#<- oh look a tag for filtering purposes

[skyburger]

venn diagram of these guys

[doscharolastras]

The first fucking Swiftie I see claiming to have “discovered” Lungs is going in the pit.

[puppyluver256]

Welcome to Tumblr, where it's part of the site culture to generally tag upsetting things so that people can use any number of filters to filter said things out!

Except for when we don't.

Which is all the time.

[party-gilmore]

And thus begins the overly anxious lead up and transition into the Day That It Is Very Important Not To Eat Or Drink via the annual “Overthink Everything The Day Before And Doubt Yourself And Start Feeling Guilty Because You’re Already Sure You’re Going To Fail Because You Have No Self Control When It Comes To Consumption And You’re Considering Tweaking Your Fast Plan To Allow For Water Based On The (Mental) Illness But Then You Swing Back Into Heavier Guilt Because You Aren’t Even Sure It IS Mental Illness Rather Than Just Your Analytical Brain Looking For Excuses To Make It Not As Hard And You’re Just Really Starting To Feel Like You Just Kind Of Suck. As A Person. Fundamentally. That You Can’t Even Do This One Thing Right. Then Get A Boost Of Defiant Energy And Decide To Just Chug Water Like Dry Potting Soil And Piss Like Racehorse All Day While Pretending You’re Not Terrified That You’re Going To Abysmally Fail Your Own Expectations Of Yourself” tradition.

Haha WELP. At least they were right! That soul sure CAN afflicted!,!

[kkami-writes]

waiting for us — chapter fifty four. waiting for us wc. 2k a/n. name drop!!!! ok but that being said this is a VERY heavy chapter dealing with very sensitive topics. please read through the tw and be safe. tl;dr at the end. TW!!! negligent parents, brief mention of abortion, brief mention of religion, verbal abuse, domestic abuse, violent acts, mentions of self-harm and attempted suicide also i'm not entirely sure how I should tag this, but there is a part where yn has her clothes ripped off of her without consent, but it is not in a sexual way (?) or for the purpose of doing something sexual.

You stand just outside the door of 3RACHA’s (and hyunjin’s) apartment, and your quite certain that your heart is going to pound itself straight through your chest. Perhaps there is a brief moment where you consider just running for it but you think better of it. A half empty duffel bag sits on your shoulder and there’s a ratty backpack that hangs loosely off of you. Maybe you’d find it sad that your whole life could fit into two measly bags, but you couldn’t deny that it was just easier this way. You had left nothing behind, wiping your entire existence out of that place and you would not look back.

When you finally gather the courage to knock on the door, your knuckles barely make a sound while they rap against the wood. Yet the moment your hand makes contact with the door, it’s swinging open and Felix throws himself into your embrace. You almost lose your balance but Felix makes sure you don’t fall backwards, clinging almost painfully to you.

He pulls back to ask if you’re okay since you were later than you said you’d be, but the words die on his tongue at the sight of you. There’s nothing different from you besides the bright red mark decorating your cheek.

“YN? What happened? Who hurt you?” He questions, voice going almost impossibly deeper. The thought of someone putting their hands on you fills him with anger. You actually almost don’t know what he’s talking about before remembering the parting gift your mother had given you before you left.

“Oh. This. Don’t worry about it,” You mumble, acting rather nonchalant as you attempt to get past Felix and into the apartment but he doesn’t let you get too far, grasping gently at your wrist to pull you back.

“No seriously. Who hurt you yn? What’s up with the bags?” He fires out questions, now just realizing the two bags you had with you.

“I was hoping I could stay the night. Or a few. Or forever,”

The silence between you is deafening.

“Yn” You hate (love) the way you shudder at the way he says your name in that deep tone of his.

“I might have, um, run away from home?”

“WHAT?” He yells at that effectively alerting the rest of the boys of your presence.

“Lix? Is that YN? What’s going on?” Chan’s voice filters through the apartment, getting louder the closer he gets. You finally move past Felix, leaving your bags by the door for now.

“Lixie, I’ll explain everything ok? I don’t want to have to keep repeating myself over and over again,” You beg the boy with an almost desperate lilt to your voice, giving him big puppy eyes for added ammo just in case. He sighs and let’s it go for now, letting you drag him towards the couches.

But of course, even if Felix had dropped it, the other’s wouldn’t; immediately demanding to know who hit you as soon as they see your red cheeks. As much as you appreciate their concern, the swirl of emotions you’ve been feeling for hours already has you on edge and you’re so close to snapping.

“GUYS” You raise your voice and the effect is immediate, all of them quieting down and staring back at you. “It’s ok, I promise. I barely feel it. It was the first time my mom hit me anyway,” At that they all start asking questions again, talking over each other but one glare from you shuts them up again. “Please. I’m here to explain okay? So please, let me tell you everything before you guys start asking a million questions,” You plead, tired and scared of the can of worms you were potentially about to open. But you also know how much you need this. You just couldn’t keep it in anymore.

The boys all gather onto the couch and the seats next to it, with you sat in the middle next to Felix and Jisung, one on either side of you. Both of them are close enough that you can feel their thighs pressed to yours. It helps to keep you grounded while you try to take a deep breath but it just comes out shaky. Jisung slides his hand into yours, giving it a squeeze before giving you a reassuring nod.

“I was an accident. My mom somehow managed to get pregnant even though my dad had a vasectomy after they had my brother. Despite not wanting another child, they decided to have me anyway for whatever reason. We’re not religious or anything so she could have just gotten an abortion. I’ll never know why they decided to have me.

Growing up the abuse was mostly verbal. An insult here or there, mostly reminding me I wasn’t wanted or needed. My brother of course was the worst with his words but overall it really wasn’t that bad. For the most part they ignored my existence, which was honestly fine with me. It….only got worse after I turned 16. When I got my soulmark,” Your hands are shaking in Jisung’s firm grip while Felix scoots closer for comfort, nuzzling his cheek against your shoulder. You are so thankful for them.

“Both of my parents are blanks and so is my brother. So it was only natural that I assumed that I would be a blank as well. So imagine my surprise when it turns out I have 8 soulmates,” You let out a small snort, head shaking softly.

“I’m know you’re all probably thinking that I freaked out or panicked about having so many soulmates with how I reacted when we met, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth,” You make brief eye contact with Jeongin who has a confused expression on his fox-like face.

“For the first time, hope bloomed in my chest. My original plan was to leave when I turned 18, as soon as I could, but I didn’t really know what I would do. I would be all alone, no soulmate and experiencing the real world for the first time. But now, I finally felt like I had a purpose. To find my soulmates. I couldn’t believe that I would have 8 soulmates. 8 people who would love me. Who would want me” your voice cracks at those last words, tears burning in your eyes. Hyunjin looks like he’s not too far behind with his own tears threatening to fall.

“Of course I had lied to my parents about my soulmark, just saying I was a blank. It was easy since they didn’t really care but I had the suspicion that my brother didn’t believe me. I used to stand in front of my mirror staring at my soulmark, tracing over your names, dreaming about what life would be like with you guys,” Felix clings a little harder to you. “It was my only solace in that prison, that one day I would be where I belonged,”

“One day my brother…he caught me looking at my mark. He-“ Your eyes close in pain as the tears run down your cheeks. You squeeze at Jisung’s hands who haven’t lefts yours yet as you take in a deep breath. “He dragged me to the living room by my hair, yelling at my parents that I was a lying whore. That I was some kind of greedy slut for having so many soulmates. He pushed me to the ground and…he- he,” You choke on your tears before you feel someone patting your cheeks dry with tissues. You look up to see Minho, his eyes soft and sad as he continues to dry the tears leaking from your eyes. The other boys that were not on the couch have abandoned their seats in favor of being closer to you. Seungmin is on the floor, stroking at your calves soothingly, while Hyunjin does the same on your other side.

“He ripped my skirt off and…he….he took a lighter and….and-“ You can’t even finish the sentence before you throw yourself in Seungmin’s embrace, sobbing into his shoulder as he holds you. The rest of the boys try to comfort you as you feel hands along your back and hair, soft soothing words being said into your ears. It takes you a few minutes to pull yourself together.

“’M sorry-“ You say with a sniffle, letting Minho clean your face as he insists on doing it himself.

“Don’t say sorry. You’ve had horrific things done to you. You are so strong,” Changbin says in a soft voice, contrasting his normally loud demeanor. His hands smooth your hair down.

You can hear the sniffles from Felix and Jisung who have starting sobbing silently, their hearts breaking for you. You let out a sigh because you’re not even done.

“After that…the abuse…got worse. It turned physical as my brother would take his anger out on me. My parents didn’t care about what he did to me. I slowly…became a shell of myself. I started turning to self harm because everything hurt so much that I needed something else to hurt so I didn’t have to think about anything else. Even though he didn’t sever our soulmark, I felt like I had let you down- that I let someone else disfigure our beautiful connection. I though about my soulmates who would probably never want someone as broken as I was. I felt so lost. So….on graduation night I-“ You tuck your head down in shame. “I swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills,”

Everyone is deadly silent but you can hear Hyunjin and Jeongin joining in on the crying. Seungmin just holds you a little tighter.

“I had texted Minghao before I went through with it. Telling him that I was so grateful for his friendship and that him and Jun were the best friends I could ever ask for. Of course that man has some freaky 8th sense or something because I don’t think it took him more than five minutes to get to my house even though he lives twenty minutes away. He was yelling at me when he barged into my bathroom but I don’t remember much after that. I passed out and woke up in the hospital. Now that I was conscious Minghao throughly chewed my ass out though. The nurses had wanted to hospitalize me actually for mental health reasons but my parents refused and said something about how it was just an accident,”

“We thought you died,” Jeongin pipes up, his eyes red rimmed with tears as he sniffles.

“Your mark went gray and we all felt this sharp pain in our chests. That night we had mourned the loss of a soulmate that we thought we’d never get to meet. The relief we felt when your mark went back to black was unmatched. We had assumed you must have had an accident or something to have triggered the mark to react,”

The rest are eerily quiet, still waiting for you to continue your story.

“After I was discharged, my father had someone managed to score himself a promotion. Something about using a sob story about how his daughter was feeling lost being in a small town and needing to explore or some other bullshit. Either way we were suddenly packing and moving to seoul, not that my opinion mattered if I wanted to go or not.

My grades in school were actually pretty good. I really didn’t have anything better to do then study so It was surprisingly easy to get into seoul uni. And well….then I met Jeongin in Biology. Slowly the rest of you followed and wormed your way into my heart,” you smile fondly at the boys around you who smile back, even with tears stained cheeks.

“I really don’t care about the thread Yunjin posted, but my brother saw it and was not happy. He informed our parents and they let me have it. I just sat there taking it when I realized that I didn’t have to put up with this shit anymore. So I kinda just got up, grabbed my stuff and left…Figured you guys wouldn’t mind if I stayed,”

“Never ever. You do realize that now that you’re here we are never letting you go. Ever again,” Changbin whispers, squeezing you a little tighter. The boys are practically cutting off your oxygen but you can hardly care, feeling the love pouring out of them. You love them. You never want to be without them ever again.

“You have been so brave, so strong. We are so proud of you. Thank you. Thank you for waiting for us,”

tl;dr ! yn's parents find out about her soulmates via her brother who found out from the thread. while they chew her out, she realizes that she doesn't has to put up with this anymore and "runs" away (but not without her mother slapping her). she goes over to their apartment to tell them her story. yn was an "accident" and even though her parents didn't want another child, they went ahead with the birth anyway. they, along with her brother never let her forget that she was unwanted. both her parents and her brother are blanks and so she had assumed she would be too - but surprise, surpise. she has 8 soulmates. yn adored her mark and was excited for the day she would get to be with them. she'd spend time staring at her mark, memorizing their names. one day her brother catches her and gets so angry that he takes a lighter and burns her mark. after that yn falls into a deep depression and turns to self-harm in order to cope. still unable to take it and feeling like she let her soulmates down, she decides to take a bunch of sleeping pills. minghao is the one who finds her and saves her. the boys mention that they thought that she had died due to the mark reacting and turning grey. they were very happy when the mark went back to black. after her attempt, her father was able to get a promotion at work and moved their family to seoul, resulting in yn finally finding her soulmates.

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[runninriot]

Say You're Sorry

written for @steddiesmuttyseptember

prompt: make-up sex | rated: E | wc: 3.881

tags: sub top eddie munson, bossy bottom steve harrington, edging, orgasm denial, degradation kink (if you squint), steve's being a tease because eddie owes him an apology

complete fic on ao3

Steve knows Eddie didn’t do it on purpose. He knows how bad his boyfriend is at remembering dates, always has too many things buzzing around in his pretty head that it’s hard for him to focus, to filter out what’s important and what isn’t. And in the past two years of being in a relationship with him, Steve has learned to accept this minor flaw. But that he could forget today of all days, still makes him furious.

It’s not his birthday, no. It’s not even their anniversary. Steve could forgive him easily for forgetting those.

Today is way more important.

Today is his first day at his first teaching job – the one thing Steve had been working harder for than anything else in his life. After years of fighting with his parents, of almost giving up, and too many sleepless nights, he’s finally where he always wanted to be.

And Eddie just- forgot.

It’s not like Steve expected anything big, not even a little present or something. But he got nothing. Nothing at all. No ‘Good luck on your first day, baby’ or a cheesy ‘Go, get them, tiger!’, not even an ‘I’m proud of you.’

Instead, Eddie got up particularly late and drank his coffee like he always does, in grouchy silence, before mumbling a lousy ‘See you tonight, baby. Love you.’ and heading out the door.

So, Steve thinks he has every right to be pissed.

And he still is, when he comes home from work, despite the warm welcome he got from his new colleagues and students.

---

   “Hey my love, how was your day?”

Eddie is standing in the kitchen, cooking. For a second Steve thinks maybe he remembered, that maybe he’s surprising him with his favourite meal to make up for this morning. But no, one look over his shoulder shows that it’s not.

   “Good,” Steve grumbles, and Eddie – however oblivious he sometimes is – can instantly sense that something’s wrong.

He spins around and grabs Steve by his waist to pull him closer, kisses the back of his neck and the top of his head before he hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder.

   “Tell me baby, what did I do wrong this time?” He sighs deeply, honest regret in his voice, and Steve almost has pity on him.

Almost.

He peels himself out of Eddie’s arms and turns to look at him.

   “Oh, I don’t know. Let me think.” He taps his pointer finger against his chin and looks at the ceiling, pretending to search for an answer. “I don’t know, Eddie. Could it be that maybe you forgot something?”

He’s being a bitch and he knows it but he can’t help it.

   “For fuck’s sake, babe! Just tell me! You know I’m bad at this. What did I forget? Your birthday’s not for another month and- Oh.”

Steve can see the exact moment it dawns on Eddie.

   “Fuck. Fuck! Shit, baby, I’m sorry! I didn’t- I was- this morning I-“

He knows there’s no use in trying to come up with an excuse. It’s too late for that, the ship has already sailed. Steve’s mad and Eddie is to blame.

   “How was it? Tell me everything! How’s your schedule, your colleagues? Any funny stories about your students?”

It’s almost cute how hard he’s trying and the half sad half pleading look in his eyes is already starting to melt the ice in Steve’s heart.

But he won’t let him get off so easy.

Instead of answering Eddie’s questions, Steve walks out of the kitchen and into the bathroom where he locks the door behind him, just out of spite – they never lock the doors – and starts the shower.

The warm spray is heavenly, makes him realise how tense he’s been all day when he feels his muscles slowly loosen.

And when he’s done, he feels like a whole new man, refreshed and relaxed. Better, he feels better, and he finds that his anger, his slight disappointment has been flushed down the drain together with the stress of the day.

Steve can never be mad at Eddie for too long anyway, he loves that man too much.

BUT- and that’s a big but, Steve can also be a petty brat if he wants to. And he does. Because he thinks that Eddie does deserve at least some kind of punishment.

Something to make up for souring Steve’s mood.

Something he’ll thank him for. Later, when Steve’s done with him.

After more of the silent treatment at dinner, Steve knows Eddie is already close to a breakdown – figuratively speaking. He’s jittery and extra cautious of every move Steve makes, like he already suspects what’s coming for him.

Still, Steve takes his time, makes no attempts to offer Eddie any consolation, just lets him seethe in his guilty conscience for a little while longer – he doesn’t need Steve to give him directions, he’ll figure it out on his own.

Because Eddie, no matter how forgetful he sometimes is, is a clever boy. He’s a good boy, usually. Just sometimes he needs a little reminder, a little... tug at the leash, so to speak, to remember his place.

A place that is currently empty.

But not for long, Steve will make sure of it.

So, this time, when he goes to the bathroom to get ready for the night, the door stays open. Wide open. He undresses slowly, giving his boyfriend a show he knows Eddie can’t resist to watch. And oh, he’s watching. Steve can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, the intensity making his skin prickle.

He’s watching and he’s probably already drooling all over himself, just waiting for his sign.

This is going to be so much fun.

continue reading here

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU pt 68

part 1 | part 67 | ao3

They spread out in small groups around the perimeter, seeking points of entry, bloodhounds scenting signs of life.

“Anything?”

“All clear!”

“I got somethin’!”

“You don’t got shit.”

“Oh yeah, dickhead? Come take a look at these footprints.”

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Steve looks at Eddie. The shimmering outline around him has shifted to deep red, angry as a wound and throbbing with pulses of orange and yellow, Hellfire lapping at the edges of him. What do we do? What do we do?!

Behind them, a soft meow. Quiet as the swish of swaying branches in the breeze. Steve turns toward the sound. “Is that…”

His eyes unfocus for a second; come back to the same conclusion. “Misty?”

“What the fuck?”

Eddie blinks a dozen times — rubs his eyes, head whipping from Steve to Misty to Steve.

“You see her, too, right?”

“What the actual fuck?” His voice jumps an octave, whispered screeching, and in his panic he reaches out and grabs Steve’s hand; squeezes hard enough to crack a few knuckles.

“Ow!”

“Sorry!”

“Jesus!”

“Sorry!!”

The cat meows.

They turn to her. Weirdly human — almost haughty — she waits for their full attention then tips her chin at them, swishing her tail with a dramatic flick and staring for a beat that feels too long to not be on purpose before she turns her back to them and slinks off down the hill.

“I swear to god,” Eddie gripes as he rolls onto his chest, “this cat is trying to show me its asshole.” He lifts up on his elbows; shuffles himself around, ready to army crawl. “We following her?”

Is she even real?

Misty looks back like she heard him. Steve’s too fucking high for this.

As quietly as they can, they maneuver on their forearms down to the water’s edge, then crouch-walk through the bushes, giving the house a wide berth. Misty runs ahead of them when they make it to the boathouse — takes three graceful leaps and disappears through an open window — and Eddie tenses up like he’s about to run out after her.

“Wait.” Steve drops down to a plank; peeks out around a shrub. Has to make sure it’s safe first. It’s kinda hard to tell if the coast is clear when the coast is kaleidoscope-ing into impossible shapes, but he thinks they can make it if they’re stealthy enough. “Stay low. Keep quiet.”

Eddie nods at him, eyes huge.

Three; two; one. “Now.” He hauls Eddie up by his bicep. “Go; go! I’m right behind you.”

—

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[theminecraftbee]

I'm really glad to have found the Hermitcraft fandom here on Tumblr, I've been a long time fan and it's awesome to discover all this great fanart and content and stuff. Any must-follow MCYT/Hermitcraft/Minecraft blogs?

oh gosh, welcome! in general i am BAD about remembering who i follow and who i don't; a great way to find who you want to follow might be to just go through the #hermitcraft tag and follow people you find funny, or, heck, if i reblog a lot of art from a certain artist you like (or not a lot, like one art even), go follow them!

while we're here, a few additional general etiquette rules (keeping in mind that like, this is tumblr, trying to claim ANYTHING is a whole-community norm is basically impossible i am claiming a norm from my specific circle of guys): do not crosstag, only tag things that are actually in your post. don't use the 'minecraft' tag, that tag is for people who like the actual game. (i mean, you can use it if you are posting about minecraft, but not if you're posting about the youtubers). it's generally considered rude to put your crit in the main tags, especially without tagging 'discourse' somewhere so it can be filtered. shipping should generally have a 'hermitshipping' tag on it for filtering purposes as well, but if something is tagged hermitshipping and you're mad about it just like, block them, they did the important part.

the hermits i know of on tumblr (could be more, idk): @/joehills @/pearlescentmoo @/falsesymmetry @/therealdocm77 (not actually active but has the account) @/geminitayyt. cleo also had an account but it is no longer active. also @/inthelittlewood is here and like very active, as is @/askzloyxp and @/quinnhills. as a general etiquette rule, just... act like they're perfectly ordinary tumblr users and continue your business as usual! and don't send them weird asks or anything.

off the top of my head, a few blogs i like, an EXTREMELY non-exhaustive list, find your own guys out there as well you won't regret it! like, you will find the experience you like best just going out there and looking for it yourself! i've absolutely missed a bunch of guys i love, let alone guys you would love! this is like 10 million percent non-exhaustive, i follow 1,570 blogs apparently, many of which aren't hermitcraft or mcyt related, but many of which are, so i just sorta. went for it. and when i was having trouble remembering if a name was a repeat that's when i stopped. so. non-exhaustive list:

@nightshadeowl, @jestroer, @astronomodome, @kingtheghast, @floweroflaurelin, @roenais, @silverskye13, @wasyago, @rusty-courage, @art-by-fate, @silverskye13, @redstonedust, @betweenlands, @sixteenth-days, @judas-iscaryot, @terracottakore, @cherrifire, @antimony-medusa, @hybbart, @made-nondescript, @luigra, @cuteiemonster, @mawofthemagnetar, @potionofinstantdamage, @concorp, @spiderziege, @salemoleander, @bc-jpeg, @magicalmanhattanproject, @simplydm, @12u3ie, @mishapen-dear, @lunarblazes, @girltimeswithscar, @kishdoodles, @quaranmine, @shadeswift99, @bdoubleowo, @quicksandblock, @beacon-lamp, @kikunai, @sideblague, @applestruda, @ingapotejtoo, @belmarzi, @strifetxt

anyway FEEL FREE TO PROMO GUYS OR YOURSELF ON THIS POST TOO! from what i understand we may be getting some new guys sometime soon here from the twitter lands? so it may be helpful to have that for anyone who's looking for new guys to follow!

and most of all: WELCOME!!!

[fatesundress]

⭑ sunlight parallel pseudostars. tom riddle x reader

summary. your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose.

tags. gn afab reader, part one of an inevitable part two but this one is just pining because nonny asked so nicely, yes there is fluff but it's a tom pov, so... i do what i can, post-hogwarts, mutual pining (but emphatically, arduously, overwhelmingly tom), tom and reader were hopeless fools in school who never confessed their feelings for each other, legilimency/occlumency training as flirting, reader definitely filter searches the slow burn tag, self-cockblocking, i can't tell if this is ooc even by my own delusional standards, hopeful 'ending' as an apology for my last tom fic, please accept this humble offering

note. finished my first request!! who knew i could do it! i apologize first and foremost for my inactivity and i want to say WOAHHH thank you so much for 400! i'm hoping to make up for my absence by turning this into either a two-parter or a longer mini-series. i did actually forcibly refrain from ending this in smut because i want to try my hand at a slightly slower-burn since my usual preference is like... at least 100k words of longing stares before they even hold hands. i'm trying my best.

word count. 4.9k

There’s something, at least, in the far table at the right side of the bar, that makes the process a tad less dull. It’s somehow quieter here than his flat over Knockturn, sparse with a few old wizards with beards caught in the froth of their cups, Tom’s bend of the pub warm from the fire, crackling with kindling and the scratch of his quill, drizzled in moonlight tealish enough to remind him of the Slytherin common room when little else does nowadays. Something — yes. A tolerable reprieve. The sort of monotony he likes.

As opposed to Caractacus Burke’s constant, doltish solicitations; Tom ponders when the day will come that the man strikes a deal so dumb it lights the tip of someone’s wand green and kills him. It doesn’t drive Tom to any immense grief to consider. On particularly tedious days, he staves off boredom by imagining doing it himself.

But this reprieve can only serve him so well. Tom doesn’t drink — certainly not the dreck they serve here, though he doubts even the finest of wines could tempt him to obfuscate his better senses — doesn’t dance, doesn’t take anyone home even on the rare occasion there’s someone in this pub of bearable taste (except the one time, and that was more a case study than a surrender to gratification). Essentially, he sits at his table and steals the heat and the barkeeps are wise enough to let him.

He’s mused over the exact verbiage of this tome for days. Alchemical equations are the one thing that still occasionally stump him, and Tom is eager to rectify that.

He puts quill to parchment. It bleeds when he comes up short of words. He holds infinitesimally tighter, and the ink spreads like tendrils imagined in the dark; the sort of amorphous shapes that appear on the ceiling when all the lights have gone out. He stares. He lets the shapes form, but finds nothing informative in them, and so sets his quill down and watches leaves fall from the chestnut tree splitting open the sidewalk outside.

Cold air wafts in when the door groans open. There’s the click of dress shoes and a murmur at the bar, followed by a tumbler shaking and a glass being poured.

“Oh, no — er — that one always sits alone,” he hears the barkeep say to the dress shoes.

Tom refrains from turning his head.

 “Doesn’t like to be bothered,” he adds, dress shoes skidded to a halt.

A pause. A sense of eyes on him Tom elects to ignore.

“I know.”

There’s a smile in that voice. He remembers it. The teeth of it, the lips, the tongue that sometimes darts between them.

It must be very late.

He’ll look up and realise there are things other than wine that can addle a person. Too many books, not enough books, not enough sleep, a day gone by without a single spell cast, an itch for control, wanting and not having, and,

you, after all this time.

The lattermost two have for a long time been the same.

Your hair is different than it was before, your figure presented in the rarity of your own clothes when he’s so accustomed to your school robes, but it would be rather bizarre if you ever wore those again. You’re too modern for muggle and magical alike — trousers and a formal shirt, hair somewhere between kempt and wind-blown, the aforementioned nice shoes Scourgified to a squeaky black as you come closer. (You’re coming closer. What a revelation.) A drink floats beside you, your fingers undulating softly to maintain the charm.

“You,” he says, like he doesn’t remember.

You grin. “Me. Sharp as ever, Tom. You look it too.”

The nebulous shape of acumen returns to him and it’s disarming enough to be disarmed — on principle it should not be occurring — but you also should not be here.

He stands. You present your hand as if practised for the proper convention of having it taken, October-cold gloves soft when his lips press to one and he wonders if the skin beneath is softer, or if callouses mar the mounts of your palm. He lingers as the thought does. (What are you up to now? Are you tried by new labours like he is; your knuckles hard from the work? Would they feel voltaic to touch as they once did?)

“Sit, please.” 

Increments of re-introduction tie him to the tangible instead of unfurling from the knots of why you’re here or how you’re here, which cannot possibly be tethered to reality because for all the hours he’s been with you, none in the last three years have happened awake.

There are the dark shapes on his ceiling again. The scraps won’t last. He’ll need to know the details. 

You’ll want to tell.

You take a seat in the chair he pushes out for you, glass sinking onto the table where the condensation immediately shades a ring into the wood. “This wasn’t where I’d expected to find you, you know.”

“No?” Tom asks, returning to his seat, “I wasn’t expecting you to find me anywhere, so the surprise is mutual.”

“I’d have written to warn you, but it was easier to find the places you frequent than the one you live in — wouldn’t know how to get my owl to you directly, you know — and I’m sure that’s not an accident.”

“I feel strangely as though I’m being accused of something.”

“Mm. Your guilty conscience.”

He smiles reflexively. Old habits. “I’m sure.”

You smile too, at least. “You know, when we left school, I gave it — what — two years before you were the youngest Minister of Magic in British history?”

“Then I’ve disappointed you.”

“No, I think I knew you well enough once to know even now that the fact that you aren’t only means you have something better in mind. I’ll have to trust your judgement, because I can’t imagine what that could possibly be.” You take a sip of your drink, twirling your straw as you do. “Come to think of it, though, brooding over a book in an establishment you patronise enough to have all the workers trained to leave you alone despite not even knowing your name is… very Tom.” 

“That one appears to have done a poor job,” he says with a glance at the barkeep. “You’re over here disrupting me. I think I’ll rescind my tip.”

“Still funny, too.”

“Still indecorous.”

“Still saying things like indecorous. You’d better tip, Riddle.”

“Be good company and I might.”

“Oh, I see. I need to prove that I’m a worthy disruption.”

“I was reading a very good book.”

The book was rubbish. His moleskin has roughly four lines of notes jotted on its open page, which he closes promptly, and hopes it doesn’t seem done with too much gravity. Your eyes like to wander, he recalls. Your hands, absentmindedly, too.

Torturous creature you are.

“I missed you,” you say, like you’ve never had the good sense of holding your tongue, or armouring your heart, or not feeding an animal without first seeing the size of its teeth. 

You are so withholding with your work, and so generous with yourself. He wishes you wouldn’t offer him so much. He’s never had the kindness not to take everything you let him.

“You missed me,” he prompts, already asking for more. 

“I missed disrupting you. No one else lets me — or calls me indecorous, and still lets me.”

“You were quite studious, in case you’ve forgotten. More literate than disruptive.”

You raise a brow. “My, I’ve never had a man call me literate before, and I’ve been courted plenty. I’m swooning.”

(Note: you’ve been courted plenty?)

“Inventive, then? Erudite?”

“Do go on.”

“I shouldn’t. I believe you were describing the manner in which you missed me.”

“It was just the one, unfortunately.”

“Why did you find me?”

This generates pause, at least, and that intrigues him.

Addendum: “Why now?”

“I was around,” you decide on, “and I haven’t been in a long time.”

You wanted to continue your studies after Hogwarts. He thinks he remembers that conversation; academics were the topic of most of your discussions, after all. Anything deeper was incidental, crumbs scraped off a plate at the end of a meal.

“Where did you go?”

You drink again. “Portugal, after school. But that was — it’s a bit of a story. I ended up at an academy in Iceland doing a few very boring, ultimately useless courses on spell creation and wandlore. Will you be horrible if I tell you I’m here because I left in the middle of term? Because then I didn’t tell you.”

“I suppose I knew you well enough once to know even now you wouldn’t have left unless you had something better in mind.”

You beam at him, and he acknowledges briefly that it feels like a reward the same way solving a problem does.

“I found you —” (You are far too generous; the question was already answered and here you are offering more) — “because I considered everyone I wanted to see again and you were the first person I thought of. I don’t like to deny myself the little things.”

“No,” he says, “you don’t.”

Rain trickles down the window, and the cool dark of autumn obscures half of your face. He wishes it didn’t, and that’s bizarre.

“I’ll be doing a course in Occlumency in Norway in the new year.”

Oh?

“I know you were always quite good at Legilimency, so don’t start,” you add hastily.

He itches not to smile. It is truth and not arrogance to say that quite good is an understatement.

“I didn’t know you had an interest.”

You scoff. “Please, everyone has an interest. It’s just hopeless for most of us, and painful to be hopeful to learn something so hopeless.”

“Well-put. A terrible ego punch for you, I’m sure.”

“It was. Until I tried Occlumency and realised I’m quite good at that, and then the wound closed a bit.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re honing the skill?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“And — you’re here seeking a teacher?”

“Oh, stop. I told you why I’m here. But if you’re — oh!” You frown suddenly. “Didn’t you say that you were going to apply for DADA after graduation?”

Ah, that. “Denied, unfortunately.”

“Seriously? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m too young.”

That and the matter of Albus Dumbledore and the air that is ceaselessly wasted on his breath.

“Oh, please; half the staff are over eighty, I imagine it might be nice to have a professor who doesn’t forget to grade their assignments every other week. You were Head Boy! That’s completely mad.”

“You’ll have to write an owl.”

“I could.” And you sigh, and stir your half-empty drink of what must be less than ten percent alcohol and ninety percent spice and apple. “Would you… would you mind, though? If your schedule isn’t terribly busy?”

“Teaching you?”

“Helping me with something I’m already good at,” you correct, “as an excuse for me not to go back to a very frilly muggle hotel by myself after coming all this way to find you.”

He echoes the part of that sentence that matters least — your invitation is all that counts, but he has no wish to make that obvious when you’ve always done this, always tugged on a string you seem unaware even exists. “Frilly muggle hotel?”

“What? I used to go to them when I was on holiday. Didn’t I tell you that?”

No. He would have clung onto it if you had. He didn’t even know you had the money for things like that after two wars, but then maybe that was something new. How would you have attained it while in school, though? An untimely familial demise? A wealthy suitor? You wore no ring. You came back to him.

Illegible signs for him to attempt to read.

“Well?” you ask, pulling two sickles from your pocket and leaving them on the table.

His answer is yes, naturally. 

It’s absurd you even feel the need to ask; your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, because of the small thing you were, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose. You didn’t stumble upon each other in the aisles of a shop after years gone by, pressured into empty conversation for the courtesy of it. You missed him, so you found him — and Tom thinks he’s been missed before, in some vague sense by some people blurred long ago by unimportance, but — found? He reconciles not finding you himself by assuring he will make something of this.

“For a worthy distraction,” he says, putting down two sickles to match.

You grin, and he takes your arm again as you thank the barkeep and depart into the slow drizzle of the street.

You tell him of Ponte de Lima and the rootless craters of Myvatn, of old cathedral spires and covens masked as monasteries. You detail the scenery like you detailed your essays in school, and it makes the ennui of London marginally better — that you are walking it with him, talking about beautiful things, in a night dark enough he might not notice the usual absence of them here.

And then, as you step onto busier streets, you say you missed this too, and he is jealous beyond sense of the architectural blemish of Piccadilly Circus.

He glances away from you and the invisible path to your hotel for the first time since issuing Wizarding London for Muggle.

It’s a crowded tableau. The post-war square is spangled with flashbulb advertisements and buskers and skinny double buses orbiting Eros atop his fountain. People skip from hotel bars and teahouses in trench coats and long skirts. Someone outside the Trocadero looks dressed for burlesque. Storefront letters hiccup light through power abscesses and imminent bursts, and the lights… The lights herald cigarettes and chewing gum and Coca Cola and performances at the theatres on Coventry Street. 

You light up with them, sunlight parallel pseudostars. Tom feels half-blinded. He isn’t sure by which.

“You missed London?” he asks. It’s hard to hide in his tone how much he cannot imagine a reason why. All of the things you described in your travels sound better than this.

“I missed home.”

He possesses only a theoretical understanding of what that must feel like. The word itself is a thing long gone. There was Hogwarts, but it was never his.

“Well — I miss this,” you amend, “which I never remembered being like this, and maybe it wasn’t. All I saw in anything growing up was shelter. I’d look at buildings and imagine which ones could survive bombs, and which ones would shatter under gunfire. Since coming back, I’ve liked seeing it a different way. The lights, the people — The Criterion; they’ve a section called the Witches Cauldron, which is very risqué. You would hate it.”

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Risqué?"

“Mhm. Women with skirts over the thighs, men with skirts over the thighs, music with questionable lyrics, and really, borderline indecent comedy. But I think that's the heart of muggle theatre — the good kind, anyway."

“So I was right in calling you indecorous.”

“Hardly. I’m an observer.”

“Upstanding, then.”

You tug playfully at his sleeve. “Saintly.”

“You might revisit those churches in Portugal.”

“And you might learn to let something go. We’re here.”

He looks up at the little dais of steps before the big arch of your hotel door, stones cracked here and there, cigarette stubs smushed at his feet, and back at you, an inviting smile on your face.

“Come on.” You take his arm again and guide him in.

The lobby is all dark wood carved like lace. Fretwork in the moulding, fretwork at the counters, fretwork in the thick columns bolstering the mezzanine; and there, tables with seats turned to face the sound of music, the dulcet flicker of candlelight over plates of food that smell sweet for the hour. As you lead him up the stairs, he gives you a look that warns this was not what he was promised, but you shush him and he abides.

You are lucky for his intrigue. You are lucky for the dullness of his teeth at the maw of his hunger. He doesn’t pretend to understand — he thinks he likes not understanding.

The music gets louder. He can see the entire mezzanine from the top of the stairs; a woman is singing, a man is playing saxophone, the tables are set for dessert, and the plates are almost all licked clean.

You’re watching with the flicker of candles caught in your eyes now, grip imperceptibly tighter on his arm as you lean in to whisper. “There’s something new every night. Yesterday there was the most beautiful pianist. And they served this lemon pudding  — tonight I think it’s… torte? It’s chocolate, at least. It smells amazing.”

“Did you want to stay?”

He did not. It was a courtesy question.

“Just for a song?” you ask, rather more sheepish than suits you.

Just for a song, then.

You press against his shoulder. You’re warm, despite the cold walk.

“Do you ever practise on them?" he asks.

“Legilimency?” You shake your head. “I usually refrain from digging into the thoughts of innocent muggles.”

He raises a brow. “And the bad muggles?"

“I should like to do worse to the bad muggles."

He smiles. You smile too, though you resist it for a moment. “You're as wretched as you were in school."

“Wretched, was I? And what would I have found, if I'd sought out your thoughts back then?"

You laugh, face canted toward the performance. “Thoughts of Os on every O.W.L, what Slughorn meant by a semi-formal dress code, how to get into the kitchens at night..." You turn to him again. “And you? Do I dare ask what I would have found in yours?"

“Hm. Secrets.”

“Damn you.”

The saxophone swells before the last note fizzles out, the contralto timbre of the woman’s voice washed out by a small round of applause. You clap with the other guests, glance over at Tom, frown, take his hands and force them together. He doesn’t resist, but he certainly doesn’t aid the motion. His hands are instead idly patted together, palms hitting the sleeves of his coat and making for a very poor ovation. 

You give up without much effort, fingers looping beneath one of his cuffs to lead him back to the staircase. 

“Wretched,” you repeat.

You search your coat pocket for your key as you walk up the stairs, remarking the artwork on the walls and evidence of a drunk muggle man who spilled champagne on his way to bed last night — you tell him to watch his step, and he averts the side of the stairs where dark spots pepper the carpet. The place is fine elsewise. You mentioned the risqué of The Criterion and he can see notes of it here, in the late night music and the drinking and a few ogling men among the guests, but it’s nicer on the inside than he’d assumed by the exterior, and you can certainly handle yourself amongst debauchees without wands.

Tom stops when you do. Your room is the furthest at the end of the third floor corridor.

“Welcome,” you say, as the key clicks and the door swings open.

A frilly muggle hotel indeed. You flick a switch and the chandelier ignites, dim but extravagant. You go to light a few additional candles at the dresser and windowsill, clipping floral drapes aside as you do. The bed, a queen, matches the fabric of the drapes, with a thick lace skirt and golden brass rails. There’s a small table and two chairs, plush with cushions that loop through the spine and knot like hair ribbons. You tuck your wand away after the room has been brightened and fix him with a look that says, I told you.

“It’s clean,” is all the opinion he offers.

“Hard to make a mess in two days.”

A rather uncharacteristic thought crosses him. He can imagine ways which would not be so difficult.

“Of course.”

“Did you want anything? I could call for room service. Wine? Chocolate torte?”

“I’m more curious to observe your Occlumency firsthand.”

“Right. I’ve been depriving you.” You sit on the edge of the bed and slip off your coat. “I meant what I said, though; I’m good at it.”

“A battle of wills, then.” And he pulls a chair from the little table by the window, sitting it across from you.

You make a face. “This is why I studied with you and never challenged you to anything.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps… I might have saved myself from the predicament I’m in now.”

“You brought me here.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy the predicament,” he guesses.

You smile. “I do.”

He leans in with his arms at the wooden rests of his chair, fixed on the space between your eyes and then the apples of your cheeks, looking for new scars or freckles or stray eyelashes to cast wishes on. Mostly he wonders what’s underneath. That you have presented him the opportunity, even to wonder, feels almost like a wish granted. And Tom is not the sort of man to make them.

But here you are, and the room is quiet, and your gloves sound soft rolling off your fingers, and he should take a chance on one now. He should be greedy. He should want for more.

“Shall I count to three?”

He does. He does want more.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you say, and he can see you steel yourself before his soft surge into your mind.

Your resistance is like a cliffside. His effort is a wave, lapping at the rocks, seeking erosion. It’ll come. It never hasn’t.

You stay there in the cracks between the rocks, not pushing against him as much as shielding yourself from him. He leans an inch further from his chair and inclines his head. Your mouth falls open, breath caught on the sharp edge of his next intrusion. He eases forward but you only hold stronger. An impasse is reached — immovable object and unstoppable force.

Tom’s mouth curves at the corners, patient, persistent and proud. The chase is half of it. Your capability is the other.

“How did you discover your gift?" he asks.

“Don't distract me," you answer, and the softness tells him it’s an exertion for you to speak through this.

Tom nods, though distraction suddenly seems a tempting venture. If he pushes otherwise it will be painful.

For a while he just searches — between the old moss atop the cliff, the space where water strikes and memories propagate in verdant clusters, little runnels in the stone to keep little thoughts. He can see the outlines of those moments you’d described to him on your walk, but nothing deeper, nothing untouched. The abacus on either side of a Portuguese church but no hint of the nave or the apse. The flat horizon of Myvatn lake but none of the pseudocraters.

And still the walls stand, and the wave trickles through the runnels only to feed the moss.

You’re good. He wants to break you. He wants to be gentle. He wants to know if there is a way to do both.

Yes, he thinks there is.

Tom inches his chair closer. There’s perhaps an arm's length between your knees and his, and your expression flickers as you glance at the way it shrinks. A forearm, now. A ruler. Nothing at all, if you look long enough, think about how easy it would be for the space to vanish altogether. And he is thinking about it.

Your eyes dart back to his and he glides through the first crevice of your confusion he can find. A second’s glimpse is all he gets — words on an image of the skin unclad at his wrists, like words on the storefronts of Piccadilly Circus, they spell his name. There’s the cadence of a question. He resists the urge to sink back in his seat in honest pride; that the first thought he’s carved out of you is of his hands and sudden curiosity.

Perfectly innocuous, he rolls his sleeves to his elbows. There’s a quick twitch at your mouth.

“Do you know,” he says, searching again, “there’s something in particular I want to find.”

You indulge him carefully. You must anticipate a trick. “What’s that?”

“The moment you first missed me.”

It is a hard thing to be reminded of a moment and not draw it immediately to the surface. He can see on your face that you have to push the misbehaved thing down with force. But that’s only evidence that it exists, that it’s true, and he must see it like it’s his own. 

Is your missing him not his, in some way? Is his missing you not yours?

“I wonder if you missed me over quill and parchment,” he says, “in old libraries, at a café in Paris… Did you remember me by certain colours? By times of day? Or was it —”

There.

It’s the Athenaeum of Madrid, under the ceiling of the assembly hall. You’re craning your neck to admire the art, and you’re thinking how much he would have liked a place like that.

And then he’s back in the frilly hotel, and your face is in something like a gasp. You’ve swallowed it down, batted him away, but he can see it even from the outside; the curiosity is still there despite. The question unposed but sitting neatly on your tongue ready to be asked.

Tom smiles. “I didn’t know you went to Spain.”

“Well, I thought I might leave something for you to learn instead of be told.”

“Ah, so you let me in?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you?”

You glance involuntarily at the gap between you. Has it shrunk again? He can note the details of the face he’s missed without trying.

“Will you let me in?” he murmurs.

“I don’t think they teach this method of distraction at school,” you say softly, and now the words have been put in the air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifts his chair ever closer. His eyes go to your lips. And he does mean to look away but your mouth quirks the slightest degree upward and he stays there a moment because he was expecting something else.

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been courted before?”

“Plenty,” he recounts.

You lean in. Your knees brush his. You incline your head so your eyes find the path of his, the smile on your face finally full. It’s an error of time that he doesn’t expect it because it must not be an error on his part. “Then you should know to make a greater effort.”

You hold a hand to his cheek, watching the motion as your warm fingers trail from jaw to white collar. And then you pull back; a breeze in the place you sat when you get up. 

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

He recovers quickly, but there’s a lingering heat at his jaw and a curiosity he was faulted to have planted himself — he’s suffering the barest satiation for the million more questions he has. But you missed him, and you invited him here, and you wanted to see him in your mind, so he must wonder if you meant to plant some curiosity too.

“And tomorrow?” he finally asks.

There’s rummaging in one of the cupboards, the twist of cap from its tube, and the quick rush of the faucet before your face peers out from the bathroom’s thick archway, still with that smile.

You flick the light on and brush your teeth like he isn’t there. For whatever reason it’s the most disarming thing you may have ever done, and it reminds him that he had considered you torturous like it was something incidental, which means he’d begun the night with only one equation still able to stump him, and ended it with two.

He could sooner solve alchemy (the entire subject) than this.

“I’ll be out,” you say when you’re done, “but you’re welcome to join me.”

“And what might I be joining you in?”

“Tourism.”

“Tourism?” He inches out of his chair, rolling his sleeves back down.

You lean against the bathroom archway and the candlelight makes a sculpture of you. Your silhouette is a blaze tenderly burning the dark.

“It only feels right after years of doing it in other places, don’t you think? Every street I discover something I didn’t notice before.”

Tom looks at the toothbrush fitted in your hand like an unlit cigarette and imagines putting it back like he’d stomp one out, kissing you and tasting apple and cinnamon and mint stuck on the corner of your pretty mouth.

“Well? Is it below you?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Eleven,” you say, and your breath hitches beautifully at your bare collar when he glides into the archway beside you. “Is that all right?”

He brushes the dab of toothpaste away from your lip. “It’s perfect.” 

Your eyes flit down his face, and now it’s him smiling.

He places a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you through dark lashes and a smirk as he mutters your name, a soft remembrance, a rekindled wanting. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

The noise outside his flat that night is trivial. He has not for a long time sat awake at night watching the sky instead of the shapes on his ceiling. He has not for a long time thought of you with the tranquil knowledge that he will see you again.

[hdra77]

Ok since this blog is kinda getting alot of attention i'll just make a pinned post about a little bit of myself

---- interested in commissioning me? my art commission page can be found here! i accept payment through ko-fi or paypal! feel free to dm to inquire or if you have questions! :D

!! DISCLAIMER !!

Btw please read this before following my blog!! There would be gore,body horror,dark themes and even some suggestive themes Sometimes but overall i do not post any explicit nsfw here !! (they can be filtered through tags but just putting this here as a heads up)

tags are usually: #cw body horror, #tw body horror #cw gore, #tw gore, #cw suggestive, #tw suggestive

Heyy! i'm Soren!

He/Him

You can call me zarou or dra

I am bilingual but im more comfortable speaking in english (still bad at it actually)

i really like cybercore,webcore,warcore aesthetic it may not look like it right now but expect a whole bunch of techcore designs soon

Oh and i am also a huge fan of astronomy,space and all of that sort. Along with post apocalyptic settings,body horror elements and eldritch beings.

Using my art as PFPs/Banners is okay! As long as you give proper credit! But reuploading my works without my permission or claiming them as your own is NOT okay. I will find you and i will hunt you down and turn you into a helpless flopping fish gasping for air.

Inspirations is ok too!! But please do not directly copy from the original work.

Commissions: open

Art trades: friends/mutuals only

my DNI are basically the general DNI: proshippers,homophobes,etc. you know, the general

my interest varies but i currently hyperfixtate on these fandoms so far:

Rainworld

Nine Sols

Marikinonline4

Animator vs Animation/Animation vs Minecraft

Warrior cats

My dms here are also open so feel free to send me a message! (No weird dms or you get instant block)

Im busy and i dont check discord as frequently but i would be happy to talk to you! I would also be glad to make friends im not intimidating i promise i dont bite totally-

My ask box are always open! Ask me anything basically, my aus, ocs, pretty much anything. You can also send some requests but they will take a gajillion years to finish but i promise ill get them done soon!

My socials:

Twitter - HINDRANCE77 (!! page contains some suggestive themes !!)

Youtube - HINDRANCE77

Tumblr - hdra77 (you are literally here right now)

Ko-fi - HINDRANCE77

My tags:

#hdra7shitposts - yes, shitposts

#fishdoesart - all my art comes here

#fishdoesdoodles - random doodles and some occasional shitposting, mostly on ms paint

#fishdoesrequests - all my art requests comes here, so far this is where you find my ship requests (still open for now btw)

#wips - wips

#fishbites.txt - ramblings

#othersart - gifts/fanarts! Sometimes some reblogs

#asks - all of my responses comes here

My other blogs:

@nyaworld-askblog - for the nyaworld au! this blog is story driven but asks for specific characters are always welcome!

@fallowclans-unruly-demise - for a warrior cats clangen blog, still stuck in hiatus void

My Rainworld AU tags:

#rw voided au - simple AU about iterators called voideds who drains void fluids out of other iterators, theres also some rot infection going on too

#rw disarray au/SYSTEM FAILURE - a virus in Lttm's code had created a fatal error in her system which caused her to slowly spiral into insanity as she would slowly loosen her grip onto reality, claiming that she had found the solution to their problem..but was it really the answer all along?

#rw nyaworld au - joke au about the entire rainworld cast taking place in the 2000's this one is purely just for nostalgia purposes

#into the sigverse - technically considered an au. this is just a silly little askblog about different versions of NSH interacting because for some reason they can now magically interact with different alternate universe versions of themselves. ocs being used to interact is allowed to!! anyone can use this tag however they please you don't have to send me asks to be a part of the sigverse

My Rainworld Oc tags:

#Sector7c - official oc local group tag!

#7c dystopian arbitrary

#7c golden life

#rw ocs

#ocs

-- still WIP --

[flightfoot]

I have scattered thoughts about Nino, Alya, and the intersection of racism/misogyny.For example, Alya may receive more criticism not only for racism but also for misogyny. We support women's mistakes! Except not and especially not if it's a black woman.

(And I can't help but notice how many of those criticisms are aimed at Alya not fitting the Good Black Friend™ trope )

But now, with what you said about how Nino's criticism in that episode isn't that harsh, I'm VERY curious about the amount of Adrino vs alyanette fics taking into account the main focus.By that I mean that both couples, if they appear in the same fic, are treated equally and not that it is one of the cases of "we went back to lesbian women because I want to see two men kissing." (This is a VERY common problem in several fandoms where the misogyny that many m/m fics usually imply and the erasure and reduction of F/f couples have been pointed out)

Oh yeah, most of the heavy criticism and outright demonization of Alya comes down to her supposedly being a "bad friend" to Marinette... because she dares to "ask why Marinette doesn't like someone" and "asks for evidence that the person is really as bad as her friend thinks" instead of immediately believing that her friend is 100% correct in her assessment on nothing but her word and committing herself to doing whatever her friend wants in order to take down the other person.

There's this expectation that "being a good friend" when it comes to Alya means that she has to give up all notion of personal judgement or perspective. Heck, looking at the uproar over Rocketear when Alya told Nino that she's still helping Ladybug, or even earlier with Optigami when she decided to get the Turtle Miraculous for Nino because she thought it might be useful, she gets hefty criticism anytime she does anything without Marinette's express approval, no matter what her personal issues or perspective.

Actually the babysitting issue is probably the most clear-cut illustration of this. Alya volunteers to babysit Manon multiple times so that her friend can spend time with her crush, with Marinette even tricking Alya into babysitting Manon for her once so she could do an interview? Barely a peep of criticism against Marinette. Marinette babysits Chris ONE TIME so Alya and Nino can go on a date? Alya pressuring Marinette to babysit for her without pay and behind her parents' back becomes a common recurring trope.

(Note: I'm aware that Marinette's slated to babysit two more times for Alya during the series, in Timetagger and Simple Man. But in the first instance she cancels because she's busy, and in the second one she dumps the kids on her grandpa so she can help with Adrien's photoshoot, so I'm not counting them).

If Marinette needs someone to cover for her babysitting duty, then Alya's merely doing the duty of a good friend by taking on the responsibility for her. While if Marinette ever covers for Alya, she's being taken advantage of by a toxic friend.

Considering that the main criticisms of the "Black Best Friend" trope boil down to how it makes the black character an accessory to the white (well, in this case Marinette's only half-white) character, whose main purpose is to serve and support the other character, without having any internal world of their own? Yeah, I'd say that Alya's major demonization almost always comes down to her violating that role, even slightly.

Oh yeah, Adrino vs. Alyanette fics. Weirdly enough, there appear to be more fics tagged with Alyanette than Adrino (note: I'm gonna keep on all my usual filters for this search, I ain't seeing saltfics if I can help it). I've got 360 Adrino fics, but 560 Alyanette fics.

Now, in my personal experience, very few fics have equal focus for both pairings when they're together. They normally favor one or the other, with one being the main focus, and the other being more of a "pair the spares" situation. I'm also gonna skip the ones where it's one happy poly pile.

So here's the tag I ended up with, when I factored in all my usual exclusions and also included Adrino and Alyanette and excluded Alya/Nino/Marinette/Adrien and Lovesquare.

Of these 33 fics, 11 appear to be Adrino-centric, 6 appear to be Alyanette centric, and the rest I dunno. So I'd say Adrino gets a little more attention, especially since its fics tend to be a lot longer than the Alyanette ones.

Honestly though, I will TAKE Alyanette being "pair the spares" for Adrino a lot of the time, it's a heck of a lot better to make Alyanette and Adrino Ship Mates than to inflict Die For Our Ship on one of the pairs.

[elias-magnussy]

Hello! Welcome to my weblog. I'm Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, here to answer any queries you might have about my Institute, the supernatural or my personal character.

FAQ:

-Can I get a raise?

When you stop spending all your time on the internet and do some actual work instead of looking at my blog, yes.

-Do you take interns?

We are always in need of interns. They're so easy to lose.....

-What happened to [First Name] [Last Name]?

I don't know. Check our obituary.

-What happened to [Evil Object] and can I take it home?

No. It's locked away for a reason.

-Will you ever free the Archival Staff?

No. They are staying there to be punished for their crimes.

-What are the crimes?

Asking too many questions.

-I've got [Any legal query involving Elias Bouchard]

Talk to my lawyer. I assure you, you'll want to speak to him first.

-I've got [Any legal query involving the Institute being responsible for members of your family or friends being eaten]

I don't care.

-Can we get a cat in Library?

Mmmh okay.

-Can we get a cat in Artefact Storage?

It will die.

-Can we get a cat in the Archives?

Oh boy, I am not dealing with that.

-What about Michael?

I can't properly put into words just how vague of a question that is.

-Are you ever gonna install an accessibility ramp?

I don't want to be called ableist because I killed disabled people. If you want to die under horrible circumstances, well... I don't know? Ask a good friend or move to Australia. Just get off my lawn before you do it.

-What are those earrings from?

Claire's

-Your employee bit me/Tim Stoker seduced me/your Archivist shot me in the face/your Archivist is in my dreams/anything else regarding the bad behavior of my employees

Not my business, take it up with them.

-What about [supernatural entity that features in one of your statements]?

Really? I don't care about what my people are doing to you, and you think I control these freaks?

-I am being haunted and I am afraid I'm going to be hurt.

Not my business yet, you have to get traumatised first.

-What happened to your nose?

Don't trust gingers, they're the spawn of the Devil.

Ooc rules/

Okay this this is going to be. A slightly covertly villainous, although still very polite, jonah!elias. But guys i have so many headcanons.

Sfw stuff is obviously encouraged as is flirting or nsfw although Elias might react by rebiffing you. Hey, I'm up for it, don't hate the game hate the player and get yourself some more rizzarooni. Any in universe ships are welcome too!

In universe hate is welcome but please stay on track and only bring up stuff he did. No baseless "i want to hit you with many hammers" that's the thing i'm sensitive about guys please

Any interaction from anyone including non rp blogs is very welcome, asks reblogs, feel free to hop into my posts... Yeah

Apologies for delays in responding to stuff, it is never in character my brain just has the processing power of a magnavox odyssey (and i get. stressed.)

Asks are tagged with #asks

Longer conversations are tagged with #rp chain

Everything is tagged with #tma rp

More outwards manipulation is tagged with #tw manipulation

But I'll have to issue a general gaslighting warning for the whole blog, Elias is gonna... Elias...

#suggestive and #nsfw are tagged as well

#elias does a posting: original posts

Tagging ships for filtering purposes

My main is @klm-zoflorr and I have another rp blog, @ghosts-of-wars-past (melanie king)

[kmomof4]

A Scoundrel... Or a Gentleman? Ch. 2

We are back with a new chapter!! Y'all!!!!! I am BLOWN AWAY by your enthusiasm for this fic!!!! Thank you all so very VERY much!!!! I hope you enjoy this new chapter and let me know what you think!!!

Thank you again to @jrob64 for her beta services and to @hollyethecurious and @winterbaby89 for listening to me whine. And I can't forget @motherkatereloyshipper for her beautiful artwork she did for the fic!!! Thank you all, ladies!!!

Chapter summary: Four years after Liam's death and Killian runs away to India, Emma and Killian both arrive in London for the new social season.

Words: Approx 7800 of approx 59,5k

Rating: M (smut in later chs)

Tags: Regency Romance, Inspired by Francesca Bridgerton's Story, Smut in Later Chs.

On ao3 Current ch / From the beginning

On Tumblr Prologue

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615 @donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings @booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza @djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779 @kymbersmith-90

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

4yrs. later

It had been too long. Killian knew that. Four years in India. But, according to the letters his mother religiously sent, everything was fine back home. Emma excelled in the running of the earldom, so there was nothing to feel guilty about for staying away so long. 

But he couldn’t stay away forever. When he’d come to India four years before - oh, hell, let’s be honest. When he’d run away to India four years before - it was with no more purpose than to get away from Emma. He couldn’t be near her. With her complete ignorance of his feelings for her, it wasn’t necessarily better for him to put eight thousand miles between them, but it was certainly easier. But once he arrived, to his great surprise, he found another purpose. He could see now why Liam had taken his seat in Parliament so seriously. When he arrived four years ago, he’d only had a name of a Royal Navy buddy who’d moved to Madras three years earlier. But within a month, he’d been appointed to a governmental post and was making decisions that actually mattered. It had given him a new purpose and a new outlook on life. Of course, it did nothing to curb his rakish tendencies, but over the years it had given him a sense of balance. It had given him time to actually make something of himself. And now… now that he was used to being addressed as Kilmartin - without looking over his shoulder for his beloved brother - it was time to actually return home and take up the duties of the earl.

He’d have to face her, of course. Maybe four years was enough time away from her that his heart could handle the rigors of being in close proximity with the one he loved. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he no longer loved her. He was quite sure he’d love her until the day he departed this earth. But maybe now - with the grief no longer so raw - maybe now he could be Emma’s friend, as she so ardently desired in those dark days after Liam’s death. 

Either way, he was glad it would be March when he disembarked. Too early for Emma to have arrived in London for the season. Because honestly, there was truly nothing more frightening - not war, not an Indian tiger - than facing Emma Nolan Jones.

Decision made, he instructed a quite relieved Smee to book them passage on the Princess Amelia. He was going home.

~*~*~

Emma wanted a baby.

It wasn’t a new desire, but it had rather snuck up on her and it was only now that she could actually say it… out loud… to herself. Or not exactly say it, but at least think it… out loud… to herself. In a manner of speaking. Pun not intended.

It had begun innocently enough. A pang in her heart when she read a missive from her sister-in-law Mary Margaret, married to her eldest brother David, telling her all about their son, Leo’s latest escapades. He was nearly three and already giving them fits.

Then when her elder sister, Regina, descended upon Kilmartin Estate in Scotland with her brood of three - Richard age eight, Roland age five, and little Rebekah only eighteen months - she’d been amazed at how the Locksley children transformed Kilmartin. There was noise, and laughter, that had been sorely lacking for years. Likely since Liam and Killian were boys.

When they left, it was quiet. Not peaceful. Just silent. 

And Emma was changed.

Now, when she saw a nursemaid pushing a pram, her heart ached. If she saw a rabbit cross a path, she missed a small someone beside her to point it out to. When she visited her family in London, and all her nieces and nephews finally left for the evening, she lay in her bed and realized that if she didn’t do something to change it, her life never would change. She’d live this life and eventually die. 

Alone. 

Not unhappy - her life was far too full and enjoyable for that - but alone. In the four years that Liam and Killian had been gone, she’d grown into her role as Countess Kilmartin, the sole caretaker of the holdings and land. Killian had never married after leaving for India, so she had retained all her duties as Countess. He’d left instructions for her to run the earldom as she saw fit and hadn’t interfered since. It was a precious gift that Killian had given her. She realized that now, even if it took her a long time to forgive him for leaving her in the first place. It gave her a purpose. A goal. A reason to stop staring at the ceiling. 

She had friends and a wonderful family, both the Nolan and Jones sides, but the only thing missing, the one thing that would make her truly happy, was a baby. Which meant, of course, that she’d have to remarry. 

Emma sighed as she considered it. It seemed a bit strange to imagine herself married to anyone but Liam. Potentially bearing a child that wouldn’t look like him. But if she wanted a baby, there was really no way around it. Even four years later, her wardrobe still consisted mostly of the grays and lavenders of half-mourning. She was going to need a whole new wardrobe for the approaching season if she was going to put herself on the marriage mart. She’d buy green, to match her eyes. She’d buy blue, pink, and yellow, her favorite color. She might even buy - she shivered in anticipation just thinking about it - red.

The decision was made. She’d go down to London a month early and prepare to find herself a husband.

And that was that.

~*~*~

It was absolutely frigid. And it was entirely her fault. She’d forgotten to send notice that she’d be arriving early for the London season, so when she arrived at Kilmartin House, she found only the skeleton crew of staff and the stores of coal and candles perilously low.

She’d been assured that all would be rectified on the morrow, once the housekeeper and butler made a mad dash to Bond St, but for now, she shivered under the blankets on her bed. The housekeeper had offered to collect all the coal she could find for Emma’s bedchamber, but Countess or no, she wasn’t so high and mighty that she’d condemn the staff to a freezing night just so she could be comfortable. And anyway, the room was so large, it was always difficult to heat properly unless the rest of the house was warm as well.

The library. The library was small enough and with the door closed, a fire in the grate would keep the room quite cozy indeed. Plus there was a small settee she could lay on. She climbed out of bed and wrapped her robe around herself before peeking out into the quiet hallway. 

She tiptoed down the hall and then the stairs, the heavy wool socks she wore slipping on the polished surface. She opened the door to the library and stifled a scream. A man stood in front of a cheery fire, warming his hands. Her head darted left and right, searching for anything she might use as a weapon when the man turned. Emma gasped.

“Killian?”

~*~*~

He hadn’t known she was in London. He hadn’t even considered she might be in London. Dammit, what was she doing in London? Not that it would have made any difference in whether he came back or not, but he at least might have been prepared. Prepared to be the charming and irredeemable rake she knew him to be.

But no. Here he was just gaping at her, trying desperately not to notice she wore nothing more than a sheer red gown and night robe, where he could just see the outline of the curve of her… don’t look, Don’t Look, DON’T LOOK…

“Killian?” she asked again.

“Emma,” he greeted, because he had to say something, “what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” she asked, her whisper a bit more strident this time. “What are you doing here? I’m not the one supposed to be in India.”

Killian shrugged as casually as he could manage it and turned back to the fire. “Thought it was time to come home, was all.”

“Couldn’t you have written? Informing us you were coming?”

He raised an eyebrow sardonically before he replied. “To you?” It was a direct hit and he knew it. He only felt a little dismayed at her hard swallow of guilt. He’d written to her a few times after he left for India, but when it became clear that she wasn’t going to reply, he maintained his correspondence through his mother.

“To anyone.” Her whisper was hushed now and Killian brushed aside the guilt her quiet accusation engendered. “We could have had the house ready for you.”

He shrugged again. “It’s ready enough.”

“Someone could have been here to meet you.”

He couldn’t help the smirk that lifted the corner of his lips. “You’re here.”

She huffed indignantly. “You still could have written. It’s only courteous.”

“Emma,” he said, exasperated. “Do you have any idea how long it takes a letter to get here from India?”

“Five months,” she answered, promptly. “Four, with favorable winds.”

“By the time I decided to come, it wouldn’t have done any good. The letter would have gone out on the same ship I was on.” He paused for a moment. “And does it really matter?”

Now it was Emma’s turn to shrug. “I suppose not.” She smiled gently at him and that damned place behind his ear itched. “It is good to have you back. Your mother will be thrilled.” He turned back to the fire, the better to hide the grim smile on his face.

“Yes,” he murmured, “I’m sure she will be.”

“As am I-I,” she stammered, “of course.”

She didn’t really sound as if she meant her words, but he decided to be a gentleman and not point it out. 

“Are you cold?” he asked, instead.

“No,” she said quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

“You’re lying.”

She shrugged and looked sheepish. “Maybe?”

“For heaven's sake, Emma. If you’re cold, come warm yourself by the fire. I won’t bite.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, in a move to put him firmly back on the solid ground of their relationship four years ago. “Unless you ask me to.”

Emma rolled her eyes as she approached and Killian’s smile became more genuine. After a few moments of companionable silence, Emma spoke.

“You look well.”

“As do you.”

“It’s been a long time.”

He sighed before replying. “It has. Four years.”

He sounded sad to her ears. Regretful almost. Perhaps he was sorry he’d stayed away so long. Perhaps he’d missed her… home, rather. But she couldn’t ask him. Not now. Not here. Not with this tension between them. When they’d parted badly four years ago, they’d both been wounded animals, lashing out at those closest to them, but she had hoped that seeing him again would be easier than this. She’d certainly imagined it enough times. He couldn’t stay away forever. She’d always known there would come a day when he returned, and the reality of what she was experiencing now was the furthest from what she expected when he did. She wanted nothing more than her best friend back.

“So what are your plans?” she asked.

“Beyond getting warm?” he muttered.

She couldn’t help the small smile that touched her lips. “It is indeed chilly for this time of year.”

“I came home because I couldn’t stand the blasted heat anymore,” he said. “And here I am about to perish from the cold.”

“But it will be spring soon,” she tried to placate him.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Where the winds will merely be frigid instead of icy.”

She turned to look at him then. The light from the fire danced across his visage, creating shadows that made his features difficult to decipher. But this close to him, she could see that he had changed, however subtly. He was deeply tanned, of course, scandalously so, and the hair at his temples had just a touch of silver. But beyond that, he held himself differently. The smooth, effortless grace with which he moved was gone and now he seemed rigid. Tight. Like he was preparing himself for a blow.

The corner of her lips twisted into a smirk. “I suppose so. But Miss Blue has assured me the house will be restocked tomorrow. I only just arrived this evening as well, after failing to give notice.”

They were quiet for a few more moments. “So what are you doing here?” he asked again.

She turned to him, surprised. But then realized she’d never answered his initial question.

“I live here.”

“But you don’t usually come down until April.” Her jaw dropped and he realized he’d need to explain how he knew that information. “Mother’s letters were remarkably detailed.”

“I see.” She moved closer to the fire and Killian sighed in agitation. She really didn’t need to be standing so close to him.

“Soooo?” he repeated.

She turned to him again, shocked to see how very close they were now standing. She pulled her robe more closely around herself and took a step away. She wasn’t ready to share her true reasons for coming to London early. Goodness, she’d only just recently admitted them to herself. But he was waiting and she couldn’t just let the question linger between them.

“I felt like it,” she said with a shrug, and with as much haughtiness as she could muster. 

Killian nodded. He was glad she’d stepped away from him, however small the step might be. She was now out of his reach, and that was a very good thing. She was going to have to be the one to establish their boundaries, because there was no way he’d be up to the task. 

They were silent for a few more minutes in front of the grate before he excused himself and adjourned to his bedchamber.

Once he was cocooned in more blankets than he’d ever remembered needing before, sleep was elusive. She was different, he realized. Not in her appearance. She hadn’t changed at all. She was still his beautiful Emma with eyes as green as the jungles of India, porcelain skin, and golden hair that seemed to capture what little sunshine England saw in a year. But inside, she was changed. Killian had always prided himself on being able to read Emma like an open book, and what he saw in her now terrified him.

There was an air of availability surrounding her, as if she had truly moved on from his brother. And the only thing keeping him from reaching out right now and touching her was the physical distance between them and his own conscience.

Four years was obviously not enough time away from Emma for his heart to handle being this close to her again. And he had no idea what he was to do with that knowledge. He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

~*~*~

The next morning, when Killian finally arose, the house was fully back in order, as befit the home of an earl. There was a fire in every grate and a splendid proper English breakfast was prepared - coddled eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast with butter and marmalade, as well as his personal favorite, boiled mackerel. Even if it did make him realize he missed the yogurts and dosas of his Indian morning meal. 

Emma was nowhere to be seen and he realized why when he opened the folded note handed to him by Smee as he sat down to eat. Concerned about the wagging tongues of the ton, Emma had removed herself to her mother’s house at 5 Bruton St, until such time as Alice Jones arrived from Scotland. She did invite him to visit her there, as there was much for them to discuss.

As soon as he finished his quite excellent breakfast, he walked to the dowager viscountess’ house. It felt good to reacquaint himself with the rhythm of London - the sights of the city, the smells of roasted nuts and soot in the air, the sounds of his boots on the street, the shouts of the flower sellers, the clip clop of horses hooves. It was strange, but no more strange than when he’d first arrived in India. It all wove together in a symphony that was uniquely London. It was going to take some getting used to. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a shop along the way. The tan he now sported would take weeks to fade. Maybe months. His mother would be positively scandalized. The thought made a cheeky smirk bloom across his face. He was quite sure he’d never outgrow the enjoyment of scandalizing his mother.

He arrived at Number 5 and climbed the steps to the front door. He was obviously expected because he hadn’t even the chance to rap on the door before it swung open. The dowager viscountess was already in her receiving room, pouring herself tea when he entered the room.

“Killian!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair beneath the window. “How wonderful to see you in London again!”

She greeted him with all the affection she would shower on a wayward son, which, given her very wide definition of “family”, was not at all unexpected. She considered Liam a son, and since he was his brother and such a frequent companion to Liam and Emma, Killian was automatically invited to anything they were invited to. Which, of course, was everything. He took her outstretched hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles.

“Lady Nolan,” he murmured.

She smiled as if she knew all the secrets in the world, and couldn’t wait to share them. “No one does that the way you do,” she said, approvingly.

“One must always take care to practice one’s maneuvers,” he replied, rakish smirk set upon his lips. 

“And I can’t tell you how we ladies of a certain age appreciate you doing so.”

His grin widened. “A certain age being… one and thirty?”

Lady Nolan was the sort of woman who only grew lovelier with age, but the smile she graced him with now made her positively radiant. “You are always welcome in this house, Killian Jones.” His smile turned genuine as he took his seat. “Oh, dear,” she continued, “I do apologize. I suppose I should call you Kilmartin now.”

“Killian is just fine,” he assured her.

“I know it's been four years, but since I haven’t seen you…”

“You may call me anything you wish.” It was strange, and not exactly pleasant, to hear his title on Lady Nolan’s lips. He’d finally become used to it down in India, but here, it was rather unnerving. He didn’t mean to interrupt her, but he truly didn’t want to hear his title coming out of her mouth. 

If she was aware of his discomfort with the conversation, she gave no indication. “Well, if you are to be so accommodating, then I must be as well. Please call me Ruth.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…” he began. And he meant it. This was Lady Nolan, and he could never call her by her Christian name.

“I insist, Killian,” she said, “and I’m sure you’re aware that I almost always get my way.”

He sighed, very much aware of the veracity of that statement. “I don’t know that I could kiss the hand of a Ruth. It seems scandalously intimate.”

“Don’t you dare stop,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“Tongues will wag,” he tried again.

“I’m certain my reputation could withstand it.”

“Ah, but could mine?” he asked.

“You are a scoundrel,” she laughed.

He sat back in his chair, a smile on his face. “It serves me well.”

“Would you care for tea?” she asked, motioning to the pot she’d just been about to pour when he arrived. “Mine has gone cold, I’m sure, but I’ll gladly ring for more.”

“I’d love some.”

She pulled the rope, summoning the butler. “I’m sure you’re spoiled for it now, after four years of tea in India.”

“There’s nothing quite like English tea,” he assured her.

“The quality of the water, do you think?” she asked.

“The quality of the woman pouring,” he replied, a soft smile on his lips.

She laughed, delightedly. “Oh, my lord, you need a wife. Immediately.”

“Oh, really? And why is that?”

“Because you are clearly a danger to every unmarried woman in England.”

“I do hope you are including yourself in that number,” he said, eyebrows waggling.

“Are you flirting with my mother?” a new voice asked.

Killian looked up to see Emma standing in the doorway, looking exquisite in a lavender morning dress, trimmed with remarkably intricate lace that, if he had to guess, probably came from the finest lace maker in France. She was trying to look stern, but the twisting of the corner of her lips belied her countenance. Killian rose and took the hand she offered him, brushing his lips across her knuckles, the same way he’d done with her mother a few minutes earlier.

“Emma,” he began, “I have traveled all over the world, and I can truly say there are very few women with whom I’d rather flirt than your mother.”

“You are expected for dinner this evening, Killian Jones,” Ruth interjected. “And I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

He chuckled as he resumed his seat. “I’d be delighted.”

Emma sat across from the pair. “You’re incorrigible,” she murmured.

Killian flashed her a grin. This was good. They were falling right back into their respective roles. He as the dashing and charming rapscallion, she as the proper lady pretending to scold him. Exactly the way it’d been before Liam died. The night before, he’d been surprised to see her and hadn’t had time to make sure his public persona was firmly in place. And it was of utmost importance that it was in place around Emma, because he could never allow her to see what simmered just below the surface.

“What plans do you have now that you’ve returned?” Ruth asked as a maid arrived with the tea tray.

“My goodness, that was quick,” Killian commented, as Emma prepared his tea. She remembered how he took it - milk, no sugar - and for some reason that pleased him immensely. He took it from her hands and then addressed Ruth’s question. “I’m not sure, actually. I’ve been gone so long, I imagine it will take some time to fully understand what is expected of me in my new role.”

“I’m sure Emma will be invaluable to you in that quarter,” Ruth assured him. Killian’s eyes cut to Emma, who was now pouring her own tea and studiously avoiding his gaze. “No one knows Kilmartin like Emma does,” she continued, pride in every word.

“Of course,” Emma murmured, still not looking at him. “I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can.”

Killian took a sip of his tea before speaking. ���I owe you a debt I could never repay, Emma.” She turned her head sharply toward him, her mouth slightly open in surprise. “For four years you’ve not only been the countess, but the earl as well. In everything but name. I’d never have been able to stay away for so long if the earldom had not been in such capable hands.”

Emma blushed at his praise, which surprised him greatly. In all the years he’d known her, he could count on one hand the number of times her cheeks had turned pink.

“Thank you,” she murmured, before taking a sip of her tea. “It was no difficulty, I assure you.”

“Perhaps, but it is truly appreciated all the same.” He took another sip and sat back as the ladies directed the conversation. 

Soon, Killian found himself telling the ladies about his time in India - his experiences, the atmosphere, the food he ate, the job he had. He left out his romantic exploits, the marauders, and malaria, deciding they weren’t suitable for tea time conversation. He enjoyed himself immensely and realized that yes, it was good to be home.

~*~*~

An hour later, Emma found herself on Killian’s arm as they strolled through Hyde Park. The sun had come out and she’d declared that they simply must take advantage of the lovely weather. Killian, ever the gentleman, offered to accompany her.

“It’s just like old times, isn’t it?” she asked.

“What?” he replied. “Walking through Hyde Park with me, or how you cleverly arranged for me to accompany you?”

A satisfied smirk touched her lips. “Why, both, of course.” They continued to walk in silence for a few moments. “I hope you understand my reasons for leaving ,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want to. I really do enjoy being my own woman and mistress of the house, and moving back under my mother’s roof with Ruby in residence as well, just makes me feel a child again.”

“Would you like me to take up residence elsewhere?” he asked.

“Oh, heavens, no! You’re the earl! Kilmartin House is yours,” she asserted. “Besides, Alice will be here any day, I’m sure. She said she’d be a week behind me, but we both know a week means four days, at most. And as soon as she is here, I’ll move back in.” 

“I’m sure you will survive,” he chuckled.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Of course I will,” she agreed. “It’s just it makes me feel like I’m in my debut season, with all its rules and expectations.”

Killian shrugged. “Well, not all of them, obviously. If that were true, you wouldn’t be out walking with me.”

“True,” she allowed. She subtly bumped his shoulder, an amused smirk on her face. “Especially with you.”

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” He almost sounded indignant, and Emma had to quickly disguise her laugh as a cough.

She cut her eyes over to him, to see his jaw clenched and the small muscle jumping in irritation. Did her statement really bother him so much?

“Come now, Killian,” she tried to appease him. “You didn’t really think your reputation would suddenly become whiter than snow just because you were gone for so long, did you?”

“Emma…”

“Killian, you are a legend. Women still talk about you.”

He looked absolutely shocked at her words, with no small amount of dismay also circulating in his cerulean gaze.

“Not to you, I hope.”

“Oh, to me above all others,” she informed him, haughtily. “I’m the closest family you have here in London and they all want to know when you will be returning. Which, of course, now that you have… let the feeding frenzy begin!” She couldn’t help it, she was feeling quite pleased with herself for apparently striking terror into the heart of her dearest friend. He’d always been known as a dashing rapscallion without a care in the world, and now that he’d arrived home and seemed ready to take up his duties, his rank would undoubtedly make him the catch of the season. 

“Yes, you will have to marry,” she continued, thoroughly enjoying his apparent discomfort, “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

Killian sputtered indignantly. “I’m two and thirty!”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “But as the earl, you need to marry and beget an heir. The mamas will be falling all over themselves trying to introduce you to their whiney and insipid daughters.”

“I feel very afraid.” His resigned but somehow completely expressionless face made her giggle.

“Oh, you should be,” she assured him. “You’re quite fortunate that I told my mother this morning before you arrived that she was not to push Ruby on you. Because she’d do it. In a heartbeat. Not that Ruby is whiney and insipid, but…” she trailed away meaningfully.

“Heaven forbid if any Nolan female was anything less than witty and engaging.” She shot him a look, not entirely sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Hmmmmm,” she mused. “I believe I shall introduce you to…”

“Emma Nolan Jones,” he interrupted, bringing them to a stop near the Serpentine and turning to face her. “You are not to play matchmaker for me. Is that understood?” She opened her mouth to respond but he spoke again before she could get a word out. “And don’t you say that someone has to. I am a grown man and can handle myself when it comes to all that.”

Really, he thought with amusement, she hadn’t changed a bit. Always wanting to manage the people around her. She was quite the open book to him, and that hadn’t changed either.

“Killiannn,” she began, drawing out the final sound so she sounded like a petulant teen rather than the grown woman she was.

“I have been back in town for less than one day. One day,” he repeated, as he led them to a small bench next to the path. “It doesn’t matter that the sun is out, I am cold, I am tired, and not a single thing has been unpacked from my journey. Please give me at least a week before you start planning my wedding.”

“A week then,” she said slyly as she took her seat, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Emma,” he said, warning lacing his tone.

“Oh, very well,” she conceded. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Once you attend your first society function and the mamas are circling like sharks before coming in for the kill, you’ll be begging for my help.”

He shuddered at the image, and the knowledge that she was probably quite correct.

“I’m sure I will,” he placated, with a patronizing smile on his face he knew she’d detest. “And when it happens, I promise that I shall be duly prostrate with apologies and will beseech almighty God that according to your tender mercies, you will not leave me to the sharks of the ton.”

She laughed then and his smile turned genuine. He could always make her laugh, and it brought him far more joy and comfort at the moment than he should have allowed it to.

“It’s good to have you back, Killian.”

“It’s good to be back.” He said the words without thinking, automatically, but as soon as they left his lips, he realized he meant them. It was good to be back. It might be difficult, yes, but it wasn’t any more than what it had been before he left. Her smile was soft and genuine, none of the sly mischievousness that was such a part of her. She really was glad to have him back and that did more to warm his heart than any of their interactions so far. 

She turned toward the Serpentine and focused her attention there, nodding her head absently. He looked in the same direction and couldn’t see anything that might have attracted and held her attention like that. He only saw a rather sour faced nursemaid pushing a pram. 

“What are you looking at?” he asked. She didn’t speak, but continued to nod absently. He wasn’t even sure she realized she was doing it. “Emma?”

She turned to him suddenly, her green eyes bright. “I want a baby.”

“I beg your pardon?” If she had suddenly announced that she planned to run away to America, he could not have been more surprised.

“A baby,” she repeated. “Lots of women want to have children,” she insisted. “Is it truly a surprise that I would as well?”

“W-well,” he stammered, quite at a loss of what to say in response. “I- I don’t suppose so…”

“I’m not getting any younger, either,” she continued. “Why, my mother was on her third child when she was my age.”

“Yes,” he interjected, finally pulling himself together enough to reply to her babbling, “but your mother was also married.”

“Well, of course she was,” she replied. “Why do you think I came down to London early? I’m looking for a husband.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he knew his face reflected that utter and complete surprise.

“Do you have a particular gentleman in mind?”

“Not at the moment, no,” she allowed with a shrug of her shoulders, “but I’d imagine someone suitable would present themselves relatively quickly…” She trailed off and her face looked a bit pensive. He was still reeling from her pronouncement or he might have realized she was as shocked as he was that she’d actually said the words out loud.

“And that’s if I can even conceive in the first place,” she said softly, almost too softly to hear. “It took me two years with Liam, and look how I mucked that up.”

That got his attention. “Emma,” he said fiercely, facing her, “You cannot blame yourself for the miscarriage.”

“Can you imagine,” she said, a watery laugh bursting from her lips that she was helpless to keep inside, “marrying so that I might have a baby and then being unable to actually have one?”

“It happens all the time,” he said softly.

“I know!” she exclaimed. “But it’s my choice. I don’t have to remarry. I’d be able to remain independent, I am well provided for, I wouldn’t have to leave Kilmartin…” but her heart would have this ache for the rest of her life. And she wasn’t sure she could survive that. But was it worth marrying someone simply for the chance of being a mother? Because she certainly wouldn’t be marrying for love. She loved Liam with everything that was in her. One simply did not find two loves like that in a lifetime.

She sighed, and it sounded utterly forlorn to her ears. She was going to marry for a baby. And there was no guarantee she would get one.

“Emma?” 

She didn’t look at him, but sat staring straight ahead, furiously blinking away the tears in her eyes. Killian held out his handkerchief, but she didn’t take it. If she did, the dam would break. There’d be no stopping it.

“I must move on,” she asserted. “Liam has been gone for four years, and I…” She turned to him then and the words stopped. They simply disintegrated. She was caught completely unawares, the kind of shock that makes it hard to breathe.

Of course she knew what Killian looked like. Of course she knew he was handsome. Of course she knew among all the men of her acquaintance, there was no more perfect specimen of manhood than Killian Jones. Her brothers were all handsome men, but even they didn’t compare to Killian. His eyes were the color of a perfect summer sky, the scruff along his jaw had flecks of ginger among the black that matched his hair. His lips were full and lush, and her own dropped open with a small gasp.

“I must go,” she said, leaping up suddenly, hoping and praying that he didn’t notice the breathiness in her voice that was so apparent to her. “I forgot about an appointment with the modiste.”

“Of course,” he agreed, rising with her.

“All of my clothing is in half-mourning colors.” She knew she was rambling, but she had to say something to make the lie convincing. 

Killian frowned in distaste and if she hadn’t been so agitated, it might have made her laugh. “Get blue. And green to match your eyes,” he suggested.

“Yes, yes,” she said, still a bit off balance as she took his offered arm and allowed him to lead her back to Number Five. She had to maintain appearances. She couldn’t possibly allow him to guess what had just transpired on the banks of the Serpentine in her heart and mind.

For when Emma looked at Killian just then, for the very first time, she saw a man. And it scared the very devil out of her.

~*~*~

Emma was never one to sit still, a firm believer in staying busy, that the best course of action was more action. So as soon as she arrived home from her walk with Killian, she found her mother and informed her of her intention to visit the modiste. Immediately. Might as well make truth of her lie as quickly as possible.

Ruth was delighted to join her, of course. She couldn’t hide her joy at the prospect of seeing Emma out of the grays and lavenders of half-mourning. Normally, Emma would have resented shopping with her mother - she was perfectly capable of choosing her own wardrobe after all - but for some reason, the presence of her mother was strangely comforting today.

Emma looked out the window of the carriage as it rolled along towards the exclusive shops of Bond Street.

“Mother?” she asked, before she even realized she intended to speak.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why did you never remarry?”

Surprise colored Ruth’s face, her mouth falling open slightly, her eyes turning suspiciously bright. “That is the first time any of you have asked me that.” Her awe-infused words took Emma aback.

“None of us?” she asked incredulously. “Are you sure?” It seemed impossible. Emma believed her mother, but she couldn’t believe that not one of her five older siblings had ever thought to ask their mother the same question.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’m quite certain. I would have remembered.”

“Yes, of course,” Emma murmured.

Ruth cleared her throat gently. “I don’t know how much you remember - you were very young - but when your father died, it was quite sudden. None of us expected it.” A sad chuckle broke from her lips before she continued. “A bee sting.” Even all these years later, Ruth still sounded surprised when she said the words. “Who would have thought such a strong, vital man would be brought down by something so small. So insignificant.” She paused and pulled out a white handkerchief, holding it close to her mouth as she cleared her throat. “Anyway, it was such a shock.” Then she turned soft and achingly wise eyes on her youngest daughter. “I expect you know better than anyone.”

Emma couldn’t speak and nodded slowly instead.

Ruth took a deep breath, obviously eager to move on from this aspect of the conversation. “Anyway, after Robert was gone, I was just so… stunned. There was no other word for it. I felt as if I was walking in a haze. Barely aware of anything going on around me. I’m not at all certain how I managed that first year. Or even the ones immediately thereafter, for that matter. I couldn’t possibly think of remarriage.”

“I know,” Emma replied, softly. Because, she did.

“And after that… I’m not quite sure why.” She paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I never found someone I wanted to share my life with. Maybe I just loved your father too much. But, you also have to remember, I was in a very different stage of life than you are. I was older, and the mother of six. Your father left our affairs in very good order. I knew we’d never want for anything.”

“Liam left Kilmartin in very good order,” she murmured.

“Of course, he did,” Ruth replied, quickly, reaching over to pat Emma’s hand reassuringly. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

“Of course not.”

“But you do not have children, Emma,” she continued, gently, “and quite a lot of years ahead of you to spend alone, if you do not remarry.”

“I know, I know,” she breathed, a sense of urgency lending a tone of near panic to her words. “It’s just… it’s just…” she repeated.

“It’s just, what, Emma?” her mother asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know…” The words loomed large in her heart and mind and Emma struggled to give them voice. Ruth remained silent, giving her time to bring her racing thoughts and feelings under control. She looked down and spoke to her hands, her words no louder than a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong. If I’m dishonoring Liam. Dishonoring our marriage.”

“There’s nothing wrong with remarrying, if that’s what you want to do, Emma,” Ruth counseled her. “Liam would want you to be happy. What makes you think you’d be dishonoring him or your marriage by remarrying?”

Emma looked up into her mother’s eyes, searching for something, she wasn’t sure what. Perhaps approval, perhaps love, because there was something supremely comforting about looking for something she knew beyond any doubt she’d immediately find.

“I- I know that I’ll never find anything like what I had with Liam,” she stammered. “You don’t find a love like that twice in a lifetime. I’ve accepted that. But, it feels wrong to marry for anything less.”

“I see,” Ruth replied. “Yes, it’s true, you’ll never find anyone like Liam. But,” she continued, “you might find someone who fits you in a different way. Rather like a puzzle piece you didn’t know you were missing.”

Emma looked sharply at her mother. “What did you say?”

“Just now?” she asked. “I said you might find someone who fits you a different way from Liam. Like a puzzle piece you didn’t know was missing.”

Emma was suddenly back to the night Liam died when she and Killian had taken an evening stroll. She remembered thinking that if Liam understood her like no other, then Killian completed her, like a puzzle piece she didn’t know was missing. Was there any possible way that Ruth could have guessed her earlier epiphany about Killian? Emma scrutinized her mother closely, trying hard not to draw her attention from where she sat looking out the window. She had no clue her words had affected Emma so much, so it would behoove her to redirect the conversation.

“I want a baby,” Emma burst out. “That’s why I want to remarry.”

Ruth turned soft eyes on her. “I thought you might.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Why didn’t you ask why I never remarried?” Ruth’s face was utterly serene. No accusation or condemnation in her countenance. Emma shouldn’t have been surprised at the perceptiveness of her mother.

“If you had been either Regina or Ruby, I would have,” Ruth finally answered her question. “But you…” Her smile was soft and nostalgic now, “You were always different. Even as a child you held yourself apart. You needed your independence.”

Emma reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed. “I love you, you know that?”

“Well, I did suspect.”

“Mother!”

Ruth laughed. “Of course I knew it. How could you not love me?” She made a grand sweeping gesture toward herself, her eyes twinkling merrily. “With as wonderful as I clearly am!” They both giggled at the outrageously playful statement. “But truly,” her mother continued once their mutual mirth was under control. “Yes, I know you love me. As I love you. Very, very much.”

Emma’s chagrin showed on her face. “I haven’t told you. Recently anyway.”

“Well, you have been a bit occupied for a while.”

Emma looked down and covered the giggle that wanted to escape with a light cough. “May I ask you another question?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“If I don’t find someone… like the puzzle piece,” she took a gasping breath, “but I did find someone I rather liked, and married him… would that be alright?”

Ruth was silent for a long moment before she answered. “That is something that only you can answer, my love.” The look on her face was full of compassion and Emma felt the tears burning her eyes. “I would never say no, of course. Most of the gentry have marriages exactly like that, and they are perfectly content. But I would hope that my children wouldn’t have that situation as their fate. I would not call it dishonoring exactly to Liam, or to your marriage, but life is too short to settle for a marriage that doesn’t make you deliriously happy. Too short to settle for anything less than a relationship that would complete you. Yes, it will be different than Liam, but I believe you can find it.”

How did she know? How did she know the exact words to say that would bring Killian right back to the front of her mind? Yes, in many ways Killian did complete her, but could she love him? Love him the way she’d loved Liam? It truly didn’t seem possible, but in light of her mother’s words and her own thoughts over the years, perhaps it was worth considering. Even if she wasn’t sure she could live with herself afterward.

~*~*~

After Killian arrived back at Kilmartin House, he shut himself in his room, took off his boots, loosened his cravat, and moved to the window. He looked down to the street to see a nurse holding the hand of a small child. He had no experience with children whatsoever and was quite at a loss to guess the age of the child, but it wasn’t hard to guess that they might be on their way to Hyde Park. He grimaced.

Emma wanted a baby.

He didn’t know why he was surprised. She was a woman. And didn’t all women want to have children? And while he didn’t really think that Emma would pine away for Liam forever, it had never occurred to him that she might desire to remarry, either.

Liam and Emma were always a unit. And while Liam’s death did make it easier to think of one without the other, it was quite different to think of one of them with another.

Then there was the small matter of his skin crawling, his usual reaction to the thought of Emma with another man.

He shuddered. Or was that a shiver? Damn, he hoped it wasn't a shiver.

He supposed he’d have to get used to the idea. Emma wanted a baby. And to have a baby, she’d need a husband. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. If only she’d taken care of that last year. Then it would be over and done with by now. But as it was, he was going to have to watch.

Bloody hell.

He shivered again. Damn. Maybe he was just cold. It was March, after all, and a bloody chilly one, even with a fire in the grate. He pulled his cravat off on account of it feeling suddenly tight. He felt awful. Hot and cold at the same time, and off balance as well. He sat down for a few minutes, but then gave up all pretense of being well, stripped off his clothing and climbed into bed. 

It was going to be a long night.

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Next chapter will be up on Wednesday.

[aliorsboxostuff]

tangerine x gn (or m if you need to gender) reader where the twins take a job & the mission is like to protect/escort reader. love ur work have a great day/night!!

A/N: Y’know I've been thinking of writing a fic like that and hey! You requested anon so here it is! I took the liberty to give Reader a codename (both easier for me to write and for y'all to imagine) And he will be codenamed ‘Wolf’ (Cheesy ik). Now Reader is a bit more cheerful and bright than Tangerine, overall a golden retriever, so we got a grumpy x sunshine on our hands! Enjoy dear anon! <3

Sharp Smile

TANGERINE X M!READER

Tags: Tangerine x male!reader, implied nsfw, described nsfw, Lemon egging on his twin, sexual innuendos, pool table (ever since TGM there's something so sexual abt it idk), dom!Reader, golden-retriever!Reader, meet-cute (maybe?), escort!fic, fluff, fluff and smut

Tangerine and Lemon do yet ANOTHER escort mission after the disaster in Japan, but this time, Tangerine meets a boy too interesting to let him off his leash. 

—

3rd POV

"Who's the bloke anyway? Need’n an escort and all,"

"Well from what the file says, mans an important relative to some mob boss in Belgium. The guys inviting his family over for some gathering' i think? And were tasked with keepin' em' safe,"

"Better not be like that fuckin' white deaths kid again," 

"Nah man, we're only pickin' up the guy from the station, over to a private airway, and off we go in a fancy jet flyin' over the Atlantic Ocean,"

Tangerine huffs, his eyes scanning the crowd as it filters out of the train station. He rubs at the scar on the left of his neck, which finally healed enough for him to not feel self-conscious and wear a turtleneck, especially not around mid-July in America. He and Lemon stand just out of reach from their car, both looking around for their package. 

"Oh! Speak of that devil," Lemon grins, suddenly he whistles loudly. "Oi! Over here!"

The man in question turns. Tangerine felt like an atomic bomb went off in his chest. 

His hair was neatly swept back, a gray suit in place with a dark coat, and a devastating smile as he waves and approaches the twins. As he makes his way closer, Tangerine notices the extra inches he had on him. Not enough to make his neck crane but enough to grow the number of butterflies in Tangerine's stomach. 

"Tangerine and Lemon, right?" He smiles, pointing between the two. 

"That's right mate, pleasure to meet ya'," Lemon shakes his hand. "I'm Lemon," Tangerine spots a sliver of skin with small scars littered on them, he wonders if he could count them all.

"Oh I'm not supposed to tell you guys my real name, right, privacy purposes and all that," He pauses as if recalling something. "My uncle told me my codename is 'Wolf' so just-"

"Yeah, that'll do mate," Lemon nods.

"And you must be…" Wolf extends his hand in front of Tangerine, whose eyes are still glued to the man's perfect structure. Lemon rolls his eyes, elbowing his twin and pretends to cough, finally regaining Tan's focus.

"Right yea- Tangerine," He succeeds with minimal voice cracks.

"Tangerine," Wolf smiles. "Please to meet you,"

"Yeah sure," Tangerine says all too fast. He quickly turns to grab Wolf's luggage and bumps Lemon. "Come on then, I don't wanna waste another fucken' hour in this place,"

Soon enough, the three are flying through the highway in their Range Rover, courtesy of the rich boss that wants nothing less for their relative. Lemon drives while Tangerine sits shotgun, Wolf scrolling through his phone in the back seat. 

Something about the man interests Tangerine; and no it's not just the good looks and the slightly windswept hair from the man's train ride and from when he pulled his head out of the car like a fucking dog until he had to nag at him about his safety and his face dropped and pouted—No it really isn't that. For someone to reach Tangerines radar, they had to pique his interest in a specific way. Usually, he'd go for a man that's a couple of years older than him in age, maybe a gentleman with experience just so he can relish the feeling of being a pillow princess, or a person that's so reserved, so mysterious, he finds the thrill of getting to know them better. That, or his enemies—because he likes taunting them okay?

But Wolf, this man, kid even; judging from the way he's thoroughly engaged in a discussion about Thomas the tank engine with Lemon, there's nothing to be picked apart from him. To put it simply; Wolf is just another work from another rich geezer that's too careful about their precious relatives and has too much time on his hands. 

Tangerine glances at the rearview mirror when Wolf exhausts himself from the animated conversation with Lemon. The man is now looking out the window, his eyes trained on the road. Until he suddenly turned and their eyes met. Wolf smiles. It's bright and warm, and it scares Tangerine a little how sincere it is. Tangerine breaks eye contact, quickly looking out of his own window, cheeks tinted red slightly.

The group stopped for gas, Lemon leaving the two to go use the toilet and buy them snacks. Wolf suddenly peaked from between the front seats. 

"Hey, Tan?" He jumps, suddenly hearing his voice so close to him.

"Fuck- Yeah?" Wolf chuckles.

"Have you ever been to Belgium?" The man asks, tilting his head, his blinding smile in place.

"Sure I've been, was on a mission with Lemon there once,"

"Really? Have you ever been to Bruges then?"

"Uhm, no don't think so," Wolf grins impossibly wider if that was even possible. Tangerine should've brought his sunglasses. 

"From what my uncle told me, it's the most romantic city in Belgium," his eyes glinted slightly. "I think I'd like to take someone there one day,"

"Well whoever that would be one lucky bird,"

"Oh I'm sure he is," Wolf sneaks a wink before he slinks back into his seat, leaving Tangerine into his own spiraling thoughts. A steady red slowly blooms on the merc's cheeks, he quickly looks out the window to see his twin walking back to the car. He sighs in relief.

When they finally arrive at the private runway, Lemon and Tangerine carry Wolf's luggage while the man carries his day bag into the jet. The twin notices the size of the plane, slightly roomier and bigger than a normal private jet. While the exterior is sleek black, the inside is a luxurious beige and white, complemented with accents of mahogany brown on the side of the seats.

"There's a bar at the back, and after that should be the bedroom and bathroom," 

"Bloody hell it's a whole house 'ere," 

Lemon's statement makes Wolf giggle as he sets his bag on one of the seats. "You boys get comfortable, it's a long 9-hour flight," 

The seats were divided into groups of four and two, with a table separating each group. Wolf dropped his bag on one of the fours and so Lemon and Tangerine sat opposite him. The light to buckle in turns on the group braces for take-off. 

It was irrational to have a fear of flight when your literal work was taking heads off of people but Tangerine does, so fuck him. While Lemon took notice of how fast they went on the runway, Tangerine had nowhere to look beside the inside of the plane. He frowns slightly, only to choke when he spots how Wolf was sitting. He doesn't remember the man taking off his coat but it's nowhere near his body, instead, the vest pressed perfectly on broad shoulders and chest, the column of his neck prominent as he rests his head back. The brit swore under his breath, suddenly too keen on looking anywhere but at Wolf.

The captain announces that they are steady in the air and passengers are free to roam. Wolf was the first to stand, eager to leave the sitting room.

Wolf made his way behind the twins and opened a door, leading to the bar. The twins follow, taking in the spacious room with a pool table in the middle, a couch next to it, and a bar on the far end. He slides behind the counter, already scouring the vast choices of alcohol and non-alcohol. "Fancy a drink, boys?" 

"I'll take Scotch," Lemon has already made his way to the island, taking a seat.

"Buboun for me," Tangerine mimics his brother, though he gravitates towards the seat closest to Wolf. The man nods, fishing for the bottles and glasses. 

"Here we are gentlemen, enjoy," He gives Lemon his drink, then Tangerines, placing the glass with a wink before he sips on his. Tangerine had to scoff in order to hide the annoying blush it spurred.

"Does the pool actually work or is it jus' for show?" Tangerine asks in order to avert Wolf's gaze from him. The man perks and skids out from behind the bar.

"In fact, it does," He picks a pool cue. "Want a round, Tangerine?" Wolf purrs, his smirk sharpens. 

That voice is gonna be the death of me. "Sure, see how well you can take me,"

"Oh you're on, darling," 

After an hour and a half, a couple of drinks later, and enough inappropriate innuendos throughout the game to make Lemon cackle while Tangerine tries to contain his growing infatuation—and arousal, but he wouldn't admit that. Wolf, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. His arm would brush with Tangerine, making the man shiver slightly. He would lean too close, enough to feel the warmth from the agent. When he aims to hit a ball he would bend over enough to accentuate the curve of his ass and would hear a curse under Tangerine's breath, he smirks. 

When they realize the sky has turned a subtle violet, hints of orange peeking through the clouds, they've settled down into the couch and into a comfortable silence. They left around midday from the runway, should the flight go well then they would arrive in Belgium at night. 

"Well, I'm gonna go change, I'm having dinner once I arrive there," Wolf stands, leaving his empty glass at the far end of the bar. "You two can tidy up, or whatever you please," 

And with that he enters the designated bedroom, door clicks shut. Tangerine realizes he's left it unlocked. 

"Mate," 

"What?" The brunette answers, a little too harsh for Lemon's level look.

"You fancy him-"

"No i do not-"

"Quit lyin' mate!"

"Am not! God," Tangerine melts into his seat. "He's just…"

"Just? Bruv, come one," Lemon sat up straight, his arms propped on his legs, and regarded his twin with serious eyes. "Throughout the whole day, you've been lookin' at him like he hung the moon," Tangerine scoffs at that. "That, or, you've been trying to fucken' shag him all day,"

"Fucken hell…" The worst part is that his twin was right, he was trying to get into Wolf's pants. Not that he's not interested in Wolf as himself, no, in fact, he's also trying to suppress the idea of going on a midday stroll around Burgess with the man. No, Tangerine was infatuated, to a mission no less.

Just then, a thud came from the bedroom, followed by a series of muffled curses, then oddly enough, silence. Tangerine and Lemon shared a look, the younger already reaching into the gun in his coat.

"I'll check," Lemon only nods as he lets his twin approach the room. 

"Tangerine!" Wolf suddenly calls. The air of tension dissipates. "Uh, sorry, can you come in for a second?"

Tangerine sighs, putting away his brass knuckles. "Be right there!" He shrugs when Lemon raises a brow. 

Tangerine curtly knocks twice, before he slowly pushes the door open. "Wolf?"

"Oh just the man I'm looking for," 

The man turns, dress shirt unbuttoned, exposing built chest enough to make a man salivate. His hair is slightly damp, from a shower or face wash Tangerine doesn't know. The man is fiddling with something on his wrists, but the agent is too distracted by the expanse of Wolves chest to realize he's is offering his hand to a gaping Tangerine

"Do you know how to work these? I can't seem to get them around," The object in question is a golden cufflink. Tangerine blanks, then he blinks, looks up at Wolf before looking back down to the link.

"Cufflinks? Really bruv,"

"Well these are new! I don't know how to…" His face scrunches up, before shrugging his shoulders. Wolf's cheeks beam a hint of red. Tangerine bites the urge to kiss them. "I don't know," Wolf sighs.

"Come here," Tangerine huffs, pulling the man's hand closer to his chest. "These things are easy to put on, I don't understand why you couldn't do it yer’self mate,"

"Yeah well maybe I'm just not good at it,"

"Yeah like the spoiled brat you are," Wolf only laughs. 

Tangerines fully focused on the man's cuffs, letting his guard down just enough for Wolf to fully grasp the agent in front of him. The plane's bedroom isn't that big, just enough to fit a queen-sized bed and drawers built into the cabin, so the two men are slightly pushed together due to the circumstances. Wolf notes Tangerine's furrowed brow, his mustache following in his pout, and the way his hair is styled.

"Your hair…"

"Yeah? What about it?"

"It… curls," 

Tangerine falters. His hands shook slightly, finally done putting the cuffs on. In fact, his whole breath shudders. Something akin to fear, or anticipation. He's afraid to meet Wolf's eyes. 

Instead, Wolf reaches under Tangerine's chin. He should be alerted, quick to snap his arm in an unnatural manner, so bad it breaks, despite being his mission. But Tangerine lets him. Let Wolf tilt his chin up, enough until he meets the man's striking eyes. 

"I shouldn't be doing this," Tangerine whispers. He doesn't realize how close he's standing with the man, inches away from him. If he reaches out just enough he could run his fingers on the man's soft skin.

"I shouldn't either," Wolf's eyes grow darker, his gaze fleeting to the man's lips. "But…" 

Tangerines too shaky for his own good, his suave has been thrown out the plane's window. He relies on Wolf's guiding hand to bring him closer until he's breathing the same air as Wolf. His lungs ache, like taking lungfuls isn't even enough to sate the burning desire between him and Wolf. 

Their kiss is all-consuming. Tongue and teeth and reverent moving until they fall onto the bed, their breath knocked out of them, but they continue. Wolf makes room so he's on top of Tangerine's thighs, Tangerine can practically feel the heat that's so close to reaching his crotch. Wolf does something with his tongue and it takes Tangerine by surprise. He moans into the kiss, the man above him devouring the noise like a man in drought. His hands travel from Tangerine's shoulders, chest, to his hips, not demanding but holding—grounding him. Wolf is asking permission and Tangerine is willing.

"You're okay with this?" Wolf whispers when they part for air. "Is this good?" 

"Fuck yes just-" Wolf is smiling and it takes everything for Tangerine to not entwine their mouth together again, instead he wraps his arms around the man's neck, pulling slightly until his pupils dilate in surprise. "Continue, now."

Wolf grins. Tangerine realizes where he got the name from."Gladly, love,"

—

They're on the private runway in Belgium. The sky has turned dark and stars are starting to show themselves. Tangerine and Lemon are standing outside the jet, near a parked car that's designated for them as a closing for their mission. Wolf's assistant is inside the jet, getting his luggage, and so is Wolf.

Lemon has an annoyingly smug grin on his face while he leans on the car. 

Tangerine on the other hand is readjusting his collar so the hickeys won't show.

About two hours earlier, Tangerine finally managed to pry himself off of a clingy Wolf and into the lounge cabin where Lemon, to his surprise, is taking a nap on the couch. He'd half expected a raised eyebrow, maybe a teasing smirk on his brother's face yet he gets an eye full of a snoring Lemon. He huffs, retreats back into the bedroom to grab a spare blanket not wrapped around Wolf like a Caterpillar, and drapes it over his twin. 

Tangerine pours himself a drink then sits on the bar, mulling over the interaction that happened the past hour. Somehow, out of sheer luck, Wolf pounded into him and made him scream and beg before performing the best aftercare he's ever experienced in his life. They cuddled for fucks sake! And Tangerine is not a cuddler—despite what Lemon says.

How the bed didn't break or Lemon didn't come barging in thinking his brother got ambushed is beyond him. He thanked whoever bastard made the plane's bedroom soundproof. 

Tangerine runs his hand to the side of his neck tracing over bites and marks Wolf carelessly placed. It makes him shiver, something about the possessive 'mine' it gives off excites him. But he thinks, what are they? What does this mean?

He's had his fair share of honeypots in his merc life. Bedded men and women for missions or for his own relief, and yet—something is swelling inside of him. When he sees the way Wolf smiles, teasingly or sincerely with stars in his eyes as if Tangerine is the missing comet in his galaxy, or the way he laughs freely when he gives a jab about his pool skills or when he giggles. light and short from an offhand joke. The way his hand ghosts over Tangerine's body, the bruises that will surely appear on his hips, sensitive skin meets attentive fingers.

He remembers the way Wolf held his hand while he was buried deep, breathing into his ear as he grunts and moaned with each thrust. Wolf traced a careful finger in his healed scar and he asked how he got it, which Tangerine only brushed off as an accident in a mission. Then Wolf proceeds to press his lips to it. He kisses them like prayers, once and twice until he bites lightly, definitely leaving a mark before he whispers 'So you won't remember this from a mission, but from me.' Tangerine almost came then and there.

It's not just his attractiveness, but Tangerine is falling. Hard.

He's afraid of how far he'll fall for a one-time mission. 

Cut to two hours later, they've landed, Tangerine has gathered himself enough to be presentable and Wolf is still getting his luggage. 

The evening in Belgium brings a cold breeze over the runway where they've landed. Tangerine pulls at his outer coat tighter, his eyes scanning the vast concrete range until he meets Lemon standing behind him. To no one's surprise, his twin is still smirking at him, which makes Tangerine scoff and instead divert his attention to the opened Jet door. He knows Lemon is currently staring a hole on his back and he almost turns to argue with him before Wolf pops out of the jet, day bag in hand.

"There you guys are! I thought you'd left already," There's an underlying tone of relief unnoticed by Tangerine admiring the man making his way down the jet stairs.

"Nah mate, job says to escort ya' til yer' safe, right?" Lemon hollers from behind Tangerine, making sure he's loud enough to beat the wind and test his twin's patience.

Wolf laughs and nods, mumbles something too quiet for the harsh wind, until his assistant makes their way out of the jet. The man turns, regards the person in the crisp suit, before they take his day bag and into the car that'll take Wolf off of the twins' hands. Tangerine half thought that'll be it, Wolf would wave them goodbye from the car door and zoom off, never meeting Tangerine again. Instead, the man makes his way past him and to Lemon.

"Thanks so much for keeping me safe," Wolf places a stray lock behind his ear as the wind picks up, making his hair wave around. 

"Part of the job bruv," Lemon shrugs. "You take care though, thanks for the jet ride," 

"Of course," Wolf chuckles. Tangerine almost lost his eyes with the way he stared in shock as Wolf pulled his twin into a hug. Lemon, the 'people's person' he is, patted the man's back firmly before they let go. They shared a brief conversation that Tangerine couldn't catch.

But Lemon laughs, patting Wolf's arm and he laughs too, before Lemons stares at Tangerine's confused look and laughs again. His twin only gets more confused from their interaction.

Finally, Wolf walks over to Tangerine, his blinding smile in place. Tangerine thinks he can get drunk on just seeing them.

"Tangerine," He regards, righting another stray hair.

"Wolf," Tangerine nods. He's conscious of how his curls look, definitely messier than Wolf's hair.

"I guess this is it," 

"It is,"

"You'll…" Wolf inhales. His heart drums. "You and Lemon will get your payment. Thanks for taking care of me," 

"Yeah," The merc swallows. "Y-yeah o'course,"

Tangerine is already leaning into Wolf before he knew it, the man opening his arms and accepting Tangerine's crushing weight. His hands claws on Wolf's pristine jacket, gripping and tugging just to take an ounce of Wolf with him. Wolf isn't any different from Tangerine—He's trying to gather the merc into his arms, to engulf him fully, feeling the warmth of his body the way they held each other in the plane. 

They pull apart. If Tangerine's eyes are not playing tricks on him he swore he saw Wolf's eyes shake. 

"I'll miss you," Wolf's voice wavers. Tangerine swallows around a lump.

"Yeah," He nods. He's afraid any other word would break his restraints. 

When Tangerine thought Wolf would walk past away, leaving him fully and into his car, instead the man pulled Tangerine close again, his breath against his ear.

"You know where to find me," Then suddenly he sobers up and smiles. Tangerine stares in complete confusion.

"This should cover everything, use it as you want." 

"What…?" 

Wolf pushes a sleek black card onto Tangerine's palm. Upon realizing, Tangerine sputters then stares at Wolf. "Are you insane?!" He shouts.

"For you? Maybe," He jokes, already running towards his car and assistant. "I'll see you later, Tangerine," He winks, one leg already in the black Chevy. 

"Oi you git! We can't-" 

And he's off. Tangerine stands in disbelief, his eyes wide, hair now fully out of place. The merc feels relief and excitement but he can't hide the slight disappointment of never seeing Wolf again. Or so he thought. 

"Hey, what's that peeking out your back?" Lemon points from behind him. Tangerine raises a brow. He reaches into his back pockets, before he feels a piece of paper, clearly out of place. 

Tangerine pulls it out and begins to read it. He squints from the minimal light, trying to make out the words, until he recoils because he didn't read words, he read digits.

Wolf gave him his number. Personal number if he judges from the note above saying 'Call me'. 

"That bloody… madman," Tangerine sighs. He follows the dimming backlights of the chevy before it exits the runway area, into the night to god knows where.

"Well, looks like you got yer'self a good man,"

"God i hope so," He exhales. He can only pray that Wolf would call back and be the gentleman he might be because Tangerine is gone for him, and it's gonna be one hell of a trip to get back down.

Lemon cackles, he shakes his head then makes his way into their car. Tangerine blinks away the afterimage before he joins his twin.

"Is that a fucken' black card?" Lemon stares incredulously at the card on Tangerine's palm, now it's his turn to laugh.

"Mate," He turns to the shocked Lemon. "Let's have fun in Belgium," He grins.

Requests are open! <3

[whumpsday]

I've been curious and you're the only whump blog i really follow, why do people tag "lady whump" and "lady whumper?" It's usually with all the cws but i don't understand why it goes there?

so one thing to understand about the whump community is that the CW section serves two purposes. the first is the most obvious: CW = content warning, warning people who might not want to see certain content.

the other, unstated purpose is something that actually goes by a lesser-known acronym that's mostly died out, FFO: for fans of. for example, i might see a fic and take a look at the CW section and it says "CW: torture, gore". and i go "oh goodie, i love torture and gore!" and check out the fic. because of this, you may often see things in the CW section of a post that don't really seem like common triggers, because they're actually just content tags. for example, there's probably not a lot of people who get squicked out by "vampire whumpee", but a lot of people who would see that label and go "yay i love vampires lemme read". this is why i label my section "content" instead of "CW", because it's not just a warning.

lady whump as a tag also serves these two purposes. for one, violence against women is a common trigger. this allows people who don't want to read about violence against women to avoid that content. the second purpose is to help people who want to see more women in whump stories find that content. everyone wins!

lady whumper as a tag seems to mostly serve the second purpose, a tag that exists for people who want to find content of women doing the whumping. i'm sure there are definitely people who have women committing violence as a trigger, but i haven't seen anyone request that tag on whumpblr, so i'm lead to believe that one's more a FFO situation.

basically: they're just used like AO3 tags, for people to "filter" for/against as they see fit.

[bwabys-scenarios]

Do you have any writing pet peeves? Like when you read other people’s works and for yourself. Personally I just cannot deal with first person perspective writing. It feels like I’m reading someone else’s diary rather than me being y/n.

Oh I don’t like that either!

I have a few writing pet peeves, but just a little reminder that if you don’t like something, scrolling and blocking is always an option and you should never leave unnecessary hate on peoples posts.

1. I really dislike when people label a character x oc as a reader insert. Sometimes it’s plainly just an OC, other times they’ll give you the option to insert your name, but give the reader an appearance.

Example:

You are (Name), and you have pink hair with pale skin and green eyes.

This is NOT a reader insert. It is a canon x oc disguised as a reader insert to get more views. Oc x Canon is completely fine, just don’t mislabel it.

2. I really hate readers being pick me girls in stories, always competing and putting down other women to get the male lead’s approval. It’s not something I would do or condone.

3. I don’t like when authors that write heavily triggering content don’t provide warnings or any tags. I do think it’s the reader’s responsibility to curate their own online experience, but sometimes that’s difficult when a fic appears on their page with tons of content and no warnings. I don’t necessarily believe you have to tag every little thing or give a big warning at the beginning of your story, but at least add some tags so people can filter out stuff.

Example:

Adding a #noncon or #cw incest tag to your fic can help keep others from seeing something they don’t want to see. Some people genuinely just don’t want to see that and as long as it’s tagged they’ll scroll through without an issue.(this isn’t everyone, some will purposely seek out this content to attack others. I’m not commenting on my stance on writing/posting these things, simply saying to provide warnings)

4. People who purposely go out of their way to mischaracterize female characters to make them awful just so they look bad in comparison to reader. It reeks of misogyny.