#this is the culmination of years of fanfic reading on ao3

[armageddidnt]

I’ve been reading so much Ineffable Husbands fanfic on AO3 lately I thought it was time to put this bad boy together. Hope you can find something entertaining/relatable here XD

[sequinsmile-x]

Better

Ordinary.

The way her mother says it makes it sound like poison, like something that was infiltrating her life and tearing it apart from the inside out. An awful, ugly thing instead of the beautiful thing that tied her life together like the finest gold thread.

-x-

Hi friends,

If you haven't seen it, I've been getting more anon hate than usual recently, almost entirely around the fact pregnancy/Emily having a family with Aaron is a common them in my fics and how they hate that I write about it. Instead of just...seeing the tags and moving on they've been sending me anons criticising me for it. This culminated in me getting a message yesterday that sent me into orbit saying I was making Emily 'mediocre' by making her a mother like other 'mediocre' women.

(you can read the anon here if you haven't and want to it is WILD)

Now, whatever your feelings are about fanfic or characterisation of Emily, calling someone mediocre for their choices, implying that wanting whatever they want is bad, is ridiculous behaviour.

I've had a lot of feelings about it all day, and ending up writing this to get it out because that is how I process things.

As always, let me know what you think.

-x-

Warnings: Lots and lots of mommy issues

Words: 3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

From the moment her mother had suggested it, Emily had wanted to get out of going to lunch. Elizabeth insisted that she came over to the event she was hosting with some of her old friends, claiming the other women hadn’t seen Emily in years and that they wanted to catch up. She’d struggled to come up with a good reason to get out of it, even praying for a case that meant she’d be out of stage, something Aaron had raised an eyebrow at.

“You’re praying someone has killed enough people that the team needs to get involved?” 

She’d rolled her eyes at him and huffed, all too aware that he was right, and she’d kissed his cheek as she left the house just before midday, her gaze lingering on him and the kids as they settled down to play their favourite game. 

Lunch was, overall, boring. It was a reminder of a life she’d left behind, the one she’d been born into where every word was carefully chosen yet most the time people said absolutely nothing at all. Their words meaningless, full of fluff and inflexions that she hated. False interest in each other's lives as they desperately waited for someone to ask about them. 

She barely says anything, slowly eating her salad and humming intermittently so it seems like she’s listening, until one of her mother’s friends, Carol, gets her attention. 

“So, what are you up to these days, Emily? Your Mother says you’re still working for the FBI?” 

Emily nods, “Yeah, I work for the Behavioural Analysis Unit, the BAU. My husband used to as well but he retired when our daughter was born three years ago.” 

It had been Aaron’s decision, a solution he’d come up with when they found out she was pregnant with Hazel. He’d been keen to do it, unmoveable in his insistence, his eyes bright and almost overflowing with desperation, as if this was his second chance to make the right decision for his family. She’d agreed, after some back and forth, a voice in the back of her head telling her she’d be a bad mom if she went back to work when she didn’t strictly need to, something Aaron and her friends had slowly talked her out of over the long nine months of her pregnancy. 

Leaving the FBI herself was something she considered again when she had Oliver only 8 months ago, but once again she’d stayed. Happy with the balance she’d created, the life she’d built around herself that let her be Agent Prentiss, a member of one of the most well respected teams in the FBI, and Emily, a wife and mother. 

“Oh yes,” Carol says, picking up her cup of tea, “You have children.”

“Three,” Emily says, her back straightening at something she picks up in the other woman’s tone, a little too close to judgment for her liking, “Jack, Hazel and Oliver.” 

“Lovely names,” Carol says, “Although I must say I was surprised when Elizabeth told us you’d settled down and had children, it wasn’t that long ago it looked like you’d be following in her footsteps and trailblazing yourself a career.” 

Emily frowns, her teeth clenched as she takes a second to calm herself down, “I do still have a career, I just happen to have children too.” 

“Yes well,” Carol says, waving her hand, “You know what they say - a jack of all trades, a master of none.” 

She scoffs, looking to her mother for support, immediately wondering why she thought she’d find it when Elizabeth avoids eye contact with her, a fake smile painted across her face as she stands up from the dining table, “I’ll go check on dessert.” 

Emily stays behind after the others leave, barely even attempting to be polite as she exchanges goodbyes with them. As soon as it’s just her and her mother she can’t help herself, the question escaping before she can ask herself if she would even get an answer she’d want. 

“Why didn’t you stand up for me when she was saying all those things?” She asks, her arms crossed over her chest as Elizabeth freezes and sighs. 

“I wasn’t going to cause a scene,” she says, standing up to walk over to the small bar cart in the living room, pouring herself a scotch, “And besides, she didn’t say anything rude.” 

Emily laughs, “She didn’t say anything rude? She basically said because I’m working and I’m a mom I’m not doing well at either of those things,” she scoffs and shakes her head, “She may as well have called me mediocre and be done with it.” There’s a pause, a flash of something across her mother’s face that she’s sure she wouldn’t have seen if she wasn’t so good at her job. For a moment, she wishes she wasn’t, that she didn’t feel the drop of her heart into her stomach as her arms fall to her sides, “Wait….do you agree with her?” 

Elizabeth stares at her for a second, as if weighing up her options, and she takes a sip of her drink, “Well, you did love to travel when you were younger, Emily. I always assumed you’d do a job that took you all over the world. It wasn’t until you started dating Aaron I ever thought you’d settle down and have an ordinary life.” 

Ordinary.

The way her mother says it makes it sound like poison, like something that was infiltrating her life and tearing it apart from the inside out. An awful, ugly thing instead of the beautiful thing that tied her life together like the finest gold thread. It was something she never thought she’d have. The house and the husband and the children. The cat that never used the cat flap they had installed, happy to curl up at the end of one of the kid's beds instead of ever venturing outside. The school drop-offs and the PTA meetings and the last-minute rush to the grocery store for ingredients for cooking class when Jack told them about it at the last possible second. It was normal, and ordinary and hers. And it was everything she had fought for. 

It was everything she had died for. 

Emily had let a lot slide over the last few years, let countless comments go about herself and sometimes even Aaron because Elizabeth loved her grandchildren. What she’d lacked in being a mother she made up for as a grandmother. She bought them gifts that they actually liked, she listened to them. On Hazel’s first birthday, she’d crawled into the playhouse they’d bought the little girl, acting so unlike herself that Emily had thought she was seeing things. She was grateful her children had someone else in their lives who loved them, so she put up with the fact her mother had never loved her like that. 

All of that disappears as Elizabeth’s words wash over her. A quiet, almost dull, confession that hangs in the air around them a bitter pill that erases any good nature Emily had for her mother. 

She chuckles humourlessly and shakes her head, turning away to wipe angry tears from her cheeks, “I’ve got to ask, Mother,” she says, turning back to look at her, her hands thrown up in defeat, “Why did you even have me? If you think me having children is so…ordinary, why did you have a kid?” 

Elizabeth sighs, her hands on her hips, “Emily-”

“Was it because it was what was expected? You and Dad weren’t as careful as you should have been? What was it?” She demands, not sure she even wants the answer, the sadness and fury rolling in her gut in a way that makes nausea burn up her throat. The silence they fall into is suffocating. Thick and cloying as it settles in Emily’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. She looks down at the floor, her arms tight over her chest as she presses her lips together, desperately trying to hold herself together, “I have a good life.” 

“I never said you didn’t,” Elizabeth says, “I only said I’d thought you’d make different choices.”

“Do you mean better?” Emily asks, her glare unrelenting, and Elizabeth simply looks away, her silence the only answer Emily needs. 

It seems ridiculous. Absurd in a way that makes her laugh, because she can’t imagine how life could be better. She knows that if she’d made different choices, if she’d taken Clyde up on his offer of a job and a new life she would have enjoyed it. She would have been fulfilled and happy but it would have been different to what she had now. Another life she’d now never know, something she couldn’t compare to the life she did have because it didn’t exist and never had. She had no regrets, could never regret even for a second choosing this over anything else. It was her life. Her beautiful, ordinary, life. 

Anger and sadness and everything in between swell in her gut again, making her stomach roll as she clenches her fists at her sides. The burn of her short nails into her palm is familiar, and for a moment she’s 12 years old standing opposite her mother in her office, her nails digging into her palms as she’s told off for not acting as she should have, for getting grass stains on a skirt that cost more than most people made in a month. She shakes it off, an unsteady breath caught in her chest as she’s brought back to the present, to standing in a room just down the hall from her mother’s office over 30 years older and somehow just as silently crushed as she had been when she was a kid. 

It was a feeling she’d promised herself she’d never inflict on her own children. A mantra that had started years before she had them, when she was just a kid herself with her hand pressed into her lower belly as the medication she’d been given by the doctor started to work. She’d be better. She told herself again and again that one day, when it was right, she’d be a mother and she’d be better. It’s a promise she made Declan when he slept up against her on the nights when Ian wasn’t there, his fear of his father pressed against her neck as he asked her if he was in trouble again. She makes the same promise to Jack when she realises she’s stepped into a maternal role in his life, her relationship with him so tied up in her relationship with Aaron that it feels like it happens overnight. She’d be better. She says it again to Hazel just a few hours after she’s born, and again with Oliver when she holds him for the first time. She’d be better.

She was better. She knew that. Her children ran towards her, not away, when they were sad or hurt or sick. They sought her out, snuck into her embrace at any given moment, slipping under her arm as she sat on the couch and they should already have been in bed. Aaron often joked he could disappear and no one would notice, something she’d always quickly refute, the idea of him not being right by her side enough to make her shudder. 

“Better than what? A man who loves me the way Aaron does? Than my children?” Her voice cracks and she clenches her teeth to try to steady her lower lip, “For the first time my life is normal, Mom. I go to work, I come home. I spend my evenings helping my kids with homework and driving them to recitals. And then I share a glass of wine with my husband because I’m still breastfeeding Ollie and don’t want to risk a whole glass. Then we get into bed and do it all over again the next day. It’s so ordinary it makes me ache sometimes because it’s all I ever wanted when I was growing up,” she growls in frustration when tears slip onto her cheeks and she wipes them away immediately, “My life might be small to you, but to me it’s perfect and I am the happiest I have ever been,” she swallows thickly, pushing down the emotions she refuses to set free until she’s home. Until she’s with her husband - the only person she’d ever truly feel comfortable falling apart in front of. “I’m going home.”

“Emily, there’s no need to be so upset,” Elizabeth says as Emily turns away, an edge of panic in her voice she had only heard a handful of times, “We can talk about this.” 

“No,” she refuses, already turning and walking away, “We can’t. I’m going home.” 

She’s proud of herself for making it to the car before the tears come in earnest, burning hot with fury as they leave what feels like permanent tracks on her skin.

___ 

She can’t bring herself to get out of the car. 

She sits on the driveway, still buckled long after she’s switched off the engine, her hands still tightly gripping the steering wheel. Even though she’s staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the porch that she loves, she doesn’t see the front door open and her husband wander outside. It’s only when he lightly raps on the window, making her jump and pulling her out of her trance, that she realises he’s there. She unlocks the door but makes no other effort to move. He pulls it open and crouches down, his face level with hers. 

“Where are the kids?” She asks, her voice tight even to her own ears, any chance she has of insisting she is fine dead and gone before she can even try. 

“Ollie is napping,” he says, waving the baby monitor he has held in his hand, “Good thing we get reception out here. And Jack is showing Hazel how to play MarioKart.” 

She nods, her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth as she tries to hold herself together, her eyes already burning with tears because of his proximity, “Good.” 

They lapse into silence and he watches her carefully, the tightness to her expression extreme even for an afternoon spent with her mother. He places his hand on her knee and squeezes, “I’m guessing because of your general demeanour, and the fact you’ve been sat out here for almost 20 minutes, that lunch went off without a hitch.”

She laughs. It’s wet and painful as it catches on her ribs, the force of it making tears splash down onto her cheeks and she nods, wiping them away, “Something like that.” 

“Want to talk about it?” He asks, always sure to give her the option, and she nods, “Okay, well let's go sit on the porch,” he says, reaching over her to unbuckle her belt, “I don’t think my knees could take crouching like this much longer.” 

She nods and lets him lead her out of the car, passing him the keys so he can lock it. They sit on the top step leading up to the porch, both of them looking out at the neighbourhood they loved, and he waits her out. Let her figure out what he was going to say, his shoulder pressed against hers as she tries to navigate the emotions swirling through her body, making her dizzy even though she was sitting down.

“She called me ordinary.” 

It’s so left of field, so out of nowhere, it takes him a second to react. His eyebrows furrowing as he turns to look at her, his gaze fixed on her side profile as she continues to look straight ahead, “What?” 

“Mother she…” she clears her throat, “Well one of her friends did first. Said she was surprised I’d settled down and had kids. After she left I made the stupid decision to ask Mom why she didn’t defend me,” she laughs mirthlessly at herself, “I don’t know what I was expecting,” she finally turns to look at him, her eyes briefly meeting his before she hugs her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them, “Anyway, turns out she agreed. She thought I’d do more with my life than get married and have kids I guess.”

Angry doesn’t even come close to explaining how he feels. Fury that had once burned the walls of his childhood home, leaving the wallpaper singed and smoke damaged, burning in his lungs. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes in a deep breath, and pushes the anger away for now, knowing it’s not what she needs. 

“She’s wrong.” 

She looks up at him and smiles, shifting so her head is on his shoulder, “I know she’s wrong,” she says, curling her arms around one of his, “I love our life. I love that it’s as normal as it can be with everything we’ve been through. It’s almost extraordinary in how ordinary it is” she sniffs, turning her head to kiss him through his shirt, “If anything, I think I feel bad for her.” 

He frowns, resting his cheek on top of her head, letting her melt into his side, “Oh yeah?”

She hums, “I’m sad she can’t see the beauty in it,” she says, tilting her head to look up at him, “And that she probably never will.” 

He cups her cheek and leans in to kiss her, his forehead against hers as he pulls back, “That’s her loss,” he says, kissing her again, “I’m sorry, baby. It can’t be nice having your own mother say that.” 

She chuckles and shakes her head, swallowing thickly, “No. It isn’t,” she says, blowing out a shaky breath, “But I’ll do better than her. I’ll always think our kids are amazing no matter what they do with their lives,” her lips shake and her eyes close, fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks that he wipes away immediately, “I’ll do better.” 

He’s heard her say it before. A whisper against Jack’s forehead after she’d read him a story until he fell asleep. A promise to a newborn Hazel and then Oliver a few years later. He wraps his arms around her, gathers her against his chest as she sinks into him, his lips against her hairline as he replies. 

“You already are, sweetheart,” he says, “You already are.” 

-x-

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[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰 — 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ you reflect on your history with miguel—both your husband and your new…colleague. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 5.8k a/n 🕷️ [gif credit] ⤏ the chapter I had planned previously just didn’t fit right yet, plus my poll ruled that so I decided to go a different direction since my muse was being a capricious bitch like usual. we’ll hit the levity another day boys.⤏ I sprinkled in the little bit of comic lore that I’ve absorbed through fanfics and the wiki while tweaking it all to fit the timeline of my fanon for this fic, but I tried not to go into too much detail bc ATSV!Miguel’s history is still so vague. please correct me if there are any glaring mistakes.⤏ please mind the tags in the masterpost linked below. here be stupid (albeit lore accurate) decisions. 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

Considering how odd your life had proven to be until present, you shouldn’t really have been surprised by how quickly you were able to adapt to your new circumstances.

Receiving high enough marks in your earliest years that you were hand-selected to be sent to Alchemax’s glorified drone factory of a school, steadily ascending through the ranks of your peers as your intellect was honed and sharpened with heavy instruction and endless study, and working your ass off through the highest levels of education in hopes of becoming successful enough to live comfortably all culminating in you meeting the love of your life in the process was only the start.

Your Miguel had been an undesirable individual, one to whom you hadn’t initially been attracted due to the history that preceded him (mostly because you had roomed with Xina for a time). He’d been a cocksure player with mommy and daddy issues, as well as an arrogant attitude and smart mouth in equal measure—playing himself off as the typical bad boy to hide all the scarred wounds he nursed underneath his standoffish exterior.

You hadn’t been able to stand him at first. The first time you’d met him, when he’d stopped by the dorm to pick Xina up for a date very early on in their relationship, you’d waited up apprehensively until she got home that night. You’d told her that he was bad news, that you only saw trouble branded across that massive forehead of his, and that she should drop him like a hot potato.

“But I like hot potatoes,” she’d said, eyes twinkling as she’d undressed for bed. “I’ve known him for a long time—since we were kids. He’s really a sweetheart once you get to know him. He’s standoffish to everyone he meets at first, but once he warms up to you, he’s really nice. Just wait, you’ll see. Let him get used to you.”

The first time he’d hung out at the dorm, you’d waited until Xina had slipped into the restroom before leveling him with a glare full of hellfire.

“You break her heart and I’ll break that stupidly fucking perfect nose of yours,” you’d growled, jabbing a finger in his slackened face. “Don’t think you’re fooling me, O’Hara. I know your type, I’ve read your mail—you think you can get away with everything you set your mind to just because you feel like you’re entitled. But I’m warning you right now—don’t test me. She deserves someone who will treat her right. I will not hesitate to wreck your shit, tú hijo de puta*.”

He’d only stared at you, jaw slack as he’d continued to lounge on the couch—taking up nearly half its width with his wide wingspan and those ridiculously long legs he’d sprattled out as though he owned the place. He hadn’t had the chance to respond before Xina had trotted back into the main room. You’d set down the drink on the coffee table that you’d used a guise to get closer and had moved back over to the kitchenette to resume cooking supper as though not a word had been uttered. He hadn’t said another thing to you the rest of the night save a mumbled, “Good night,” when he’d left, averting his eyes from yours the entire time.

Xina had given you a suspicious look once she’d shut and locked the door behind him, but hadn’t brought anything about it up until days later.

“Mig said he really liked your tacos,” she’d remarked casually while the pair of you’d worked on your assignments, sprawled on the floor in the warm afternoon sunshine spilling through the window. “He hasn’t had his mother’s cooking in a while, but he said it reminded him of home. He wanted me to thank you.”

You’d hummed noncommittally, scribbling away at your notes. “Is that all?”

“And he said you threatened him within an inch of his life.”

You’d tipped your head, casting her a glance through your lashes. You’d expected her to get irritated about it, but instead she’d looked…amused. “And…?”

“He also said,” she’d continued, lowering her tablet and folding her arms to prop herself up, “that he’s glad I’ve got someone loyal like you to look after me.”

“Someone has to,” you’d responded evenly, returning your attention to your handwriting. “You’d be up a creek with no paddle without me.”

“He wanted to know if you’d be okay with him coming over again.”

You’d looked back up to her, raising an incredulous brow. “I’m not your keeper, Xi. You can do whatever the hell you want with him.”

She’d mirrored your expression. “I think he’d just like some assurance that you won’t gnaw on his ankles the next time he hits the door.”

Rolling your eyes, you’d shaken your head. “I’m fine. I got my bluff in. I’ll even make him churros if it’ll get him to crack just one smile.”

“Careful, he’ll probably hold you to that. That man has a sweet tooth worse than anyone I’ve ever met.”

He’d orbited you like a small child would a large dog (despite the size comparison being the exact opposite) for a long time after that, only daring to venture closer when you had brandished food at him like peace offerings. How you had managed to actually intimidate him was beyond you (and a part of you had always wondered if he had only acted like it for your benefit), but you had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth—so to have had all six foot five of Miguel O’Hara give you as wide of a berth as one would a bear when you so much as stepped into the room was a power trip you’d tried not to let get to your head.

He wasn’t as bad as you’d first anticipated. He did warm up to you over time, and you’d discovered that his curt demeanor stemmed primarily from his awkwardness. He didn’t talk much because he didn’t know how to talk. He had a difficult time parsing his true meanings and feelings, often stumbling over words or being unintentionally blunt or misleading in the process—if he got frustrated enough, he’d even stutter a bit. He was still an asshole sometimes, certainly—especially around other people he didn’t know or just plainly didn't like, as well as when he’d been in a foul mood after a bad day—but he was, admittedly, pleasant enough company to keep around.

He’d inhale any food you’d set down in front of him, anyway, and cooking had always been your biggest love language, so that had made you feel a bit better about him, at least. A complete dickbag would have complained about your heavy-handedness for powdered thyme and salt, but Miguel had only ever asked for seconds (and sometimes thirds) and had expressed his gratitude by bullying his way in front of the sink to help clean up the dishes.

“He’s like that,” Xina had laughed when you’d griped at her about it. “Can’t thank anyone to save his life, but he’ll be damned if he lets you do anything yourself. Very much an ‘acts of service’ type of guy.”

He had a really dumb sense of humor, unexpectedly simple for one as intelligent as he was—and you knew he’d had to have been keen of mind in order to catch Xina’s eye in the first place, as she didn’t tolerate ignorance in the slightest—but the plainness of his puns and quips and jokes always caught you by surprise. You hadn’t ever been able to bestow a name upon the glitter of mirth in his eyes when he’d managed to make you laugh until Xina had pointed it out.

“He likes you, you know,” she’d said casually over coffee somewhere near the university. “He asks about you all the time, wants to know more about you. I think it would help if you’d give him a little more than the time of day.”

You’d given her a wry smirk. “You want me to be chatty with your boyfriend?”

“Just enough to convince him that you’re not some weird cryptid that lives in my pantry,” she’d sighed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know how many times he’s asked me how we never met you growing up in school.”

“I’m younger than both of you by a couple of years,” you’d reminded her longsufferingly. “I got bumped up to graduate early. I’m lucky I qualified.”

“No luck about it. You’re a smart cookie, cupcake.” She’d sipped her coffee, eyes cutting out to the street on the other side of the glass, then had pursed her lips. “You know, he…didn’t have a great childhood. He’s been through a lot.” She hadn’t met your puzzled expression. “Just…cut him some slack, will you? He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t have anything against him,” you’d assured her. “He’s just not really the type of person I usually gravitate towards.”

“Oh, yeah, and you’re all about those mousy little nerds who can’t pick up a sack of flour,” she’d laughed, rolling her eyes. “I mean it. He likes you. I can’t say that for a whole lot of people, you know. It takes a lot for him to open up as it is, and he’s really making an effort to try. I don’t know what it is about you, but I’ve never seen him so invested in getting to know someone new—he’s got his little posse and that’s about the extent of his centrism.”

You’d frowned. “You’re not worried about that?”

“Nah.” She’d shaken her head. “Mig’s a lot of things, but duplicitous isn’t one of them. I think you just made a really strong impression on him. Maybe all that bad bitch energy you’ve got oozing off of you is actually toning him down some.”

Eventually, he’d offered to help you cook, too. He’d helped Xina pick up around the dorm when you were out. He’d even helped you study for the biochemistry exam you’d convinced yourself that you’d fail, and you’d ended up making an A. He’d interwoven himself inextricably into your lives and daily routine, resulting in those orbiting your immediate social circle referring to you as the ‘dumbass trio’. Wherever Miguel and Xina went, you often weren’t far behind—not of your own volition, of course, as they often roped you into whatever they were doing unless it was strictly a couple’s thing. Xina had sworn up and down that they had mutually agreed to include you on most things so you wouldn’t feel left out, which you’d appreciated a bit more than you’d ever have readily admitted.

You did make him churros for Christmas, and he had, indeed, smiled—so sincere and sweet in the tight, enveloping hug that he’d given you in lieu of thanks with Xina’s laughter tittering over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You’d patted him awkwardly on the back as he’d released you, turning to the tray to pluck up one of the sweets while you’d been too busy resisting the urge to watch his thick fingers disappear past those impossibly plush lips for his tongue to collect the sugar crystals lingering there—you’d managed it (barely), but you’d spent a little too long that night huffing the collar of your sweater while stripping in the bathroom to shower because his cologne had seeped into the chunky knit and you had never before smelled anything so divine.

Eventually, you met Gabriel, too, who had flirted so shamelessly with you that first time Miguel’d had his face buried in his hands throughout the entire ordeal, muttering curses to himself in Spanish that you hadn’t been able to quite catch (but hadn’t necessarily had to—the mortification in his eyes had been clear).

You and Miguel had spent time together, too. Sometimes he’d come to the dorm when Xina was busy elsewhere just to catch a break. He’d told you that he enjoyed the quiet, and that you were relaxing to be around. Having gradually gathered bits and pieces of his past through the various off-handed remarks that Xina had made about his parents, you’d taken that as an utmost compliment. He was, truly, a sweetheart beneath all those bristles he brandished to most. He trusted next to no one, but was loyal to a fault to those select few that he did.

Your best friend’s boyfriend had weaseled his way into your heart, you’d had to admit, and had wormed into your good graces. Over time, you’d learned his eccentricities and mannerisms and colloquialisms. You’d gotten used to him. You’d grown comfortable around him. You’d go so far as to say that you’d liked him, too.

Then he’d cheated with his brother’s girl, a stunt just like you’d initially feared.

You kept your promise. When he’d stopped by the dorm (while Xina was out—the point of which had been clearly made to assure lack of contact on both of their parts) to exchange the meager few belongings of hers that had ended up at his place with his own, you’d broken his nose with a solid jab that he hadn’t even had a chance to block due to his surprise. Luckily, he had set the box down first, and your rage had delayed just long enough to make sure nothing of Xina’s was broken in the process.

He’d bled all over the front of his shirt. You’d shoved a wad of toilet tissue into his sticky, crimson-stained hands, and with stinging eyes and a tight throat you’d slammed the door shut in his teary, crestfallen face.

You didn’t see him for a long time after that. Xina had buckled down and nearly worked herself to death to finish her classes and graduated early. You’d followed the year after her, transitioning into Alchemax’s robotics department, specializing in nanotech, but flexible enough that you ended up working all over the department when the various teams needed an extra set of hands. You’d secured a lease on a nice apartment thanks to your wages, had caught your future by the tail, and had settled in to enjoy your newfound independence and freedom.

Miguel had shown up on your doorstep a couple of years later holding a box brimming with tamales and a bottle of your favorite wine a couple of years later, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, overall looking like the definition—the epitome—of shattered.

You’d almost turned him away—had almost laughed about how karma was a bitch—but the half-circle bruises under his eyes, the welling split in his lip, and the tears gathering on his lash line as he’d croaked out a hoarse and utterly pitiful, “I really fucked up, pastelita**,” had stayed your instinctual cruelty.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you’d stepped away from the doorpost to gesture him inside. Within minutes, he’d set himself down on the very edge of the end of the couch, shoulders hunched in and downwards, knees clamped together to take up as little space as possible while you’d brought a couple of chipped coffee mugs from your cabinet into which to pour the borderline cloyingly sweet strawberry wine. He hadn’t touched any of the tamales until you’d demolished three, but you’d been able to tell that he was only eating to have something on his stomach. He’d looked ill, and if it weren’t for his confession you’d have been pressing the back of your palm to that massive forehead of his.

Dana had flipped the script on him—had grown bored of the lack of thrill for the affair once Gabriel had caught wind and cut all ties to leave her with his older brother in favor of pursuing an older, richer man further up the hierarchy at Alchemax—and Miguel had no one else to whom he could turn to wallow in his sorrows.

You hadn’t given him an inch. You’d told him just what he’d done to Xina, how you hadn’t had a full conversation with her beyond a handful of texts in the last six months because she’d buried herself so deeply in her work so she wouldn’t have to think about how she felt. You’d told him how big of a dick he’d been to ruin the trust not only for his childhood best friend and girlfriend, but also his brother. You’d told him that you were still pissed enough now, a couple of years later, that he was lucky he wasn’t getting a full sixteen ounces of fermented fruit juice in the eyes. You’d told him that he’d hurt you, too, because you’d ended up losing both of the only friends you’d ever managed to make that had tolerated you enough to keep you around in the process.

He’d taken it all with a lowered gaze but in good faith. He’d admitted that he’d done wrong, and that he’d never be able to truly forgive himself for it. He’d said that he deserved every bit of misfortunate that had riddled his life ever since he’d made that irreparable mistake. He’d also told you that he’d reached out to Xina in attempts to make amends, and had at least convinced her to talk for a few minutes to let her know how sorry he was, that he didn’t expect her to forgive him, and that he would like to make it up to her by remaining friends on somewhat good terms if she wanted.

That had surprised you. Miguel didn’t admit he was wrong. Ever. That he’d go so far as to give someone room to think that indefinitely had proven to you then and there and he had actually realized how badly he’d made a mess of things and had genuinely wanted to change his trajectory.

So you’d shared your homemade salsa with him, had watched at least seven more tamales disappear down his ravenous gullet, and had told him that you could make them better with an arm tied behind your back and blindfolded. You’d managed to leverage a wet, quiet chuckle out of him when you’d told him how ugly he was when he cried—which was really a complete, bald-faced lie. You’d never seen a man look more gorgeous than Miguel O’Hara sobbing into a mug comically small clutched in his mitt of a hand stating proudly in gold calligraphy on a turquoise glaze that, ‘I’m too cute to compute,’ about how uncertain he was that he’d ever be able to fix everything good in his life that he’d broken with his stupidity and recklessness.

You’d bundled him up in your favorite, heaviest blanket after three mugs of wine and had tipped him over to stretch across the woefully ill-fitting length of your couch well past midnight. You’d shoved a pillow under his head, had pulled off his shoes (with his feet dangling off the opposite arm, it only made him look twice as tall), and had slept in the armchair next to him so he wouldn’t wake up alone.

Perhaps you’d been too easy on him. Perhaps you shouldn’t have entertained him after everything he’d done, much less forgive him after one sob story. But you’d missed him, too—like crazy, like hell. You’d missed his sullen pouts at being teased about his forehead and his stupid jokes about mitochondria and the way his smile was just a bit too wide and lopsided, like he didn’t know how to measure it once someone did manage to crack his solemn facade.

You’d called Xina the next morning to explain your end of the story (whatever details Miguel had elected to share with you, even while intoxicated, you held in strict confidence—just like hers were secrets you’d carry to your grave). She’d sighed and said she knew everything, and that she didn’t want to have drama. It would take a long time for them to salvage their relationship and reconcile, but she’d admitted that she’d missed him, too, and just wanted him back as one of her best friends.

Miguel had spent significantly more time with you after that. He came over with food after work once he’d made sure you were home, fussing you right out of the kitchen and letting you pick whatever the pair of you would watch—even if he sighed when you would, inevitably, pick another romcom from a century prior.

It had been a slow process, patching those wounds. Miguel had changed a lot in the time you’d lost, had matured more than you’d ever imagined he would. He cleared the air with Gabriel, and that Christmas all four of you spent the holidays comfortably together eating too many sweets and exchanging gifts. You baked him pan dulce and he brought you cinnamon rolls that he’d made all by himself—although they had been a bit gooey, not quite baked long enough, you’d eaten half the pan yourself.

A year passed. Things got easier. You had no longer felt anxious, hurt, or resentful upon seeing him walk through the door—excitement, affection, and fondness took their places instead. He had made amends as best as he was able, working endlessly to patch up the wounds he’d so carelessly inflicted while also fixing his own issues to prevent it from happening again.

…He’d confessed his feelings for you entirely by accident. It had just slipped one night, after a few too many drinks and continuous bumping into each other while washing and drying and storing the dishes, that he’d liked you for a long time—since he’d met you, really—and he wouldn’t have added the fact that him seeking your company had long since slipped from avoiding loneliness into wanting to stay close to you if you hadn’t nearly pried the words from his clenched jaw with increasingly creative and outlandish threats of nonviolence.

He had intended to never say a word, you’d learned. After everything he’d done and gone through, he’d convinced himself that he was undeserving of love and utterly incapable of nurturing it into anything remotely palpable, healthy, and long-term. He was terrified of losing for good what little bit of love that he’d managed to salvage from the only people he’d had in his life that genuinely cared for him unconditionally, having already ruined his first serious relationship with a night of foolhardy negligence. Despite his ardent adoration of you and how you had changed his flaws into virtues, he had resigned himself to remaining your friend for the rest of his list so he would never risk fucking up his chances at happiness again—he would have taken that to the grave, had his restraint not wavered with your nonchalant, half-teasing confession of him being the most important—and favorite—person in your life.

(Except it hadn’t been a joke. You’d realized, in the span of a breath after you’d uttered those baring words, that it was entirely true—even your close friendship with Xina paled in comparison for the bond that you and Miguel had painstakingly built throughout the trials and crises you’d faced together. Despite his grievous errors, he’d remained steadfast in the face of resolving them—a trait so rarely seen that you’d stood by his side in support without question.)

In a blind panic at your prolonged, shocked silence, he’d thus fallen into a continuous spiel that contained more words than he’d ever spoken throughout your entire acquaintance combined. He vomited his childhood traumas and adolescent hardships and formative follies up as if he were lancing an infected wound, and the underlying explanations behind his personality, behavior, and insecurities became all too apparent in that moment. It didn’t excuse any of his actions, by any means—he’d acknowledged that much vehemently without you even having to open your mouth—and he’d known that he would never truly be able to reconcile all the shit he’d brought upon himself, which had resulted, in turn, in him inflicting misery and heartache upon others entirely undeserving of it. He’d apologized profusely for every slight he’d made at you, had begged that you disregard him ever having said those three damning words in order for everything to stay as it was, to go back to normal, so he wouldn’t lose you, too, for a second time.

…He had never been anyone’s favorite in his entire life. That idea had broken your heart.

But it had been a lot to swallow all at once, too. You’d shoved an ice cube into his mouth to calm his hammering heart and to stifle his anxious rambling, as well as to give yourself a couple of minutes to regather your bearings. You hadn’t been able to form a coherent thought, much to your chagrin—too caught up in the all-to-recent memory of him gazing down at you with such softness and reverence that one would have thought that you had strung up the constellations before murmuring with as much conviction as one would a benediction, “I love you,” emblazoned onto the backs of your eyelids and ringing in your ears.

Once the ice cube had melted, he’d tried to start talking again. You’d hushed him by placing your fingertips over his chapped, chewed lips and saying softly, “I love you, too, tonto.* I have for a while, I just…didn’t know how I felt about it, and wasn’t sure about bringing it up.” You’d cupped his jaw, then, and had stroked the pad of your thumb along the crease of his gaping mouth.

The wake of his relief had crashed over him so hard that he’d cried. You’d armed him up as best as you were able, given your size difference, and had held him until he’d soaked your shoulder, rubbing his back in soothing circles all the while. You’d never felt more at ease in someone’s embrace as you had with him, despite the emotional turmoil involved and the uncertainties the pair of you now faced.

But, as before, you’d worked through the complications together. Xina and Gabe had both supported you, after a bit of surprise (and exchanging money not-so-subtly under the table the next time you all had gotten together for dinner—Gabriel complaining about being out fifty dollars falling short of Xina’s smug, knowing look had not gone unnoticed). Dating felt no different from the comfortable, borderline domestic rhythm you’d already—unwittingly—fallen into that past year since his plea for mercy, except that he now had no holds barred around you.

While you’d suspected that he’d never be big on PDA or sweet nothings, Miguel had shown his ardency for you in other ways. All the issues with your apartment magically resolved themselves whenever you’d complain about them. Your closets, cabinets, and pantry had stayed stocked even when you ran out of time to make grocery runs after grueling nights at the lab. He’d insisted on paying for everything, had hardly ever let you lift a finger, and had spoiled you absolutely rotten. He’d done his damnedest to redeem the second chance that you’d granted him, and you’d been a little amazed at how seriously he had taken the whole affair.

Xina hadn’t been miffed about it in the slightest. “He’s a different man, now—a better man,” she’d told you, “and you’re to thank for that. I never could get through to him like you can, and that’s okay. It’s wonderful, actually. I’m so proud of him and I’m so, so very happy for you. You deserve the world and I think he’s doing his best to give it to you…if you’ll let him try.”

Your strict intolerance for his vices had polished off his roughened edges with friction. Your high expectations had driven up the standards he’d long since set for himself. Your hopes had helped him to accept what he had thought were his weaker qualities, but were, in fact, what you had considered his greatest strengths. You’d mended his aching soul and he had given you everything that you could ever have asked for in return.

The wedding had been a cozy, intimate affair. The honeymoon, despite the lavish PTO and cushiony funds you’d both accrued over the course of your shared workaholic employment, hadn’t lasted nearly long enough, in your opinion. Finding a penthouse to lease together with your joint salaries afforded you a breathtaking view of Nueva York in the mornings and evenings, and after a short time it had become a home.

You were thankful to have experienced all the good times, as well as the bad. You would’ve endured those tragedies all over again to experience that devoted love once more.

You still missed your husband like hell some days, though. Much of your life now had grown around the grief that used to suffocate you, gently laying over tender roots for new experiences, but there were still times that you had to spritz his old pillow with his slowly diminishing bottle of cologne and recluse yourself inside your bedroom until the ache loosened enough for you to rise and greet the life you now had to live without him. You no longer felt the urge to visit his grave anymore, except for his birthday and your anniversary, however, knowing that he wasn’t truly there, but in your heart—and you considered that the ultimate step forward.

You wondered at the odd twist of fate, though, to be tossed by sheer chance into a league of multidimensional Spider-People like yourself, led by a copy of the man whom you’d have sacrificed your own life in exchange for his (and still would without question nor consideration). You saw much of that initially wounded, derisive man in this new Miguel—but instead of ever finding healing and bettering himself, he had seemingly gotten worse. (Or something had made him worse. You were uncertain of which was the case.)

You couldn’t entirely blame him for it. While he hadn’t revealed the details (and was under no obligations to do so whatsoever), you’d gotten enough of the gist that he’d struggled through some horrific circumstances…and had just barely made it out the other side, if your perception of his underlying misery was to be believed.

He softened up somewhat after that raw, quiet conversation in his lab, at least with you. He no longer acted as though he walked on eggshells around you—no longer rigid and on edge when you were remotely close to his proximity. He wasn’t as guarded, either, relaxing just enough to reveal his calmer, quieter nature. Being the leader of the Society was tedious, stressful, endless work, and having to wrangle so many odds and ends ranging from mischievous to volatile would render anyone’s nerves to short fuses. You figured out that he’d whittled himself down to the bone, yet refused to accept any help from the likes of his most valued associates, despite Jess and Peter B.’s prodding and insistence otherwise.

So, since you hadn’t been around long enough to even know where to start making headway in the mountain of anomalous analytics or projection reports with which he had to deal with every day, you opted to try to help him in the few areas where you confidently could.

You coaxed him out to grab meals in the cafeteria when LYLA told you he’d been cooped up in his lab alone for too long, you organized his tools and things when he did happen to be out so he’d have a clean and tidy workspace to come back to, and you continued your accidentally established tradition of bringing him a sweet upon your daily deliveries of leftover baked goods from your shop every evening. He’d started to grumble at you about the lattermost habit, remarking that he had a strict diet that he’d maximized for his metabolism and physical activity, but you’d told him that the treats wouldn’t stay on his physique as busy as he stayed.

“In fact,” you’d argued playfully, “I think it’s been doing wonders for improving your mood. The newbies aren’t running for the hills whenever you walk through the foyer anymore.”

He’d stopped bringing it up after that, didn’t quibble with you about it anymore, and you’d noticed that the corner of his mouth had started to pinch when you’d press the crinkling sack into his not-so-reluctantly awaiting palm. You hoped that it was a restricted smile and not a grimace, like you had feared initially.

(…Had he ever smiled around you? You couldn’t recall a single instance of it happening. You’d have to work on rectifying that.)

You enjoyed learning about the other Spiders, too. Nothing fascinated you more than to delve into deep discussions about the state of their respective universes—the time periods, technology, and history all relative to yours—as well as their personal differences. To all be the same type of hero, you were amazed by how vastly different each and every single one was. All were bound, however, by a common story, punctuated by tragedies that defined every purpose.

You still hadn’t been able to figure out this Miguel, though. You would never intentionally pry into his story, even though he had consented to his bio to be uploaded to the Society’s network for transparency’s sake—you felt that it was something he would tell you personally if it was that important, or if he trusted you enough to be inclined to do so. You were vastly curious about his physiological characteristics, however, so you’d spent an entire afternoon mentally compiling a comparison and contrast between your late husband and what you had gathered about his multidimensional counterpart.

Taller, bulkier, with all the added traits of spider-abilities overwhelmingly evident, but the same features otherwise. Red eyes with perfect vision that seemed extremely sensitive to light (the only explanation for why he kept his lab so damned dark all the time, and also how he could read with perfect clarity from so far away). Fangs and talons that could tear through just about anything. Same frown when concentrating on something, same sullen pout when teased. More soft-spoken, significantly shorter in patience and temper, extremely antisocial…that lattermost fact, at least, remained exactly the same. In so many ways, he was still the person you had known best, even if he wasn’t yours.

You decided soon enough that, despite the rocky start of your acquaintance, that if no one else would get through to him, you’d do your damnedest to try breaking down the walls he’d so meticulously built up around himself. It was the least you could do, by helping to mend another version of him back together again, to repay your husband—the man you’d loved most—for giving you the best years of your comparatively drab and lonely life, even if this Miguel were to fight you tooth and nail every step of the way. He deserved to be safe and sound just like everyone else ever did.

[animasola86]

The Darkness Within: Tom's Reward

Notes: Chapter 9 of The Darkness Within is here, two months after the last one, oops! As usual, I am giving you the smut part here, but I'm encouraging you to read the whole chapter over on AO3! Thank you and enjoy!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x f!mc // Genre: Smut // Words: 2.7k

Warnings: NSFW! MDNI! Explicit sexual content (fingering, vaginal sex, bj)! It's rough, it's Tom Riddle, what do you expect?

Synopsis: After giving Genevieve the Dark Mark, Tom decides to indulge in her deepest desire and lets her have it, maybe not quite how she had expected it.

This is part of my Sebastian Sallow/f!mc fanfic The Darkness Within. To read smut with her and Sebastian, check these out: Chapter 7 smut + Chapter 8 angsty smut!

Last warning: Dark smut below the cut! Enemies of the heir, beware!

Context: MC dies at the Battle of Hogwarts, Sebastian resurrects her and they both land 62 years in the future, but separate from each other. He ends up becoming an Auror and she meets Tom Riddle and gets pulled into his cause/charm. This scene takes place after he gives her the Dark Mark to ensure her allegiance to him. (She is 21 here and he is 10 years older.)

Excerpt of Chapter 9:

"Tom's Reward"

With her forearm still tingling and carefully propped against the back of the sofa, she found herself lying on her back, her chest rising and falling fast as she watched Tom slowly unbuttoning his shirt. She still felt a little delirious from the pain of his branding and the sensation that had been their first kiss, no matter how short it had been, and seeing him now, actually engaging in those things he didn't deem worthy of his time, left her breathless and with her head spinning even more.

She blinked and suddenly he was right on top of her, his hands holding her face as he leaned down to close his lips around hers. Her gasp was the culmination of all those feelings she had harboured for him over the years, all the longing and lusting and need for him. Finally feeling his hands on her, his mouth, his lips and his tongue, his weight and his body, his knees pushing against her thighs as he forced her legs open, it quickly overwhelmed her enough to surrender herself to him completely.

She didn't even wonder that, despite his obvious aversion against any physical touch or desire, he knew exactly what he was doing. He kissed her demandingly, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, and pressed his pelvis against hers, and even through the layers of clothes that were still between them she could feel his excitement for her pressing right against her core.

She'd assumed it was because of her, but unbeknownst to her it was just his desire to take her, make her his, bask in the power he had over her. Tom didn't want to bring her pleasure or satisfy her needs, he wanted to own her, dominate her, bend her to his will, and most of all, he wanted to feel that power surging through her – and what better way to experience that than by becoming one with the vessel that held it.

Because that was what she was to him: a body sheltering something that was useful to him, very, very useful, if he played his cards right. And he knew he did, when she started moaning softly beneath him, just from having him kiss her. She was putty in his hands and knowing that only spurred his desire to claim her even more.

He leaned back then and looked at her, and all he could see behind those brown irises was lust. Lust for him, lust for the things they were about to do, lust to indulge in these activities he had kept her from thinking all these years. She was very imaginative, he had to give her that, if he would have the sense for it, he would have blushed under the ideas this little girl kept in her pretty head. He took inspiration in her thoughts for a little longer, before he gave her a smile and another peck and then leaned back once more.

She watched him breathlessly as he moved back, settling between her legs. He didn't waste time to undress her the old-fashioned way, he just flicked his finger, not even his wand as she noticed with growing admiration, and she felt her clothes disappearing into thin air. And suddenly she lay completely bare before him, her chest rising and falling fast, making her breasts move in a steady rhythm, and her legs were splayed and unable to close and hide her most precious place as he was still kneeling between them.

Under other circumstances she would have felt embarrassed and mortified to be this vulnerable and exposed, but under Tom's dark gaze she felt oddly calm, ready to do anything with and for him. And he knew as much, she could tell. He was watching her closely, his eyes wandering over her naked body, taking in every little detail. When he looked directly into her eyes, she froze on the spot, completely mesmerized by the void that were his dark eyes.

She didn't even notice his touch at first, only when he would curl his fingers inside her did she realize he had pushed them past her folds and straight into her wetness and the feeling left her breathless. It wasn't just his fingers, it was what he was doing – and she couldn't be sure, but she felt tingles like tiny electric shocks surging through her body as if he would channel his magic right against her most sensitive spots, only increasing the sensation.

Her moans came sudden and loud, her whole body convulsing under his touch, and while she was consumed by pleasure, her head spinning and full of static, he kept going, fingering her to the brink of insanity, as she thrashed her body into the cushions of the couch, only held in place by his other hand on her stomach, whose thumb was pressed right against her clit, issuing the same kind of magical touch as he rubbed it roughly.

Orgasm after orgasm rolled over her and she had no idea how she was still functioning under the pressure of having her body going through all these types of stimulations. She felt utterly spent when he would finally let go of her, not that she would have noticed right away as the tremors were still shuddering through her every nerve and limb.

Breathing heavily, her lips parted and trembling and dry, she opened her eyes slightly and found him sitting on the edge of the couch, watching her, his wet fingers held out in front of him. Somehow she knew what he wanted and without any word shared between them, she sat up and cradled his hand between her shaking fingers as if it was his most priced possession. For her it was, having brought her these amazing feelings still resonating through her lower body.

Her eyes were on his face when she leaned closer and brought her lips to his fingertips, tasting herself on his skin as she sucked his fingers into her mouth one at a time, swirling her tongue around them feverishly until she deemed them clean enough. He watched her almost curiously, no other emotion evident on his handsome features. As she was about to lower his hand, he insisted on pushing two of his fingers past her lips and deeper into her mouth.

She felt him caressing her tongue and the inside of her cheeks as she sat very still and let him explore her mouth, and she didn't even flinch when he moved his fingers deeper, pressing against the back of her throat, teasing it with his fingertips. Holding his gaze, she successfully fought the urge to gag around him and he rewarded her with a dark smile as he continued forcing his fingers deeper. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and she held her breath, her entire body stiffening under the sensation.

But she didn't fight it, of course she didn't. She was his to do whatever with. And he knew that very well. Suddenly she felt his other hand around her throat, squeezing against his fingers lodged inside her. Her eyes stared at him pleadingly as the urge to gasp or gag or do anything against his literal choke-hold grew almost unbearable. He stared right back, not giving in just yet. Feeling more than light-headed, she raised her hands to claw at his wrists before even holding them there felt too much for her to handle.

Just as her grip loosened as her body was about to fall into the tight embrace of unconsciousness, he let go of her throat and pulled his fingers out, urging her to breathe. She was barely able to do so, gasping soundlessly, then coughing violently, her entire body shaking against whatever it had just experienced. His wet fingers grazed her cheek and she calmed down slowly, her eyelids fluttering as she looked at him.

“You're such a good girl,” he praised her as he leaned closer to press his mouth against her trembling lips, his voice causing her to smile despite the slight discomfort in her throat.

In the haze nestling inside her head, she then felt him moving her, laying her down on her back again as he grabbed her thighs and pushed her legs upwards against her torso, holding her wide open as he positioned himself right against her. She heard the faint rustle of fabric, her head still spinning, and she barely registered him pressing his tip against her core. Her hands snaked around her legs as she hooked them around the back of her knees and held them in place, her feet dangling in the air as she watched him closely.

His cold gaze was on her, no emotion whatsoever on his pale face, as he crawled over her, one hand lining himself up with her entrance, the other propped next to her hip to support his body as he leaned over her slightly. With his eyes fixed on hers, he then lowered himself and in a swift, almost harsh motion drove himself right into her tight warmth. She moaned, shuddering under the intrusion as he buried his cock as deep as possible, pushing his entire weight down onto her pelvis.

He then shifted against her, leaned on one knee, while his other leg moved to the floor, giving him more leverage to start moving against her as he grabbed her thighs firmly and folded her legs almost brutally against her, before he settled into a fast rhythm that knocked any remaining air right out of her. Her noises mixed with the slapping of skin against skin as he thrust into her at an ever-growing pace, deep and fast and hard, in and out until she could barely feel anything any more.

She was a whimpering mess beneath him, pushed into the cushions by the powerful snaps of his hips, her breaths too erratic to let any new air into her aching lungs, leaving her breathless and light-headed, and yet she felt like she had never felt before as he quickly brought her back to that sensation of pure bliss. Every thrust moved her up the sofa, every downwards motion pulled her back towards him, his hands bruising her skin, his girth filling and stretching her, scraping past those special spots that made her toes curl up painfully.

Her heart felt as if it would explode inside her chest at any second as her insides convulsed and her walls tightened around him rhythmically, gripping him, squeezing him, pulling him in deeper. Amidst the blindingly bright pleasure exploding within her and her ear- and room-filling moans and feeble attempts to breathe, she then heard a groan coming from the man above her, and for a moment she just stared at him in awe, seeing him so affected by what they were doing, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed in concentration and his lips pressed tightly together. There was even a faint hint of a blush on his high cheekbones.

When he noticed her gaze, the tension on his face shifted into an almost soft expression, causing her to feel an immense rush of warmth flooding her insides. It might have been his seed pouring out of him as he came inside her with a deep shuddering of his hips as he halted his movements for a moment, or it was something else she was too afraid to name. Whatever it was, it made her lean up past the tight grip he had on her folded legs and once he let go of her, she was able to sit up and grab his face, before she pulled him down to press her trembling lips to his, kissing him through his release.

He kept moving against her, slower now, one of his hands finding the back of her head as he held her tightly in place, kissing her back just as eagerly. Once he stopped twitching inside her, she was almost disappointed that he pulled out immediately, painting her walls with his seed as he did so, leaving the last drops of his cum on her heated skin as he leaned back. She saw him breathing heavier when he let go of her face, watching her closely before his eyes moved down between her legs where his release was spilling from her quivering core.

Something dark washed over his features then and she had barely time to react when he suddenly pushed his fingers back into her hole, the squelching sound quite obscene even in her pleasure riddled mind. She shivered against his touch and frowned slightly as she realized what he was doing. He was scraping his seed out of her. His fingers moved deep and curled inside her and it was not to give her more pleasure, he was actively trying to clean her tight channel.

Just as she was wondering why he would do that and why with his fingers no less, he grabbed her chin with his other hand and made her look at him, before he forced her jaw open. She obeyed, not that she had any other choice, and gasped deeply when he would push his cum covered fingers into her mouth. His gaze was dark and she understood immediately as she began to flick her tongue around his digits, licking his salty seed right off his skin, ignoring the tear falling past her lashes.

Once he deemed his fingers to be clean, he would shove them back past her wet folds, scooping up more for her to clean and swallow, his grip on her chin never easing. She endured the procedure with her heart racing and her body quivering and when he would finally release her chin, she inhaled sharply, trying to relax, only for him to grab the back of her head and push her face right against his groin.

She whimpered against him, scrambling into a more comfortable position to be able to focus on the new task he had for her. With shaking hands she cradled his half-hardened cock between her fingers and started licking it gingerly, tasting more of his bitter seed, yet the more she put on her tongue, the better it felt as it slid down her hurting throat. Breathing through her nose, she barely noticed his tightening grip in her hair as he pushed her further onto him until her lips were wrapped around his shaft as his tip scraped against the back of her throat.

Too numb to gag around him, she focused on pressing her tongue against him, feeling him growing harder and thicker inside her as he started moving her head back and forth to give him the friction he apparently desired. Her hands gripping his thighs, she let him use her to his liking and he did so without hesitation, not letting her catch her breath or rest her aching jaw or swallow the saliva pooling around him.

He even started pushing his hips against her as well, forcing his length deeper and deeper as he angled her head to allow the motion. All she could do was whimper and squeeze her eyes shut as more and more tears fell from her lashes, and not even her fingernails digging into his skin stopped him from pushing in and out of her mouth at a rapid pace. Only when she felt him twitching against her tongue would he release his grip on her and allowed her to pull back, and as she took deep shuddering breaths he wasted no time to shoot his load right into her face.

She flinched against it, feeling it hitting her cheeks and nose and eyebrows, before he pushed his throbbing tip back past her lips and emptied himself right onto her tongue. He held her jaw tightly, not allowing her to escape the grasp, as he filled her up more and more until it spilled past his length and down her chin, and this time she couldn't help but gag against the sheer amount of it. He pushed her head back then and she spluttered and coughed, trying to swallow what he had given her.

While she was still trying to regain her composure, she noticed him standing up. Looking up at him, she met his dark gaze. His pale face was hard again, no emotion whatsoever on his handsome features as his eyes wandered over her soiled face and body. “Clean yourself up,” was all he said to her, before he turned around and left through a door into the deeper parts of Borgin and Burkes.

End notes: And I thought I'd enjoy writing a Dark Sebastian, when all I had to write for was Tom in his natural habitat! I feel almost sorry for poor Genevieve...

Picture of Tom by the lovely @esolean!

[ AO3 ] [ fanfiction masterlist ]

[mischievouslittlecreature]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you for the tag, @runnning-outof-time! 🖤

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

62

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

640,510

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Peaky Blinders is the only one I'm actively writing for at the moment, but I've also written for: Inception, The Dark Knight Trilogy, Dunkirk, and In Time.

4. Top 5 fics by kudos

These Devilish Intentions 

Does the Devil Have a Heart

Bloodied & Broken

In the Bleak Midwinter

Not Afraid of a Little Blood

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I always try to respond, even if it's just with a 'thank you.'

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably Dance of Darkness. I tend to not write super angsty/unhappy endings that often.

7. What’s a fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

There's so many because I'm a sucker for happy endings. Maybe A Sleepless Dream? The ending for that one is all fluff (and smut 😏).

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I have, yes. Mostly from both Grace x Tommy fans and Lizzie x Tommy fans (do I get a medal for somehow managing to piss off both factions of psycho fans 😂?) It used to bug me a lot, but now I've gotten to the point where I just roll my eyes and hit the block button.

9. Do you write smut?

Yes, I do!

10. Craziest crossover?

I don't really do crossovers. I prefer to keep things contained to one single fandom. It's just easier for my brain that way.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, thankfully!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope, nor do I give permission for my fics to be translated.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not, but I would be happy to with any of my mutuals! I have beta read some things for people before.

14. All time favorite ship?

Am I allowed to be horribly egotistical here and say Tommy Shelby x Lucy Winters (my OC)? Because that's the honest answer 😂.

15. What’s a fic you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

So fun fact about me, I literally cannot work on a new project until I've finished the one I'm currently working on. My brain throws an absolute fit if I try to. And I cannot leave projects unfinished. So while it may take me a while at times, I will always finish a fic/series that I've started to write.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm pretty good at writing fluff and comfort. Anything that involves the characters getting to snuggle and be disgustingly adorable together.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I honestly struggle sometimes with trusting my readers to understand my intentions, and as a result can end up spelling things out or over explaining something. I think it comes from spending so many years in fandom and seeing people come up with some of the most braindead takes on things at times. I really need to get better about trusting my audience to be able to understand the nuance and complexity of what I'm trying to write without me having to spell it out so obviously.

Also I sometimes get so stuck in writing dialogue that I forget to describe things in enough detail 🫣

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I don't mind it others' fics, so long as a translation is provided somewhere. Personally, if I'm writing something that is supposed to be in another language, I'll keep it in English but put it in italics and specify that it is being spoken in another language. I don't trust Google translate to translate things accurately.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

Technically the MCU, when I first started writing fanfic back in middle school (never posted any of it though).

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

It's so hard to pick just one! Probably Lady of the Various Sorrows. It was the culmination of a plot point I'd been building to throughout the series, and it allowed me to dabble in some angst while also being able to write a ton of comfort and fluff.

No pressure tags: @cillmequick, @justrainandcoffee, @moral-terpitude, @evita-shelby, @lunarubra

[typingatlightspeed]

TF2 Fanfic - Dear Mama

The letters Heavy's written to his Mama since the start of 1970, giving her and his sisters some life updates, and responding to theirs. He's come to an important decision.

Ao3 Link! Part of Monstrous Intent!

I've been wanting to do something with Heavy and his family for a little bit, and just kind of his side of everything that's been happening. Because he's generally such a quiet guy sometimes he tends to react to things rather than drive them, and most of the time when I have him drive action it's sex, lol. Wanted to showcase some more of his internality and the poetic way he wields his native language. Giving his family life updates while artfully dancing around the fact that like 60% of his free time is sucking and fucking, lmao. Also: spot the Simpsons joke!

---------

Dear Mama,

I hope you've been well. I'm sorry I haven't gotten a letter to you in a while; it's hard to get mail down off of the frozen mountain where I'd been stationed since the start of the year. You know how it is. Thankfully, we've been reassigned back to the desert, so I'll have easier access to the postal system. So my letters should once again be more frequent.

I've been well, all things considered. The team didn't take as well to ice-rimed mountains as I did, so while it'll take some time for me to adjust to the temperature change, the team's been overjoyed. Especially Scout. He's a very thin man, so his tolerance for cold only goes so far. He's from cooler climates, but even so, the mountains had him nearly rattling apart from shivering! Ludwig, however, was unflappably enthusiastic, as always.

Speaking of Ludwig; his magical training has been progressing swimmingly, and he's developed into quite the nascent mage. It's truly impressive what he can do when he sets his focus on it. His determination is beyond dogged, and his passion boundless. I can't argue with his results!

Which brings me to interesting news: Ludwig has mastered an old spell from seiðr traditions that allows him to harness the jotun blood that runs through my veins, and give me the form of a full jotun, like Papa. When the excitement of discovery and novelty calmed down, however, I found myself struck by how strong my resemblance to Papa was. And though I haven't voiced it to him, it's made me realize how far divorced I am from that side of my ancestry, save for how it's shaped my appearance. I know Papa had a bit of ice and storm magic at his disposal, but also that he didn't use it much. He was far more invested in the movements of the world and the politics of men, I know. So that's something I might try to do some reading on in the near future. If you have any knowledge, Mama, I would love you to share it. I know Papa tried to keep us sheltered from the world of monsters, but like it or not, that world has come to me, and I feel it irresponsible not to explore that side of my own nature.

On a similar, but less somber note, Ludwig gave me a ring last week.

Don't get too excited, Mama. It ended up not being what I'm sure you hoped. I admit, I hoped the same, but I think my dear doctor isn't the type to think of such gestures of his own accord. He's a man of passion, not tradition. It'd be almost frustrating if his obliviousness weren't deeply endearing.

The ring is a magic item, a way to activate that seiðr spell on command should I choose, and he enchanted it himself. It's the culmination of quite a bit of work, and honestly I feel like that in itself is as much a statement of intent as a ring of more traditional meaning. It in itself is a promise.

It's no secret that our lifespans will differ, now. Ludwig, as a garuda, can live forever if he's careful. Scout, as a faun, can do the same. Their lifespans are functionally infinite. Ageless, timeless, and beautiful for eternity. Meanwhile, though I know my life will be longer than a human's, it does have a limit. I think that knowledge has been weighing on Ludwig a bit, and making him dig into my supernatural side as a result. Whether that will yield fruit, who knows? But it warms my heart to know that he desires to be by my side for all of eternity. Whether he realizes it or not (and knowing him so well, I deeply suspect not), that ring was a proposal, phrased in different terms.

I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sure I'm boring you with such fanciful thoughts when I should be keeping you updated on my life. But I suppose my life might have taken a turn for the fanciful.

Ludwig sends his love, and his thanks for a lovely Smissmas together. Scout hopes to meet you all someday sooner than later, but isn't sure when he'll be able to join me for a trip. He has a large, very tightly-knit family, so holiday travel is unlikely to deviate away from his mother's house. I hope to meet her someday. He speaks highly of her, and she sounds like a lovely woman. Certainly, she raised a wonderful son. Something the two of you have in common!

Give my best to Zhanna, Yana, and Bronislava, and let them know I can easily receive mail again. It's been a strange kind of lonely so far this year, unable to write with you all, and I'm eager to read what my dear baby sisters have to say.

All of my love, Misha

*

Dear Mama,

Thank you for your last letter. I hadn't realized just how much variation there was in jotunkind. I'd thought all of us merely hrímþurs, the frost giants, so it is honestly eye-opening to learn of the others descended from the jötunn. I'll have to do more reading on the subject, sometime. I'm sure Ludwig would appreciate learning more as well. Perhaps that wizard he bought his first magic book from might have something.

That said, I hope this letter finds you well. Work's been stable, with a few minor transfers across the region but staying largely in the desert. We've mostly been stationed at one base and then taken transports to satellite bases as the need arises. It's been less hectic than packing up and moving bases entirely constantly, but I won't deny that the times we don't use teleporters between our home base and the satellite bases make for terribly boring mornings. The team's taken to singing on those trains and busses, seeing how long it takes the driver to yell at us.

The train conductor is surprisingly resilient.

We've been helping Scout learn to control his small bit of magic lately, which has been an interesting effort. It's definitely been building teamwork between us, however, and been very good for our cohesion overall. And Scout's been quite happy for the extra attention.

Ludwig's been working on healing magics, and trying to replicate the effects of his specialized medical equipment using magic. To what end I'm not entirely sure, but it stands to reason it'll be helpful should an emergency arise when he doesn't have his equipment ready to hand. He's very clever about never letting himself be completely caught without a way to improvise a Plan B for situations.

That's all I'll say about Ludwig this time. I promise. After Zhanna's scathing letter and Yana and Bronislava mocking me endlessly, I'll spare you all the gooey romantic musings of a smitten old man.

Aside from work, life's been quiet for me. I read that romance novel that Yana sent with her letter, and enjoyed it far more than I expected! I'll be sending it back along with a novel that had a similar description on the back cover, which I found in town recently. I haven't had the time to read it, though, so please, Yana, don't hate me if it isn't very good.

Lastly, I hope you enjoy the small box of shortbread cookies I'm also sending with this! They were baked by our team's Demoman, who sends his best. He takes care of his elderly mother, and when he heard I was sitting down to write my mama a letter, offered to make sure it came with a gift. He wouldn't take no for an answer.

All of my love,

Misha

*

Dear Mama,

I'm glad you enjoyed the cookies! I'll be sure to let Demoman know, and give him your thanks. As always, Ludwig and Scout send their love.

Things have been busy of late. We finally had a nice, week-long furlough, our first of the year and entirely too overdue. I took the opportunity to simply spend time with Ludwig, though I'll admit I've slacked on the research I said I intended to do. Following Yana's next book recommendation, I ended up visiting a local bookstore and walking out with far more novels than I'd intended. I won't lie; I used to look down on books like these, but as the years go by I realize more and more that not every word committed to page needs to be come world-changing insight. Sometimes a story can simply be fun, and that's enough.

Also, I don't need a French-to-Russian dictionary in hand for these books, which is a blessing in itself. I don't miss those long, sleepless nights working on my doctorate! And I like to think this has been helping my reading skills in English, which is its own reward. Scout isn't a particularly strong reader, so I hope to help him practice. As such, I need to improve as well. It's good motivation so that I don't get lazy about language acquisition.

After our furlough, there was a company event. A gala of sorts with all of BLU's various teams, at a rather nice venue with a frankly obscenely expansive bar. They even had cocktails I enjoyed, and you know how rare that is. The news was sprung on us quite abruptly, but thankfully our Spy was able to outfit us with custom suits, thanks to being a shapeshifter who knows an excellent tailor. Ludwig gets clothes made by the same person; they do wonderful work. I've never seen my dove so elegant. The whole team looked very handsome, dressed in such fine clothes. We almost looked like a bunch of gentlemen! Very unlike us, I know. We even managed to not make too much trouble at the event itself, which was a small mercy. (I was on my best behaviour; don't worry, Mama.)

We took a few photos before leaving for the event, so I asked our handler for some copies. I'm including a group shot of all of us, and one with Ludwig, Scout and I.

And before she writes back anything about that photo to me, please tell Bronislava, again, that our Sniper is not single, and to please stop asking me about it. He's dating our Demoman. Don't ask me about that, either. I'm not about to divulge the details of my friends' love lives.

All of my love,

Misha

*

Dear Mama,

Please tell Yana that our Spy is also taken, and to please stop asking me questions about him and his love life.

Also please tell Zhanna that I'm not hogging every handsome man on earth for myself. She's being ridiculous.

That said, I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for your sweet words about my photos. I've passed on the compliments to Ludwig, Scout, and the rest of the team, who were all very flattered and grateful.

We recently had another week-long furlough, which we ended up spending on-base, mostly for lack of plans. It was nice to be able to relax, though. I read the next book Yana sent, and have sent a few more with this package, as well as a letter for her to discuss the books in-depth. I'll spare you and the whole family our ramblings. I'm glad the trading post there has been sourcing more books for her voracious literary appetite, though. It's been nice to read fiction in Russian again. It's more relaxing than practicing my English, to be sure. I'll be sure to return her books with the next package. I fear this one is already too large.

Scout was away for the week, off with our Sniper and Spy on an outside job in Japan. It sounded very eventful, though in the interim our Demoman, who I think I mentioned is dating our Sniper, was inconsolable most of the time. It was pathetic, yes, but also very sweet. I would like to think I would be in better spirits should Ludwig have to spend a week away, but to say I'm sure would be hubris. After all, we go together, as I like to say.

It turns out that the Japan job was to help Spy's sister with a mess that had ended up on her doorstep thanks to his own past. News of this, among a few other things, has had me thinking. Getting in and out of Russia has always been difficult, which is why I attempt the crossing so rarely. It's only by the grace of the power of Builder's League United that I'm afforded such frequent correspondence with you all. And I can't help but worry that my own larger profile on the scene of mercenary operations might find you all, remote as your hiding place may be. I still worry that your location is less secure than I think. And I worry that if something should happen to me, or to my employment here, what sort of lurch that would leave you four in.

Also, Zhanna has been most vocal on the matter of men. Where are the men? When do I get to meet any men? Why am I not meeting any men now? And so on.

As such, I've decided to begin the process of working toward bringing you all to America in the next few years, where you will be truly safe from the KGB, and able to flourish as you deserve. It's not enough anymore just to try and keep you safe at home. Not when you deserve so much more.

It's with no small amount of guilt that I make this decision. While I have been working hard, and sending you the majority of my money, I feel as though my idleness such as my last furlough is cruel when you all yet live in fear and isolation. I'm here working for you, but in doing so, I have a surprising amount of leisure, like a great predator lounging between hunts, and it worries me that I'm being unduly selfish. After all, I have two beautiful lovers, a team of close friends, food and comfort when I want it, and peace when there isn't bloodshed. We fight a war with no personal stakes by day and play by night, eating and drinking our fill and passing our free time with games and romance, far away from the civilized world, in a place so private that Ludwig can walk about on talons with his wings proudly on display, and Scout can prance on hooves and try his best not to clatter his antlers into the lower doorways. It's our own private, violent Eden in its way, and it feels cruel to enjoy this life when you still hunt bear meat for your meals.

Ludwig's tried to assuage my feelings, to explain that being with him and Scout merely expands my family, and that I shouldn't make myself miserable as some penance, but I find it hard not to hold that guilt within me regardless. Especially when I use his ring to transform and see a bald reflection of Papa staring back at me in the mirror.

You four are the most important thing in the world. Not just my world. The world. And I want to give you that world. I've already requested information from my handler regarding the steps I would need to take in this, as she would likely be the conduit through which all of this happens. The process will be slow, and delicate, but I'm hoping that within two years, you will never have to eat bear again.

Zhanna, no dirty jokes.

I know this is exciting news, and I'm sorry it's on such a long timeline, but I wanted to make you all this promise now, so that you know there is an end in sight—a light at the end of this frozen, lonely tunnel. In the meanwhile, if there's anything you'd like me to send in these packages, please don't hesitate to ask. As it is, I've included some cakes Scout brought back for me from Japan. He says they're called 'manju', and are quite tasty.

All of my love,

Misha

[bcbdrums]

Hope

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

Third in a series of 31 prompt-based one-shots. Prompts from this list.

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

A/N: I do not like the name Kami aesthetically, but it seems so deeply rooted in fanon that I don't know what else to call her. So that's it for now... Or Kamiko because it can be a name or an affection, since the suffix -ko means child and it's often added to Japanese names... Also do like the translation of Kami to English, it's fitting given the context and some personal headcanons about her... Eh. Anyway. Oh yeah, this is like...based on manga canon but can be applied to anime cuz we know nothing about this scenario in anime. But we do in the manga... No spoilers. Enjoy. Fanart for this story here. 3. Love begets love

"...And she has ten toes, and ten tiny toenails... They're perfect. Oh! And her hair is the softest you've ever felt, I've never felt anything like it! Except her skin, and her eyelashes. Did I tell you about her eyes? I think they're going to turn out green. They're so perfect and pretty, my little Maka..."

Stein stared at the weapon as he all but pressed his face against the glass of the hospital nursery, looking in to where there were well over a dozen identical bassinets containing to Stein's eye identical babies but for the blue and pink blankets they were each wrapped in.

"Why isn't she with Kamiko?" Stein finally interrupted to ask, unfamiliar with this practice of displaying babies behind glass like specimens to be observed in a laboratory.

"So she can recover from the delivery. And so I could show you Maka as soon as possible," Spirit said, finally turning his bright eyes onto Stein. His breath had fogged the glass and Stein watched the spot rapidly vanish in the cool of the hospital air.

"To show me?" Stein said, genuinely surprised.

"They want to protect the newborns from germs, so they have the nursery to show them to visiting family."

'Family...?' Stein thought.

Spirit had finally gone silent, his nose nearly touching the glass again as he stared inside at one bassinet holding a pink-wrapped tiny bundle. Stein wasn't sure which one the weapon was staring at, but he wasn't going to ask.

The day had already been confusing enough, first with Spirit's frantic phone call not twenty minutes after returning from their assignment that Kamiko was in labor and that he needed him, Stein's genuine panic and confusion over the various implications of those words and the request that he meet them at the hospital, and then everything culminating in his holding Spirit's hair back as he vomited into a trash can in the hallway after witnessing the birth, his own hair still wet from the shower.

The eighteen-year-old new father had clearly recovered from the initial trauma and had been babbling for at least ten minutes straight after he'd come back out of the delivery room and the baby had been moved into the nursery. He had described every one of the newborn's features at least twice and proclaimed it perfect, and Stein simply took in this new and unique behavior from his former partner of five years. He had never seen anything like it, and it was something that at least deserved observation.

It was also an acceptable distraction for the moment over the fact that with this birth, any hope he had of reclaiming his weapon partner was well and truly lost. Nothing sealed two people together like a baby did, and he was honestly surprised that Spirit had asked for him to be there at all. Especially considering the animosity between he and Spirit's...wife.

The word turned his mouth to cotton even in thought, but he ignored his own feelings as he always did and refocused on the young man next to him whose excitement suddenly buoyed again.

"We can go in! Do you want to hold her?"

If Stein hadn't been partially wrapped up in the turmoil of his own emotions, he may have said yes simply due to the infectious joy in his former partner's eyes and voice.

"Some other time," was what he managed before Spirit whirled around and practically skipped through a door adjacent to the nursery, and Stein stared into the blank space left in the weapon's wake. The still, silent air seemed somehow to lack oxygen without Spirit's presence, and Stein knew from experience that his mind would quickly fill the void with static if he didn't seek distraction soon.

However, distraction was provided for him within moments as Spirit and a nurse, the former now wearing a mask and gloves, emerged from the side-room but within the nursery this time. Spirit's stride was quick, and he reached the bassinet before the nurse had closed the door behind them and was reaching down to pick up the pink bundle. The nurse said something that Stein ignored as Spirit hurried back to the glass where Stein was waiting, holding up his tiny prize so that the meister could see her face.

The baby was asleep, and swaddled up the way she was all that Stein could see were chubby cheeks, well-formed and startlingly familiar bone structure, and wisps of flaxen hair from beneath the pink cap the infant wore.

"Isn't she perfect? She's so beautiful!" Spirit said, his voice muffled but spilling over with excitement as Stein gazed down at what was the final nail in the coffin of his and his weapon's five years of partnership.

At that moment the infant's rosy lips parted, pressed together briefly. And then dark lashes lifted to reveal eyes exactly like Spirit's.

A choked sob drew Stein's attention upward, and he watched the hospital mask Spirit wore begin to stain with tears that streamed down the weapon's face as the nurse hovered nearby saying something that Stein filtered out almost entirely, seemingly scolding the very young father for his emotional display due to the potential contamination. But Spirit's happiness couldn't be contained, nor could Stein ignore it.

He looked down again into those dilated, teal eyes that seemed to be gazing back into his and forced himself to relax in order to really look at the baby. And of course, there cradled in Spirit's arms and held protectively between his hands, was a tiny soul. It was bright, fresh, and new... The little wavelength seemed to reach outward in every direction, searching blindly, but without fear as she remained safely under her father's protection.

Stein looked up from the tiny spark in the baby's chest to her eyes again that somehow seemed to see through him even though it was impossible for there to be a cognizant thought in her head.

"I, ah...don't tell Kami, but I... Would you... Stein I'd like you to be her godfather," Spirit said through his messy tears.

Stein looked up to the weapon's face.

"It's not actually a religious role or anything, just...just someone she can look up to, and count on... To help teach her. To be there for her," Spirit continued. His voice had leveled out and his eyes were unblinking as he stared down at Stein, the younger meister still shorter by a few inches even though he was fast catching up.

Spirit fell uncharacteristically silent, and Stein replayed the words in his mind over and over, unsure he'd heard them clearly.

'Someone she can look up to, and count on...'

For all those things...for his child, Spirit wanted him?

Stein looked with his soul's sight again at the tiny, pure wavelength in Spirit's arms and then beyond to the soul as familiar to him as his own. Spirit's wavelength was radiating joy and warmth greater than Stein had ever seen, and while most of it was due to his daughter, there was a good deal of it directed at him.

He hadn't dared to hope any longer for his own happiness...

"I...accept," he said, the words coming out almost as a question.

Relief flooded out across Spirit's wavelength, and Stein was perplexed. He knew he could get answers to all of his questions and that Spirit would give them. It would take but a breath to touch his wavelength to his former weapon's, meet him in the resonance that had been abandoned and had left his soul starving for months.

But he couldn't. Not with her nearby. She would know.

Stein could feel the other meister's soul now that he was looking properly, and even from another room in the hospital he could sense the massive tangle of her wavelength. He supposed it probably happened to many women after a trauma like giving birth. But then again he'd always found her wavelength to be erratic.

He let his vision of the souls in front of him fade as he looked down at the infant, unable to meet Spirit's eyes anymore. His chest had gone tight, and he was certain that to actually see the love in the weapon's eyes that he felt radiating out of his wavelength would be his undoing.

He had to stop being selfish and think of his friend.

"Thank you," Spirit said gratefully. "I'll...keep working on Kami, but..."

"You're right," Stein interrupted before Spirit could say something else to send his emotions spiraling even further out of control. "She's beautiful, Senpai."

Spirit blinked and looked down at his tiny daughter, who still seemed to stare at Stein. The young meister lifted a single finger toward the glass.

"Welcome to the world...Maka Albarn."

[mamuttuth]

Currently I read a bkdk fanfic with time AND dimension twists. And it so good!

I’m on the middle on it right now and the narrative close for culmination at some point. It hilariously wrongish correctly. I don’t know how to explain my feelings about it BUT IM IN LOVE with it already.

In one world we have “canon” MHA and in another it’s a world where Izuku and Katsuki best friends, Izuku quirkless but they both attend to UA. AFO was defeated 15 years before their birth and AM never was a Symbol of Peas and inherited OFA.

The author of this fic makes so many points in so many situations and I like reading them point of view.

If you curious the name is “If he’s anything like me” by @kirifreehugs on Wattpad.

I don’t have access for AO3 and miss many other good things but bear with me

[ihaveastorminme]

Hi! This is going to be just a tad bit lengthy, so apologies in advance 😅

I haven’t been really reading fanfics for a few years now but wanted to go back to it because I’ve been missing GoT (despite all the grief it gave us) recently. So I looked at the few choice fanfics I’ve saved in my gallery years ago and saw that I saved yours first. I vividly remember liking yours the most, because of the plot, the court intrigue, the characterisation, the lines, dialogues, and the footnotes (and how far it was from the show lol). So I read it once again and what a delight it has been 😌

Anyway, once I reached the end of what I’ve downloaded, I went to check if you updated it — only to see that the work has been privated (is that even the correct term?). Basically, the whole point of me writing this message is that I wanted to tell you that I’ve been reading on AO3 for yeaaaaars but only now did I create an account and it’s because of your work. I didn’t even know there was like a waiting list system or whatever to create an account there! Haha

ANYWAY, for fear of rambling even longer, I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work. I’m shy to send this over at AO3 using my new account that I barely know how to use lol, so please accept my gratitude here instead 🤍

Thanks again and I hope you have a wonderful day 🤗

P.S. i absolutely loved the whole trial arc! I just finished reading chapter 25 and I was stressing the whole time they were interrogating her privately 😭

eeeeeeyyy thank you SO MUCH for this message! it was such a lovely thing to read, and i have read it so many times now T_T. Im so happy you enjoyed the story, its always an amazing [and just very soothing to me personally] thing to hear.

the last chapter was difficult to write because it had been a while since i had written anything. And i had to dive into this interrogation, then the consequences of it; i had a ton of material i wanted to read too, from joan of arc's trial, the history of treason laws and so on. AND i was dreading writing the scenes with Rhaegar and his family tbh. the dynamic of the targs has become more central the more i wrote into this story, and i have developed a weird fascination with them almost.

I'm kinda glad this chapter stressed you out a lil bit XD - I KNOW IT SOUNDS TERIBLE but its because it was meant to. i wanted to create a feeling of claustrophobia, that got more and more intense as the questions got more invasive and then outrageous, and then culminating with Thorne's warning/threat to Sansa, which was a scene i have been planning to write since almost the very inception of this story. like, the moment i started to write sansa's role as a 'speaker' of the northern gods, i knew that the confrontation with Thorne would have to happen at some point [not necessarily with Thorne]. and maybe because i was dreading it a bit, it took me a while to write it, because i've been anticipating it for so long.

i think this might be a reason why the ending is taking me so long too. Because there are many scenes i wrote out [like, the very bare bones of them] from the very beginning of the story. The function a bit like marker scenes and the rest of the story is almost built for them, to earn them. and they're all clustered now at the end. there's a bit of pressure i suppose. im just realizing this as i write and facepalming a bit. saying it - or rather writing it out here - does kinda ease the tension a bit actually.

UGH trust me i know the feeling of wanting to hide into AUs after the disappointment of the shows final season. they lost me early on, at around season 5, so my stories have lived in string-realities of GOT/ASOIAF since then.

I do apologize about the hassle of privating the work - there was this post going around a few months ago about an ai program that was using fic as content-harvesting or something like that. Please forgive the terrible - or inaccurate - explanation, i have no idea how to express it correctly. I understood it to mean that this program was using fanfiction for something or other. and it was suggested in the post to private the fics, to keep this from happening. so i did it, and i dont even know if it works to be honest with you. I hope you didnt have to wait long to have an account - and that you have found loads more fics to save and bookmark to make the hassle worth it, at least - as im sure you have, ao3 is a treasure trove in that way.

Thank you so much for messaging me. Thank you for reading. Please feel free to ramble about anything you want to, either here or on ao3 - I would love to chat, its great. Have the best day and a lovely weekend.

[catsandemily]

so there was this fanfic...

Okay I'm actually going insane, but I have returned to the gavin/rk900 fandom and I wanted to read this fanfic, so I hopped on the ao3.

I can't find it.

The fanfic goes like this - it has pretty heavy sub/dom undertones and a errr ugh choking kink.... the scene I remember the best is that rk900 makes reed beg in the bathroom and does stuff with his boot.

I also remember that it was surprisingly slowburn - rk900 was kinda asexual and only interacted sexually himself in the last chapters. Also their relationship culmination happened at the end and reed had a broken jaw? I dont remember why but yeah, that happened.

PLEASEPLEASE if you remember something help this poor lad find the gem.

I even looked at my account's history from SIX years ago, and I have a bad feeling that it could have been removed around 2018.

[hangmanbradshaw]

I'm reading 'the more that you say..." on ao3 while sick in bed. I downloaded it onto my kobo so I can read it like a book because GIRL (gender neutral). I'm only one chapter in, and this feels like a mystery I would pick up at the book shop. I am intrigued, I am invested. You've done an incredible job at creating a concept, constructing a story, getting the readers' attention, and keeping it (which is what makes or breaks a good story imo). Plus, the characters are interesting and relatable.

I know people have different motivations for writing fanfiction, but if yours is to practice before you start mainstream publishing, then girl (g/n), do it. I know I'm just a random internet commenter, but I've read a lot of books in my time and seen more movies than you could believe possible. I know a good story when I see it, and YOU are telling a great one. You are good at this.

ummmmm hi???? I need you to know this made my day yesterday so thank you <3 (also I hope you get to feeling better quickly!) This story was one that I came up with a concept and then really had so much fun layering it into the idea I ended up writing. Eerie mystery has always been one of my favorite vibes, but I wasn't sure how good I'd be at writing it because it is such a delicate line to walk, but I absolutely ended up loving it. This concept of grief cycles and love breaking the cycles, the way it clouds vision, the different characters displaying aspects of it- anger, bargaining, depression, etc. It was highly personal, and being able to build this world and these dynamics was so fun. I just love storytelling? So I'm so glad if it resonates and ugh <3 thank you. But! Yeah, I started writing fanfic a year ago because I've always loved stories (books, movies) and thought up these worlds in my head, but wasn't sure if I was capable of putting them to paper in an interesting way. Had some things happen and dove into it, gave it a shot, and it turned out I love it? I've used all these stories to grow my skills this past year and it's culminated in a few like this one I'm really proud of. I keep going back and forth on if I'm actually any good so thank you hahaha (don't you love imposter syndrome?) It's been encouragement like this that made me decide to believe in myself and try to publish :) So that's my major focus at the moment. I know it's a really hard business, but I love it too much not to give it a shot. So! Editing at the moment for beta reading and then it's on to querying. Who knows what'll happen, but messages like this mean the world to me so thank you!!! (I'm around if you ever want to talk story! I could go on and on all day as some people know hahaha especially with this one)

[midnightstargazer]

🍓☁️ Please!

Thanks, @kay-elle-cee!

Writers Truth or Dare

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

I first discovered fanfic in middle school, around the time the seventh HP book had just come out. I hadn't really been aware of online fandom before that, except really peripheral stuff like "what character are you?" type quizzes. That was also around the time I was first allowed to use the internet without constant supervision, and it all kind of culminated in me wanting to know what happened after DH and finding the answer in fanfic. And, eventually, deciding to try my hand at writing it myself.

I was in a lot of fandoms during my teenage years, but I didn't really realize it was something I could continue to do as an adult. Like, I was aware of fandom adults existing, but I also assumed they were the exceptions and that I would need to give it up. So I did, in my early 20s. But, a few years ago, I decided to re-read my Harry Potter books, with the idea of seeing whether I wanted to keep them or get rid of them. Did they still hold real nostalgia value? While there are certainly things about them I see differently as an adult, not only did I still enjoy the characters and world, I ended up with ideas that led me to reading fics, and to writing my own again, after years of saying I was done with all that.

So both times around, it was HP.

☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username?

I'm pretty sure I've answered this before, but I can't find the post. Anyway, when I made my AO3 account, I did it specifically because I had ideas about the Black family I wanted to do something with. So the star part is a reference to their astronomy naming traditions. Midnight has to do with the fact that I'm a pretty severe night owl, and midnight is one of my favorite times of day. (It might also have been a little bit inspired by the Taylor Swift album? idk, I don't remember consciously thinking about that, but I am a swiftie and I did pick the name a few months after the album came out, so it was probably there on a subconscious level).

[bluejayblueskies]

Hey, this is like. Super out of nowhere but I don't have an AO3 account lol. I don't really read fanfic often, nothing against it just never really got into it, but I absolutely love Whiskey Old Fashioned Sour - I've never actually waited and been excited when a fic updated before haha. So I just wanted to say like, great job! I write so I know how important feedback can be 😂

On a like. Deeper note lol. I've always felt a kind of kinship to the aromantic label, at odds to other intermittent feelings I have about friendship and relationships and stuff. I'm struggling with re-entering the dating scene with all of its Expectations after getting out of an abusive possessive relationship earlier this year, and I've not been able to handle much romance or sex in media bc of the weird associations it has for me recently. But your John and Arthur are just 👌 good vibes all round and make me feel just more secure in everything and comfortable with myself. So. Thank you. And I can't wait to read the new chapter tonight 😊

oh wow, thank you so much!!! i'm so glad that you've been connecting with whisky and that you've been enjoying it--this fic means a lot to me, and i get so excited seeing other people find meaning and enjoyment in it. getting this ask was really lovely--i was feeling a bit down about my writing tonight, and seeing this in my askbox really helped chase away those feelings of inadequacy, so thank you so much 💕💕💕

and yeah, as an aroace person, portraying aromantic relationships is something that's very important to me and that i've been trying to do more in my works recently. it feels so natural with john and arthur, given the complexity of their relationship in canon, and i love playing around with the way they love one another and how it goes beyond the boundaries of what we might define as platonic or romantic. (that's actually one of the reasons i introduced a sexual element to their relationship--besides the fact that whisky!arthur is allo, i also just really like the concept of them having this kind of intimacy together, but it's just one component amongst all the other moments of intimacy they have. it's not a culmination of their love--just another part of it.) all that is to say is that i'm happy to hear that you're liking john and arthur's dynamic in whisky, and i'm glad that you can see parts of yourself in them 💜

(and i hope you like the new chapter!! it does have explicit sexual elements in it, but they should be easily skippable should you desire to skip them!)

[just2bubbly]

for my own curiousity, i made AI write a fanfic for me and i need to say this- no one is stealing the writer's job!! AI could write you an email and that's cool cuz i hate writing emails too but novels? na it's so fucking bland, and this line is the proof of it -

In a moment of reckless abandon, Aaron closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Juliette's, igniting a firestorm of desire that consumed them both. Their kiss was fierce and passionate, a culmination of years of longing and suppressed emotions.

But even as they surrendered to the intoxicating rush of their newfound connection, they knew that their love was forbidden – a dangerous temptation that could spell disaster for them both.

And yet, in each other's arms, they found solace and strength, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.

they met like 200 words ago and yea if ao3 is down for ages I would still not read this shit :/

[saveourskinship]

Writing this here in case your AO3 inbox is flooded with comments, since I’ve no doubt it probably is.

Have you ever had a baffling number of happenstances happen to you and finally, finally found the reason?

This is exactly how I feel in this exact moment, fresh out of reading “You, Specifically”, typing this on my phone, fingers trembling.

I stumbled into D&D after seeing a random picture of a D20 with a miniature goldfish inside. I found Harry Potter as a substitute when someone took my library’s copy of Narnia before I got the chance. I suddenly started searching for Theomione fics after an accidental click in the AO3 filter.

Somehow, all of this culminated into finding this piece of art. Every sentence, every quip, every witty banter in these 2 chapters feels as if all the planets have aligned and all the dopamine pathways in my brain have lit up into an explotion of euphoric fireworks.

I’m utterly in love with how Theo and Hermione observed and truly grasped each other all those years without the other ever noticing, like stars that orbited each other without ever meeting, and then fucking sputtering candles suddenly bring them together into this breathtaking supernova. It’s so devastating in its (seemingly) mundane loveliness. I melt and blush and cackle along with every character. They’re all so distinct, even with Hermione and Theo at the center, that they feel like my own D&D party and I’m filled with nostalgic fondness. This is all the rom-coms I never truly get because I can never relate, then suddenly I’m immersed in a fanfic about a wizarding delegate and a spell technician in a D&D session and it hits me: this is the movie I’ve always wanted to bawl over popcorn and ice cream over. This one, specifically.

I’m half a year late and I don’t know if you’ll read this because you’re a very prolific writer (I read all of your Theomione fics in a day and left this one for last, had a hunch this will ruin me for other fics in the best possible way. I haven’t even read Incandescent yet! Only if you’re willing to send it, of course) and a damn good one at that. I just have to pay my respects. I’m obligated to since this is the least your writing deserves. Thank you for being here, thank you for writing, thank you for existing.

Kia ora!

I've been agonising over how to answer this all day because how am I worthy? Where are the words? What gratitude can I give that conveys my awe? 'Thank you'? That paltry, tawdry strumpet? It barely suffices in the most conventional of circumstances let alone this.

I did see this comment on the fic as I am by no means flooded by comments. Comments are rare jewels in fic land and I treasure each and every one like a filament with which to light my soul.

Therefore you, dearest beloved reader, are sun and stars and aurora firmament and I most fervently appreciate you.

I loved writing 'you, specifically'. First, I fell in love with 'Silver' by Astra King (a cover, the original is by A. J. Cook). The story in that song breathe life into a magical I. T. Theo and so I wrote him. And then stopped. Because I didn't have any idea of what was going on with Hermione. And then 'Warning' by Crimson Apple came out and the ideas flowed and flowed.

I've always wanted to write a D&D fic. I had started and stopped three before 'you, specifically'. I cannot tell you how I soared reading how you related to the story.

I feel humbled and so grateful that you read and enjoyed this story. And even more so that you shared that with me. It is a very kind act to show appreciation, and if I could cup this comment in my hand and squish its cheeks, I would.

As for 'Incandescent', yes, I do send the link to those who ask. I will do so soon. Also, if you like the candles in 'you, specifically', you'll be pleased to know they are essentially characters in 'Incandescent', too, alongside some sluppies (slipper puppies), and a grouchy, sentient bookcase.

...

I sort of forget how weird 'Incandescent' is.

Once again, I paltrily, tawdrily, in a most strumpeted fashion thank you for sending me this.

Have a wonderful day ans I hope something truly lovely happens to you this week.

- Save

[its-tea-time-darling]

#just had to add the tags 😭#i love that threat against the nyt#mole interest#tumblrisms#goncharov#memes#fanfic#some fic to add to my reading list @clairoscheerios

LISTEN.

it happened on november 22nd 2022. pleasantly buzzing from the Goncharov Energy that currently was seeping through every corner of tumblr as well as my brain my skin and my very cells, i opened the new york times article about goncharov with a chuckle.

grinning, i scrolled through it, and clicked all the links. then! lo and behold! one of the links lead me to my blog! this one

you can imagine my surprise. my confusion even. i opened the link about 50 times to check that it really really really led to my blog. it wasn't even my post. just an addition to the gonchlore post.

puzzled and perplexed it took me a while to figure out what to do with that unexpected power. until it dawned on me: the new york times wanted fandom? i would GIVE them fandom.

so i soldiered on and wrote goncharov omegaverse fic, for the sole purpose of linking it in that post, so that every person who'd click that link, trusting the ny times to take them somewhere Informative would find OMEGAVERSE instead.

(i thought i was very funny for that title, a fun little twist to the ny times motto: "All the News That's Fit to Print") ao3 link

and then, in the glorious culmination of the goncharov events, as we all know, his daughter asked scorsese about the phenomenon (posting a video of the text exchange to tiktok) and he said "i made that movie years ago.". anyway. you know how she asked him abt it? by sending him the nyt article.

so. yk. scorsese was just a click away from goncharov omegaverse fic.

and personally, i think that's beautiful.

im sorry, we turned your boyfriend into a mole. yeah and all of tumblr‘s interested in him now. sorry

edit 9/12/23 11.22 CET

and so it begins…

fic1, fic2 @pathsofoak ao3 tag. Mole Poem @thaliaisalesbian . fic by @tourmelion .

update:

ao3 link. please vote for mole scene in most underrated goncharov scene poll