tried to stay awake but my eyes were starting to grow heavy and my head was lulling back against the pillow under me. The thought of drifting off into unconsciousness felt like the best idea I had ever had in that moment.

I heard someone at the door and thought it was Izzy coming back. When I looked up, I saw it was Jace standing in my doorway. His face was pale and he was staring at me in horror. I could only imagine how awful I looked.

“(Y/N),” he breathed. He quickly raced to my side and pulled his stele out. “What the hell happened to you?”

“She had a run in with a demon while she was alone,” Izzy responded, appearing at Jace’s side. “I got there just in time. Can you help me draw healing ruins? She’s going to need a few.”

“I’m way ahead of you.”

The slight burn of Jace’s stele touching my arm caused me to let out a yelp of pain. He looked at me with sympathy as he continued to draw the healing Rune. Izzy moved to my other side and started drawing a Rune there too. It hurt as they were drawing them, but I felt a numbness wash over my body as the Rune started to take effect.

Jace started to stroke my hair after drawing another ruin on me. He looked down at me, his face full of concern. “Rest while the ruins do their work, (Y/N).”

Getting Jace’s permission to finally rest felt like a blessing, and within seconds I was passed out.

~~~~~~

I wasn’t sure how long I was out. When I woke up again, my head still felt heavy and my vision was spinning a little. I tried to lift my head to look around, but it felt like someone had poured nails into my head and shaken it. I groaned and laid back down again, raising my hand to put it on my forehead. I realized then that the pain had completely left my body, except for the headache I had, and I felt good as new again.

“How long have I been out?” I asked, turning my head to see who had stayed with me while I was unconscious. I knew either Jace or Izzy had. They weren’t going to leave me when I was in such rough condition.

Through the slight darkness of my room, I could make out the figure sitting down as Jace. I was slightly shocked to see that Jace was the one who had stayed. Despite his caring and concerned nature when Izzy had first brought me home, the two of us weren’t exactly close. We didn’t hate each other or anything, but we were constantly fighting and he irritated the hell out of me. I didn’t think his kindness would extend to staying with me while I was unconscious.

“A few hours,” he responded. “It’s 2am now, you got back around 8 or 9pm I think.”

I groaned. “I definitely feel like I’ve been out for five or six hours.”

“What were you thinking?” Jace questioned, rising from his seat. “Facing a demon alone? You were lucky that Izzy had known where you were or else you definitely wouldn’t have been feeling as good as you do now.”

“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious,” I muttered. “For your information, I didn’t go out with the intentions of facing a demon alone. I was just out and I got cornered by a demon that knew I was a Shadowhunter. I wasn’t expecting it and it got the jump on me.”

“You shouldn’t have gone out on your own at all. You know the dangers of being caught are high, especially when you can be spotted at any time by a demon.”

I braced myself as I sat up, the pounding feeling in my head intensifying for just a moment, before slowly numbing again.

“I can’t stay cooped up here forever, Jace,” I retorted. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Obviously you’re not or else you wouldn’t have been on death’s doorstep when you got back here.”

“I was not on death’s doorstep. Izzy found me in time, but even if she hadn’t I would’ve been fine.”

“You didn’t look fine.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Listen Jace, I appreciate this...concern you have for me, but I’m fine. I don’t need this lecture, I don’t need anyone’s help, especially not yours. You’ve made it very clear that you don’t actually like me all that much, so you don’t need to continue this caring act, or the lecture. I’m fine and I can take care of myself.”

The tension hung in the air. I expected Jace to walk away and to finally leave me alone. You can imagine my shock when he approached me suddenly, putting one hand behind my head and pulling me in for a kiss.

I was shocked. I didn’t know how to respond to it. I thought for a second that Jace had gone insane, that maybe some Downworlder had scrambled his brain or something. There was no way in Hell that Jace Herondale would willingly kiss me. I was just a torn in his side, and he was one in mine.

But something just felt right about the kiss. His rough hands were gentle as one cupped the back of my neck while the other was wrapped around my waist. He pulled me forward to the edge of the bed, nudging my legs open so he could stand between them. My hands were gripping the t-shirt he was wearing, taking in every last bit of him that I could.

I felt myself laying back on my bed against, Jace’s hand still under my head. He moved with me, hovering over me as our lips moved perfectly in sync with one another. His other hand slipped under my shirt, softly trailing up my side until he reached my bra. We broke away from the kiss just long enough for Jace to pull my shirt over my head and unhook my bra in one swift motion.

He looked down at me, his beautiful different colored eyes soft but full of lust. He gently ran his fingers over my cheek before pressing his lips against mine once more, then moving to start kissing cheek, my jaw, my neck. His lips hovered a moment over the fresh Runes that he and Izzy had drawn on my skin. When he pressed a kiss against them, it almost felt like he was soothing the slight burn that was still there. He continued to gently brush his lips over the white scars left behind from other Runes that had been drawn on my skin for years.

My head fell back against the pillow underneath me as Jace’s lips continued to kiss down my chest and stomach, stopping just above the hem of my jeans. He looked up at me, waiting for permission. When I nodded, he made quick work of pulling my jeans and panties off at one time. He pressed another light kiss just above m aching core before diving in with his tongue.

I gasped at the pleasurable feeling. Of course, being a Shadowhunter doesn’t mean you never have sex. Quite the opposite, really. All four of us in the Institution were no strangers to sex. But this...this was a feeling of pleasure beyond what I had ever experienced before. I blamed the fact that I had only ever had sex with Mundane men before now.

I ran a hand through Jace’s hair and grabbed hold of it. The action caused him to moan against me, the vibrations running through my body.

He lifted his head for air, replacing his tongue with his fingers as he lightly played with my clit.

“I can’t describe how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, placing gentle kisses against my stomach again.

“You have a weird way of sh - oh  - owing it,” I said, trying to tease him through the pleasure he was giving me.

He smiled in response and moved his hand away. I whimpered from the lack of contact, an action I wasn’t too proud of afterwards but in the moment I could care less.

Jace kissed my lips again, the taste of my arousal on his lips and tongue. It turned me on even more and I just wanted to have him inside of me.

I pushed him down onto the bed and climbed onto his lap, straddling him. He looked impressed by my action. I ran my hands down his still clothed chest, reaching the bottom of his shirt.

“I hardly think it’s far that you’re still dressed while I’m completely naked,” I said.

“Well, we can fix that,” he responded.

I made quick work of taking his clothes off, discarding them somewhere on the floor with my own. When I pulled his boxers down, I audibly gasped at his length. He chuckled at my reaction. “Surprised?”

“Surprised that my fantasies were true,” I responded.

Jace raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve fantasized about me?”

I took him in my hand and started to slowly stroke him. A breathy gasp escaped from his mouth as he fell completely helpless to my touch.

“It’s hard not to sometimes,” I admitted. “When you’re walking around here in your tight clothes, or with no shirt on. You’re so confident and cocky, it’s hard not to imagine what you’d be like in bed.”

“You finally have the real me here,” he said. “Why not make those fantasies a reality?”

He didn’t have to asked twice.

I spit onto the head of his dick, using my hand to spread it all over him before lining him up with my entrance. The moment his tip slipped inside of me, we both moaned in pleasure and relief. So much built up tension between us, sexual and otherwise, finally being released.

I slowly sat myself down on him, taking in every inch. His hands found their way to my hips, his fingers digging in so harshly that I was sure I’d have bruises there. Once I had adjusted to his size, he started rocking my hips against him, the friction starting to build between us.

I placed my hands on his chest, trying to steady myself as I took over rocking my hips. He looked into my eyes, his mouth partially open as moans and whimpers escaped from his lips. Even with these small movements he was hitting a spot inside of me that I had never felt before. I was almost sure I’d orgasm within seconds.

Jace sat up then, wrapping one arm around my waist while planting the other one on the bed behind him. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding on tightly as he began to thrust up into me. The motions were rougher and faster, hitting that spot inside of me with a force I hadn’t felt before. I buried my head in Jace’s shoulder, trying to muffle my moans as I remembered there were two other people living in the Institution.

“Does that feel good?” he asked.

“Fuck Jace,” I moaned. “That feels so fucking good. I might...I might...”

“What are you gonna do, princess?”

Fuck! And a pet name, too? I was putty in his hands.

I couldn’t even finish my sentence. My climax built up quick and hit me before I was even ready for it. I moaned Jace’s name against his shoulder as I felt myself clenching around him, a warm sensation running through my body.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his thrusts becoming sloppier. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Cum in me,” I whispered. “Please, Jace.”

He threw his head back and groaned as I felt him finish inside of me. I gasped at the feeling, which was almost enough to make me orgasm again.

Jace fell backwards onto the bed, taking me with him. I giggled as I settled against his chest, still wrapped around his softening member. I could stay like that for hours if Jace wanted to.

“Maybe I should get attacked by demons more often,” I mumbled to myself.

Jace tensed under me. “I would much rather if you didn’t.”

I moved my head to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Relax, I was only joking. I meant what I said earlier, Jace, I can handle demons on my own.”

He relaxed again, starting to trace his fingers up and down my back. “I know you can. I shouldn’t have overreacted earlier. I’m sorry.”

Normally I’d make some quip about him apologizing, but some things were starting to add up in my head. “You were always hounding me and shit because you were worried for me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jace responded anyways. “Yeah. I...I just never wanted you to get hurt.”

“Jace, I’m a Shadowhunter just like you. I’ve faced numerous Downworlders before, both by myself and with you guys. I can take care of myself, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m well aware of that. I’ve always been impressed with your fighting skills. It’s just...I care for you in a way that I’ve never cared for someone before. I always worry when you’re out with Izzy or Alec or anyone who isn’t me because I’m afraid of the day that...maybe you don’t come back. When I saw you earlier today...I was so terrified that I was actually going to lose you.”

I propped myself up a bit to take Jace’s face in my hands. “I appreciate how much you care, but you have to have faith in me, Jace. This is the first time I’ve seriously been injured while fighting a Downworlder, and I promise you it’ll be the last time too.”

Jace nodded. I smiled a little and leaned down to kiss him again. I finally decided to untangle myself from him, although I felt empty without him inside of me. I laid down next to him, feeling sleepy from our earlier activities.

My eyes were starting to close when Jace said, “Hey (Y/N).”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we should close the door next time we decide to have sex.”

My eyes popped open to see that my bedroom door was wide open. I hadn’t noticed that earlier, what with being...“preoccupied” and all. I groaned and buried my face in Jace’s chest as he laughed.

[robininthelabyrinth]

a lot of people in fandom have this idea that nie sect is some super progressive place and if only MY had dealt with the CQL captain guy better then he'd have had every opportunity to advance and be accepted but it didn't happen for him because he was too sneaky? hiding his 'real' personality? or something like that? what are your thoughts on this bc mine rn are teetering between 'yeah maybe' and being a bit annoyed at the way fandom has decided nie sect is actually perfect and can do no wrong

Okay, so the tone of this question is weirdly aggressive for whatever reason, but let me share my thoughts anyway.

First: the Nie sect is clearly not a place that is wholly lacking in the usual types of biases found in the cultivation world, including specifically against people with "questionable" backgrounds, i.e. Meng Yao's mother being a prostitute. We know this from there is bullying, name-calling, etc., both in the cave and, in CQL, from the captain. This is all bad.

However, this is modified by two things: the fact that there is ample evidence that this is the same everywhere else in the cultivation world (and is indeed worse, including for example in the Jin sect, per novel canon), and the fact that despite this, Meng Yao has managed to significantly advance his career at the Nie sect. Nie Mingjue stood up for him, took measures against those he saw as looking down at him, promoted him and treated him as his right hand man advisor - in CQL, we see him entrust him with his younger brother and listen to him over his own best instincts. He trusted him.

In a system where blood and birth is everything - Meng Yao isn't going to be made an heir to Nie sect because, well, he's not a Nie - Meng Yao has basically reached the highest pinnacle of what is possible to achieve with pure merit. Is there still a hostile work environment? Yes, because that's the culture they live in. But Meng Yao has Nie Mingjue - the big boss - backing him to the hilt. In CQL, we literally see that Nie Mingjue will start yelling at people he learns are putting Meng Yao down because of his birth.

That's the key point here - Nie Mingjue can't do shit about the stuff that doesn't get reported to him. From a modern corporation perspective, Nie Mingjue is basically doing all you can ask for: he's providing the correct tone from the top, he's ensuring that people who violate that are swiftly disciplined, he's modeled a better example through promoting and trusting Meng Yao, and he's provided a route for future complaints by establishing that he is willing to listen to Meng Yao's judgment.

Does that immediately make everything perfect for Meng Yao? Of course not! Nie Mingjue is fighting upstream against not only his own sect's culture, but the entire cultivation world's. But he's doing the best he can, and that, at least, is more than we see anyone else doing. (In CQL, Lan Xichen does something similar by personally modelling acceptance of Meng Yao, though notably, he doesn't take any action to punish those who were mocking him, which in CQL he had the right to do as sect leader. This makes being nice to Meng Yao a personal trait of Lan Xichen that others are encouraged to emulate, which is a good start, but doesn't go as far as Nie Mingjue since there's no reason to stop looking down at Meng Yao if you don't happen to feel like it.)

Conclusion: the Nie sect is a pretty good place to be at for someone like Meng Yao, as available places in the cultivation world go. While gaining acceptance would not happen immediately, there is no reason to think that it wouldn't happen eventually.

Now, onto your point about Meng Yao being "too sneaky" or showing his "real" personality being the issue - the issue, at heart, is not about whether Meng Yao was faking his sweetness. It's that Meng Yao chose not to tell Nie Mingjue about the captain's bullying, despite having previous evidence that Nie Mingjue would likely take his side against bullying, and instead chose to MURDER THE GUY. To be clear, in the modern corporate environment, even if you have a really hellish hostile work environment, even if you think your boss would side with the other guy over you and there's no point in making a report (which isn't the case here), even if all that is true, murder is not an appropriate response.

But it's not a modern corporate environment, it's the cultivation world, where murder happens a lot more casually - well, guess what, even if murder is okay (and it's not), do you know when it's pretty obviously NOT okay? In the middle of an attack on the sect by an enemy.

You don't really come back from that. Sorry. Doesn't really matter what your personality is, if you're willing to do that, you're out at best.

Where Meng Yao not showing his "real" personality comes in is actually later: he pretended to be righteous and just, just the way Nie Mingjue likes people to be (and that's totally okay because righteousness is an act not an intention; as long as he acted righteously, he was righteous, and who cares whether it came to him naturally). But maybe if he'd shown Nie Mingjue his true self, it wouldn't have been such a shock when he murdered a man in cold blood, and would have made it easier to forgive him later.

(I sincerely believe that part of Nie Mingjue's trauma at Meng Yao's action is the discovery that his trusted advisor, someone he thoguht of as a friend, wasn't at all the person he thought he was. I've compared it in the past to discovering that a good buddy of yours commits domestic violence - so often, you get people going "I never would have expected it from them, they were so nice to me" and are shocked and horrified because they feel they should have known, they should have seen signs, they should have figured it out.)

But the key thing here is - when your trust in someone is broken, it's broken. Nie Mingjue knows that Meng Yao isn't what he thought he was, and yet, for the rest of their relationship, Meng Yao persists in continuing to act as if he was that sort of good person...and gets pissed at Nie Mingjue for not believing it. Why should he believe it? Nie Mingjue wants to forgive him and to try to build a relationship with the person Meng Yao really is, and Meng Yao won't let him because he wants Nie Mingjue to go back to not having ever looked behind the curtain. Which is, of course, impossible.

If Meng Yao had been up front with who he was, maybe Nie Mingjue would have known to look for what Meng Yao wasn't telling him and been able to help prevent everything. Maybe he would have extended more sympathy to Meng Yao for the actual act of killing the guy. Maybe they could have made up again later.

Maybe not.

But what is inescapable is that Meng Yao's own decisions are what cost him his position in the Nie sect, and nothing else.

[reciprocityfic]

#5 for amylaurie

5. that emotional moment that you can't find a plot for.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

From the beginning, it had been marked with tragedy. He adored his mother, from what he can remember. But his memories, unfortunately, are few and far between. He tried to keep her smile, her laugh, the feel of her hugs and her hand wrapped around his tiny one locked away in his brain and his heart, but over the years, they inevitably began to fade. Before he knew it, he couldn’t quite get the tenor of her voice right, couldn’t remember the sweet words she used to whisper in his ear. She was like a beautifully painted picture, rather than a human being.

If there was someone who adored his mother more than he had, it was his father.

His father took her death the hardest. He tried to find a salve for his broken heart in all the wrong places, began gambling too often and drinking too much, frequently leaving his son alone late into the night to go out and drown his pain in whatever way he could. When his father was home, he could hardly stand to be around him. Everything about Laurie reminded him of her - his eyes, his hair, his nose, his smile. He reached his breaking point eventually, and then he sent Laurie away.

School had never been particularly hard for him. He was smart, he supposed, and he didn’t mind the company of his tutor. Boarding school was different, though. He never quite found a way to fit in. He was too quiet, not quite as rich, and Italian, which mattered in a way he didn’t understand. He always found himself at the center of negative gossip, the butt of too many jokes. He hated it, so he stopped trying to assimilate and let himself fade away into the peripheries of his peers.

When his father died, it was almost a relief; at least the man wouldn’t suffer any longer. But again, it threw him into a world of uncertainty and unfamiliar territory. It sent him to America, into the hands of a grandfather he had never met. As he grew older, he’d come to subtly resent his extended family for disowning him and his parents, and wondered if this grandfather would resent him back.

He didn’t. But his grandfather also wasn’t warm, a product of living so many years alone, Laurie supposes. He knows Mr. Laurence has experienced his share of heartbreak as well; there’s a beautiful piano that sits untouched, that the servants tell him belonged to the old man’s late granddaughter. The few times he tried to play it he’d catch his grandfather looking at him in a way that wasn’t particularly pleasant, so he stopped.

John Brooke - his new tutor - was pleasant enough, earnest and determined to please his grandfather by giving him the privilege of an excellent education. They often butted heads when Mr. Brooke tried to teach him; he couldn’t find him in himself to care much about learning anymore. Couldn’t find it in himself to care about much of anything.

Then, he met Jo March.

His grandfather had noticed his melancholy and sent him to a party to try to lift his spirits. He doubted it would work - how exciting could a party in Concord, Massachusetts possibly be, after all - and quickly found an empty side room to disappear in for a while until he’d spent enough time there that he could plausibly tell his grandfather he’d made an effort to be sociable.

It was there that Jo literally stumbled into him, and changed his life forever.

He’d never in his life met a girl like Jo March, one that was so boisterous and bright and unapologetically herself. In his world, every girl was trained from an early age to be prim and proper and polite, so that someday she might make a good wife and a fine young woman. Jo was anything but, and when he met the rest of the March family, he learned that they all were, in their own way - whether it be Meg and her unabashed love for dramatics and pretty things, or Beth sitting at her piano, playing until her fingers ached.

Or Amy, marching around in a pair of fairy wings and declaring that one day, she would be the best painter in the entire world.

His childhood memories of the Marches were all Jo, her fire and harsh edges and iron will, but Amy was always there at the edges, making herself known. She always seemed to be at odds with her older sister, but he thought that was because the two of them were the most alike in a way, like two opposite ends of the same string. He would always take Jo’s side when she recounted their latest feud, of course, but he couldn’t help his amusement at some of Amy’s antics. He remembers, when Jo told him that Amy had burned her novel, how his sympathy for Jo had existed right alongside of his wild amusement that little Amy March had the gall to even come up with such a thing, let alone follow it through.

But even though Amy was there, along with Meg and Beth, Jo was undoubtedly the main attraction, the sun at the center of his universe. His world was filled with her, with her smiles and laughs and hair and voice, with her words and her thoughts and ideas, and soon his heart was, too. He didn’t know much about love, but he knew he loved her. He knew he wanted her to be a part of his life always.

So, he’d asked her to marry him. It was the only thing to do, wasn’t it?

When she turned him down, he almost hadn’t been surprised. A part of him almost expected it; he hadn’t been particularly excited to ask her, after all. Rather, he’d dreaded it, dreaded the moment that the delicate balance they had built would have to tip one way or the other. He’d always known there was a chance she’d reject him.

That didn’t mean it hurt any less, though. He thinks it hurt even more when she left; he’d always known Jo to dive into every challenge head-first, but then she ran away to New York. She ran away from him. So he followed her lead, as he had learned to do so well over those years with her.

Heading back to Europe was much more bitter than it was sweet, and even the grandeur of cities like London, Paris, and Rome couldn’t stop the vibrancy from slowly bleeding out of his life. What had become a kaleidoscope of colors was now just grays and blacks and whites.

So he drank, and smoked, and gambled, and fucked his way through life, and in a macabre way, never felt closer to his father. Except he wasn’t heartbroken, not anymore - he realized more and more that he never expected her to say yes, not really. That she was right, as she usually was - it would have never worked.

He just felt lost. Unmoored, with nothing to anchor him. And he started to believe that maybe he was simply supposed to live his life this way, alone and adrift and apathetic.

Then, Amy March came barreling back into his life.

She was different, of course - namely, she was no longer little. She had traded her fairy wings and braids for beautiful gowns and carefully coiffed updos, and all her lofty childhood wishes had been replaced with a stoic, resigned realism. It would have worried him, that the world had taken her and hardened her, but he knew that the woman that threw her arms around him and happily shouted his name on that Parisian street, the world around her momentarily forgotten, was the Amy he had always known and cared for, however proper she might be now.

And she was proper, but he found it didn’t bother him like he thought it would. Instead, he admired her for it, that she had managed to grow up so gracefully. She was lovely, he decided. Lovely and refined and determined, so much so that it got him in trouble with her, sometimes. She was constantly after him to be better, to stop his drinking and laziness and make something of his life.

She wanted him to respect himself. He’d never really done that; all his life, he’d known himself to be a bother or problem, a thorn in someone’s side. He didn’t really know how to respect himself, but for her, he wanted to try.

The problem was, it was getting harder and harder to leave her side. She painted in his life with strokes that were insistent, but soft, and he found that her world was just as colorful as her sister’s. It was her own, of course; if Jo had been a red flame, then Amy was a golden glow, like sunshine. But he found that he didn’t mind the differences, that he maybe even preferred Amy’s version. It made him warmer than anything he’d known before.

He doesn’t know exactly when he fell for Amy. It happened slowly, gently, and before he could stop it, she’d taken up all the emptiness in his heart, filled it with light and life and love. Not that he would’ve wanted to stop it; he found he was quite content belonging to her. Even when she rejected him that first time, he didn’t try to remove her. He didn’t resent her, as he had temporarily resented Jo. He knew it was futile, that he was irreparably hers, and he decided that if he couldn’t be with her, he would at least make himself someone she could be proud of. He wanted to be someone she could respect, if he couldn’t be someone she loved.

But then, God had smiled upon him - for perhaps the first time - and she’d changed her mind. She loved him, she wanted him, she loved him. And when he kissed her that first time, she ignited something in him that no woman ever had before. He loved her, he wanted her, her and her only, he loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

His heart sang for her with its every beat. Every breath she took gave him purpose, every smile gave him joy, every kiss and moan and tug on his hair made his blood run hot through his veins. He was so full inside, wanted for nothing. He felt like all his life he’d been trying to shove himself into places where he didn’t fit, whether it be at school or with his father. With Jo. But there was a spot beside Amy, one in which he fit perfectly, like it was created with him in mind. And as long as Amy was beside him, he could do anything, be anything, survive anything.

One of the things that he loves most about her is her beauty. He can’t help it; he is only human. A weak one when it comes to Amy. When she hugged him that first time in France, he’d noticed how the autumn sun had caught the strands of her blonde hair, her cheeks flushed from the way she ran to him. He first let himself realize it in her studio, when she went off to meet Fred Vaughn. There was something about the way her cream-colored blouse laid against her pale skin, the way the blue accents brought out her eyes. How her pinned-up hair showed off her neck. He could do nothing but smile shyly at her, any coherent words suddenly caught in his throat. And every time he saw her, he noticed something else that added to her beauty, whether it be the delicate way she sipped her tea, her lips a pretty pink against the white china, or the way she blushed when he complimented her. Eventually, in a room full of women, she was the only one he could see, as captured as he was by her.

Almost three years later, nothing has changed.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to find her side of the bed empty. He’s almost positive he knows where she is, and almost rolls over and closes his eyes. But he can’t get her out of his head, so he gets up and throws on his robe. The moon shines bright enough that he doesn’t need a candle, and he leaves their bedroom, creeping to the next door down the hall. It’s ajar just slightly, and he slips inside.

And there she is, just where he thought she would be. Standing at the window, staring out into the night. She’s barefoot, dressed in a white nightgown, long hair cascading down her back. The moonlight illuminates her hair and skin. She’s breathtaking. More beautiful than any painting he’d ever seen.

Cradled in her arms is their newborn baby girl.

He doesn’t want to startle her, so he knocks gently against the door. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him, but quickly goes back to gazing at the newest addition to their family.

He walks over to the two of them, placing a kiss on the top of her head before wrapping his arm around her shoulder and embracing her. There are a multitude of reasons why she might be in here - the baby could’ve been crying, it could’ve been time for a change or a feeding, or Amy simply could’ve missed her, could’ve wanted to hold her and watch her breathe. He suspects it’s the last one, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful scene in front of him.

He reaches a finger down to their baby, taps at her hand, until she opens her fist and wraps all of her tiny fingers around that one of his. Amy turns her face and nuzzles his shoulder, relaxing against him.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

But standing here now, both his wife and his daughter in his arms, he knows nothing but.

send me a number and a pairing (preferably laurie x amy) and i'll write you a mini fic!

[angeli-marco-writes]

Tom Felton - Baby on the Brain

A/N - First request! I hope this is what you wanted, I really like this idea. I don’t know Tom, nor do I claim to, and the other characters are fictional figments. To celebrate 100 followers, I'm uploading this early. Thank you!

Warnings - overloads of fluff, mentions of baby sick, mild language, slight angst, hints to a breeding kink whoops, lightly implied smut.

Summary - Visiting Tom’s brother and his new baby should be a walk in the park, really, but some unwitting truths come to ahead that you can’t refute. You’ve always wanted a family, but does Tom? (Request for Tom Felton: you guys meet his brother's new baby and then decide to have your own.)

Tom’s bruised knuckles rap thrice against the oak wood of his brother's front door, squeezing your smaller, trembling hand in his, running his fingers over the band of the ring in pride of place. Taking a deep breath in sync with yours, he turns his twinkling blue eyes towards you, lending you a twitch of a reassuring smile.

“Why are you so nervous? It’s only my brother,” he says, his voice gruff following the cigarette he smoked in the car.

“It’s the baby I wanna see,” you breathe, “less nervous, more jittery.”

“Maybe you should’ve gone for tea this morning instead of a double shot coffee.”

You nudge his ribs with your elbow, and then his overly sensitive hip bone with yours, coaxing a gentle chuckle from his lips, “Maybe I wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t kept me up so late.”

The devilish, shit-eating grin creeping onto his lips tells you that he feels no remorse, but then again, you’d take tiredness and a night like that over anything. His fingers twine tighter around yours as footsteps begin to shuffle behind the door, followed by an ear-piercing, blood-curdling screech, absolutely unholy.

“See he’s having fun with the kid, then?” you begin to whisper, but your words trail off as Tom’s very exhausted looking brother appears in the doorway, feeding bottle in hand, burping rag over his shoulder, deep purple bags beneath his eyes.

“Alright mate?” Tom greets, stepping one loafer-clad foot over the threshold, offering his brother a man hug.

“Tired, yeah. How you doing, man?” he responds warmly, patting Tom’s back.

“I’m good, I’m good, Jon.” Tom says, though you can feel him almost imperceptibly tense beside you.

Turning ever so slightly, all eyes are cast on you. Naturally, you offer Tom’s brother your warmest smile, teeth and all, sympathy welling both in your eyes and your heart. Kids must be tough if he looks like this with a three-week old.

“And who’s this?” Jonathan asks, sweetly, inquisitive more than anything, though he does look at you a bit peculiarly, scrutinising you, perhaps your outfit, the mom jeans you paired with a cropped cardigan perhaps not his style.

“This is my fiancée, Y/N.” Tom says, his words holding an inflection or pride perhaps, but whatever it is, it sends a pang of excitement shooting down your spine, a smirk creeping its way onto your lips, one you have to bite back, “I’m sorry I haven’t bought her over before, but you know what it’s like.”

“Yeah, course. Nice to meet you.”

“And you! Where’s the baby?”

Tom chuckles softly, and he curls his arm around your body, hip to hip. “She loves kids.”

Jonathan stands aside, a welcoming hand to beckon you into his home, the laminate floors covered in baby commodities, pastel blankets strewn everywhere, but other than, surprisingly clean considering Tom mentioned his brother was a hoarder and was always the most untidy of the bunch all throughout their youth. Considering how bad Tom is and how often you’re stuck cleaning away his dirty dishes and putting his laundry on, you were expecting far worse, but maybe Tom was the worst of them all along.

He tickles between your ribs as you wander through the halls, greeted in the back room by a tiny blonde headed baby, cradled in two arms of a just as exhausted looking lady donning a kind smile, stars dancing in her eyes as she stares down at her temporarily placated child. Tufts of blonde hair pair with enamoured hazel eyes to compliment the soft yellow of their clothes and the rosiness of their chubby cheeks. The hair, the nose, the tiny dimples; this baby looks just like Tom - and all his brothers - did when they were little dots themselves. The same little treasures. You, however, were an unattractive baby compared to this ball of sunshine.

“This is Ainsley.” Tom’s sister in law says lazily, her words falling off as she gapes in adoration at the gurgling blob of joy in her embrace. “And I’m Zara.”

“I’m Y/N.” you smile widely.

Should he not know better, Tom would quite possibly think you’re going to either collapse of hyperventilate, judging by the flush of your cheeks, your elevated pulse, heart beating out of your chest, the tiny, delightful, desperate whimpering noises from the back of your throat, elicited from a single glance into the babies eyes.

Said baby begins to make some indistinguishable noises and flails its arms around faintly, feebly, in your general direction. You’d be lying if your heart didn’t do a somersault in your chest.

“M- may I hold Ainsley?” you stammer out, extending your covered arms in a similar cradle to that of Ainsley’s mother.

“God, you’d be doing me a right favour,” she retorts, her accent broad, Geordie.

She shuffles softly down the pale green sofa, so perfectly complimenting the oak floors, to make a room for you that you take gratefully, and position yourself astutely against the back of the sofa. Before retrieving the baby, though, Tom grasps for a muslin cloth and affectionately drapes it over you, affectionate in the manner that he does it with such care, grazing his thumbs over your collarbones as he goes, ever so gently, barely even a touch, but enough to let you know he’s there. He holds your gaze for a moment, his lips twitching into a smile. This alone sends butterflies to your stomach and sets a sheen of fog about your head, taking you even more by surprise when the baby is laid in your arms, writhing and smiling and blinking so sweetly.

“Hiya darling,” you coo, “aren’t you just the most precious thing.”

“Gender neutral name and clothing...” Tom interjects, sidling up on the arm of the sofa beside you, “may I ask their sex and the pronouns you’re using?”

“Male, but we’re trying to be as gender neutral as possible so they can grow up not feeling pressured.”

You can’t wipe the beam from your face, or prevent the small ‘awwh!’ from escaping under your breath, curling the cloth slightly around the child, “That’s a wonderful attitude. Tommy, would you fetch my bag from the car, please?”

In a second, he’s bouncing up, his hand thrust deep in his chinos to fish for the car key. “You asked me to grab it before we got out as well, sorry sweetheart. Back in a minute.” With a nod to his brother, he’s racing out the door, his footsteps thundering through the house. Your attention, however, remains glued to the baby.

“Would you like me to set them down for tummy time afterwards, or is he going back to sleep?” You ponder aloud, eyes glued to the wry tufts of hair so soft and silky between your fingers.

“If he falls asleep in your arms, that’s fab. We’re just livin’ minute by minute.”

You release a small laugh, “Fair enough.”

Jon sits beside you tentatively, between yourself and his wife, his arm wrapping around her as she leans her body weight against him, her hair--held in a bun before, now just kind of flopping into her eyeline--tickling her shoulder and causing him to wince a little.

“How do you know so much about babies?”

The sigh you don’t mean to release is wistful at best, plain pining at worst--and probably most obvious. “I’ve always wanted them, kids, but Tommy’s the first guy I’ve settled down with, but despite being engaged, we’re still taking things slowly.”-- You shrug, as best as you can with the baby in hold, and cock your head to the side to peer down better at every tiny freckle on Ainsley’s skin.--“I love him to bits, but he wants to wait, and I’m still young, a good chunk younger than he is.”

“If it helps,” he starts, “I’ve never seen Tom as in love with someone as he is you. He’s besotted. You say the word, he’ll do it.”

“I know. I just don’t want to make him do anything unless he’s 100% sure.”

“And that’s what makes you his perfect girl.”

Your heart swells. There’s a beat, a pause of silence, filled only with the zapping of the car outside, no more than a couple of seconds before Jon’s wife speaks again.

“Enough of that. Show us the ring!”

If they’re all this excitable at something as simple as your engagement ring, perhaps you’ll fit in with his family better than you anticipated. ** Certainly, if their amiable gasps are anything to go by as you display your hand to them, your ring finger held out, supporting Ainsley’s head in the crook of your elbow as they gawk at the diamond glistening in the sunlight streaming in from their floor-to-ceiling patio doors. You have to admit it’s a pretty damn beautiful ring, the one you always dreamed of. An oval cut 0.5ct diamond held in place by a delicate split-shank 18ct gold band. It glows ethereally in whatever light there is, but most spectacularly in Tom’s eyes.

“It’s the most gorgeous ring,” she gushes, “apart from mine.”

A smile creeps its way in. You’re not entirely sure what the hell you’ve done right in your life to deserve this incredible, expensive ring, or even Tom for that reason. This is the life you’ve always dreamed of, the one that Tom’s brother has, and if you’re even half as happy as they are after being married for 5 years then you’ll consider your life to be a great success. You always wanted the quiet family life in the suburbs, with a lovely house and a nice garden and a couple of kids, working a part time job that pays well and allows you time for your children and your husband… then you fell in love with him. Loving Tom, though, that’s the true gift in your life, and you’d take him over that life any day. He’s the best, truly.

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive, since Tom comes puffing into the room, his heavy footsteps coming to a halt in the doorway as he hands over your abnormally large handbag.

“Here,” he gasps, but turns his gaze upon your hand, witnessing their marvelling at the rock he put there, “it is a pretty boss ring, isn’t it? Worth every penny.”

He bends down to ghost a kiss over your lips, his slightly long dark-blonde hair tickling your cheeks, smiling warmly down at you before deciding to sidle up next to you in the small gap between you and the arm of the sofa. However, half way down, his hip bones are digging in, and he winces up like he’s just been shocked. You know how sensitive his hip bones are, a fat you use against him incredibly often for all the best reasons, but today, he’s been so good, and you shan’t make him sit uncomfortably.

Keeping your hold on Ainsley--who’s almost asleep already, quieter than he was before with only faint gurgles escaping, their eyes droopy--steady, you begin to stand, and shuffle yourself up a bit, allowing Tom to take your previous seat, before placing yourself back down with as little ‘umph’ as you can manage, hooking your thigh over tom’s in the process. He knows what to do, it’s always been your calling card at home or at a party: as soon as you sling your leg over his, he pulls you into his lap eerie time, and today is no different. Well, perhaps it is, as he furrows his dark eyebrows inquisitively, gazing adoringly at you and the child in your arms, waiting for your nod okay before he hitches his arms around your waist and tugs you, as gently as he possibly can with his delicate grip, into his lap, giving you both ample space.

“Babe,” you whisper, “can you fetch the gift out of my bag?”

He’s instantly ferreting around until he finds the presents you neatly wrapped in polka dot paper, and hands them to Jonathan. Eagerly, they're unwrapped, and it seems that your many arguments over what to get Tom’s niece or nephew were worth it, considering the fact their eyes begin to brim with tears.

A soft grey elephant plush, holding a yellow heart, embellished with ‘Ainsley Felton, love Uncle Tom’, and a Peter Rabbit china crockery set for when they’re older.

“Thank you,” Zara exclaims, the way only a mother can, in gracious relief, “they’re adorable, so perfect.”

And before you know it, both you and Tom are being embraced wholeheartedly, as though you’re already their family. It’s been a life since anyone besides Tom hugged you, but this, this is nice.

“Well, lunch?”

Said lunch is a tumultuous affair, with a delivery pizza being ordered from the local dominoes, but with Ainsley so comfortable and calm in your arms, it was an elected decision not to move him, and instead, Tom fed you your pizza. It isn’t the first time, his love language seems to be feeding you things, but normally it's strawberries or chocolate truffles. Never before have you covered an entire medium pizza being fed to you while trying to avoid dropping any toppings or tomato sauce onto a peaceful baby, but that is just an indicator for the rest of the afternoon, Tom’s hands or eyes never once leaving you.

Completely accidentally, Jonathan and his wife drift off to sleep. You smile sadly at the sight, unable to blame them, they must be knackered, the problem simply lies in the fact that Ainsley begins to stir just as they drift off.

“See if there’s any milk in the fridge, please, I think they’re using formula.” you hiss to Tom, standing up cautiously.

Aghast, he grapples for words, “I-I’m sorry, what?!”

“Forget it,” you sigh, “take the baby and change him, please.”

“Change him?!” Again, that same tone of staggered surprise. “I don’t know how!”

“You have four nieces and nephews already, yes you do. He’s going to start screaming in a minute and wake your very tired, very groggy brother. Change the baby.”

When your eyes begin to thin, nostrils flaring, eyebrows raising, he knows not to mess with you, so he swallows thickly, his throat bobbing up and down, and scoops a crying Ainsley from your arms. As he treads upstairs, you find your way back into the kitchen, and find on the counter the bottles done with their sterilisation. This is okay, this is great, you know how to do this, and years of babysitting taught you exactly how to do this. It’s almost like that scene from Outnumbered, assembling the bottle with your eyes closed, muscle memory taking over from your brain. When your eyes flutter open, you almost let out a little squeal at your achievement. If only you could learn this all over again, have this life with a little child of your own, with Tom being as good a dad as he’s acting right now. When you handed him the baby, though, you couldn’t help but notice the fear that flashed over his face, paling him a shade, his pupils dilating to erase the blue. You wish he wasn’t so scared…

A few minutes later, with the kettle boiled and the formula made, you appear in the front room where Tom is swaddling Ainsley, holding the bean against his beating heart, making only the very slightest movements to entertain them.

“Give him a bit of tummy time while the milk cools, do you want to feed him?” you offer, stepping over the threshold .

“N-no,” he exhales slowly, “I think you’d best do that. Can I just put them down?”

“I’ll grab the mat from the corner”--you spied it as you walked in, a colourful crinkle mat rolled up and tucked away from view against the cream walls, behind the flat-screen on its grand stand--“and then yeah.”

Even as he puts Ainsley down, stomach first, onto the playmat, he looks petrified. Taking a seat on the floor to watch over them, you tug on Tom’s tan trouser leg. Indecisiveness gnaws at him, tugging him away from you, but he concedes to your widened puppy eyes, and tumbles onto the shag pile rug next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders like its second nature.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah, course. You?”

“Yeah.”

You let your head fall to his arm, a blissful smile creeping its way onto your lips when Ainsley looks you dead in the eye, hazel orbs twinkling, full of hope.

“I love you.”

“I know,” he hums, “I love you too.”

“Then why are you being so… prickly with me today?”

He shifts away from you the most miniscule amount, “I’m not.”

“We’ve been together for years, Tom. I know when you’re bloody lying.” you lower your voice for the final words, “now tell me why you’re being such a pouty puss.”

You mimic his frown, knowing full well that he hates it when you do so. He hates seeing you sad, even if it's just pretend, so makes a swooping move to kiss the frown away.

“Would you leave me if I said I didn’t want kids?” his voice breaks on the final word, little more than a whisper, but his next move is so animated that it almost startles you with the bottle in hand. “I mean, you know I want them. I love kids, I want us to have a family, but…”

“Nothing would ever make me leave you, Tom. You couldn’t do anything that’d cause me to fall out of love with you.”

The pain in your statement sends a shock through you, singing your heart, poisoning your mind, sending a sour bile running up your throat. No matter how many daggers shoot at your heart, it remains to be true. You’d do anything for him. If, tomorrow, he turned around and said he wanted the two of you to stay together but never marry and never have children, you wouldn’t back down without a fight, but you’d accept it. Despite all your lifelong hopes, nothing trumps Tom.

“I’m gonna feed Ainsley now.”

Picking the baby up from the rug, you put a bib around his neck, and throw another cloth around you, taking a seat in the corner chair to feed him.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” he says, and walks out, shoulders slumped.

You watch him wistfully as he leaves the room, and even when he returns--refusing to look at you--your gaze is still trained on his every move, slumping into the shag pile rug to watch the TV on a low volume. You can feel his eyes on you, that burning pair of eyes that follow you everywhere, your every movement, his ears honed, trained to your every shift and whisper. The second you turn upon him though, he’s looking away.

“I’ll put Ainsley down now,” you announce after burping him, “we need to leave soon if we want to make it home before dark.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye as you sashay past him, Ainsley’s cries muffled by a dummy, but the second he hears your footsteps heading back downstairs, his own begin to thunder, pounding against the stairs to meet you halfway.

“Wait,” he whispers, “come on, sit down, talk to me. I love you.”

A sigh heaves your chest, “I love you too. Talk about what?”

“You’re being arsey with me.”

“Because you said you don’t want kids!”

“Well I didn’t mean it, I’m just”--he pinches the bridge of his nose, and ushers you up on the stairs, your calves hitting the carpet--“there’s a lot to think about. We just met the kid, and I saw how your face lit up when you held him.”

“You know I want kids, Tom.”

“I know, but can we not talk about kids for a second? I want to talk about you. You’re my fiancée, I want to make you my wife. I’m just scared.”

“What of? You have nothing to be scared of. I’ll be here no matter what.”

“That’s why I’m scared!” he exasperates, flailing his arms about, “I don’t want you to senselessly follow me and love me if I can’t give you what you want. I’m scared of fucking this up, fucking you up. I’m scared of this going wrong, with children or marriage or saying something wrong, because I can’t lose you.”

“Tom,” you murmur.

Your hand flies up to cup his jaw, grazing your thumb over the stubble growing there, the faintest shadow.

“I love you. I- I need you. Y/N, sweetheart, please. I just wanna stay how we are, just stay this way for a bit, slow down because the world is moving too fast, and I’m gonna fall, but I can’t drag you down with me.” he croaks, cradling your neck with trembling, callused hands. “Can we stay how we are? Just us? Just you and me?”

“Babe you aren’t gonna lose me. Everything else off the table, we’ve got this, we’ve got us. We can stop the world and get off if that's what you want. Nothing is immediate, everything can wait.” you promise, your eyes boring into his.

All at once, his lips come crashing down onto yours, swallowing any inhibitions with his lavishing tongue, his hot breath slanting and fanning over your lips, leaving innocent adoration in their wake. Until a piercing scream resounds.

“Except maybe that.”

You duck from his grip skilfully, and slip into Ainsley’s room, two fingers reaching out to tickle their stomach, causing the scream to hiccup in their throat momentarily. Then, as if wondering what to do next, he just stares up at you imploringly, questioningly.

“Come on Ainsley, I just set you down to sleep. Be good and let mummy and daddy sleep too, okay?” you coo, tucking his blanket back up to his neck, slipping his cuddly toy closer, “go back to sleep.”

This child is already one with an attitude, you can tell that by the vehemence with which he yells out. You don’t even have to think twice before you’re stooping into the cot, swathing him in blankets, and lifting him to your bosom, where his screams fall to mere gurgles.

“Do you think he’s sleeping in the bed with them?” you ask Tom, keeping your voice at a steady whisper even with the slight bounces you’re offering the baby, “because I think that causes parental problems above all else because they’re being kicked in the back all night. Still, decreases the risk of SIDS. Why do they have a cot up if they are? He can’t sleep without contact…”

You don’t even realise you’re thinking aloud until Tom presses his thumbs into your shoulders, buckling your whole body. It’s the instant tension reliever, truly, and your shoulders do seem tighter today, perhaps from all the baby wrangling.

“Lets just sit, shall we?”

You do, taking up refuge in the front room once again, with an extra blanket of his, as well as a supply of cuddly toys, rattles, and dummies. Tom watches you with fascination for the rest of the afternoon, everything you do drawing his full attention; enticing, entrapping. His heart swells at the sight of you bouncing Ainsley around to make him laugh, cooing and giggling with him to coax a smile back after a wail that you hushed down, holding him so closely as he sleeps. He’s finally seeing it, after all these years, you, in your true home habitat, caring for a child, so kindly, so motherly, so naturally. Everything you do instantly seems to set the infant at ease. He knows it should be him, Ainsley is his nephew, but… you’re just better.

In fact, before he even realises it, he’s craving what he doesn’t have. Not that he can’t have it -- you’ve been together for a long time, you’ve discussed a future with children more times than he can count, and of course he wants it. Tom, he’s always wanted to be a dad, to read his kids books and sing them lullabies and show them what daddy did for work… but it's always been a pipe dream. Your wishes of a family have never come to fruition, and all because of his selfish fears.

The world can’t stop turning just because he’s getting cold feet and wants to climb off for a minute to catch his breath. That’s not how life works. If you want something, you’ve gotta grab it by the balls, because the opportunity will be gone before you know it. And with Tom? He won’t lose you because he won’t take a chance to make you happy and give you what you want. If anything, seeing the crestfallen look that settles between your brows when you actually have to give Ainsley back to their parents just further instils and confirms the idea in his head. There’s his future, in his mind's eye, as clear as day. This is what he needs to do, but better still, this is what he wants.

The drive back to your home is spent in relative silence, and a pensive one at that. You know like instinct that Tom is replaying your final conversation with Jonathan and his wife the same way you are. After all, the simple words did put a dampener on your reconciliation. Your hand is on the gearstick the whole way, though, your fingers entwined with his, the simple contact enough for you. You were right at lunch: all day it's been his hands or his eyes on you: you like it when it's both simultaneously, the way it was when you said your goodbyes.

Tom’s hands settled on your hips, his chin atop your head, and you just fell into his enveloping warmth, smiling lazily at the couple you rescued for the afternoon.

“Thanks so much, we owe you one.” Jonathan said, giving Tom another one of those manly hugs as you stand in the dusk-darkened wooden porch.

“Really,” Zara chimed in, her feet shuffling on the tiled floor as she held her husband's hand, “you’re welcome to have him any time. That is, of course, if you don’t have a little one of your own by the time you’ve recovered from that blighter.”

You forced a dry chuckle at her words, an awkward sound, but you seemed to recover well enough, “Well Ainsley’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad we could give you some respite. Take care.”

“And you. Drive safe.”

“We will,” Tom said, offering them a smile, flashing his keys, keeping his grip on you resolute, “thanks for having us.”

Their words still loom over you like a dark cloud. It was a throwaway comment, one they’d have thought nothing of, and most people, and even you on a good day, but you’d had that… spat earlier on that changed everything. Dredging it up would just put an even further dampener on your mood, though, and with a drive home in the semi-darkness already hanging over you like a massive impending storm cloud of fear, that’s definitely not ideal.

“Nice baby, Ainsley,” Tom mentions, turning his indicator on to pull off the dual carriageway.

“Yeah, and he’s cute.”

“Nice eyes.”

And a couple more comments like those are the only conversation you share as the journey goes by, but soon enough, you’re on the home stretch, and your street rolls into view. With your head comfortably rolled back against the headrest, your eyes shut from a tiring day of exertion and childminding , you don’t notice Tom stepping out the car and unravelling his grip from you. Only does it become apparent when he opens your door and unclips your seat belt, kissing your lips tenderly, the chapped skin arising you from whatever zoned out, thoughtful state you were in before.

“Come on, let's get you inside sweetheart.” he murmurs, taking your hands in his as he helps you out the car, His chivalry never fails to astound you--he even carries your bag.

“Thanks darlin’.”

You follow him inside, kicking off your shoes routinely, shrugging off your coat to hang on the peg with your name etched above it. What happens next, though, is what shocks you the most: this isn’t part of your normal ‘returning home’ routine, not if you’ve had a day as tiring as this one. You’re neither complaining nor disappointed, though. How can you be when Tom’s lips latch onto your pulse point and he has you writhing in seconds, only his arm around the small of your back there to support you.

In one fell swoop, he has you spun around and pinned to the wall, his figure with lust-blown eyes hovering above you, every line in his face so loving, even the subtle part of his lips. They only do that when he’s so desperate to kiss you he can barely breathe, when he’s so eager to confess his love again and again that all other words are inconsequential. This is your Tom.

“Let’s try for a baby.” he says, completely resolutely, no trace of hesitation anywhere in his perfectly, delectably gruff tone. “I want one, I want us, and I don’t wanna wait to build a family with you.”

You can feel tears begin to form in the corners of your shock-widened eyes. This… this is- What changed his mind? Just hours ago, he was hell bent against the idea, but now? His cheeks are glowing at the mere prospect. Courtesy and patience be damned, that is if you can get the words out with how choked up you are…

“Really? Y-you mean it?”

His faint smile widens into a full blown grin, one that confirms everything for you. This is it, this is the Tom you agreed to marry, the happy Tom, the smiley Tom, the one who can barely contain his excitement even as he nods, a stray lock of dark blonde hair falling into his eyes as he does so.

Reasonably, you can’t be expected to hold back, and when his hair gets long enough that it falls into his eyeline? That’s your main weakness, so who can blame you when you catapult yourself up onto him, your legs joining around his wait, your arms settling around his neck. He holds you right back, catches you like he was already waiting, and pins you against the wall again. Perhaps the serotonin is too much as you both grin into a searing kiss, the every press of his lips against yours holding more passion than you can fathom a cohesive thought about. He’s… incredible.

And besides, with this enthusiasm, his kiss alone leaving you gasping and clutching onto his hair for some kind of grounding, perhaps it’ll be the first time lucky…