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aurorasulphur · 11 months ago

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Disclaimer: none of these answers are official, and may not work for your particular use case. If there is a specific feature that an unofficial app had that you don't know how to replicate on the AO3, let me know in the notes and we might can crowdsource a solution.

A lot of people used the Archive Reader app to access stories on Archive of Our Own, and have been upset that the app is now charging to read longer than an hour a day. AO3 (and its parent organization, the OTW) has made it extremely clear in recent days that this app is unofficial and that there *is* no official app. They encourage people to use the website.

However, there are MANY reasons you might want an app, and in a bunch of those cases, there are ways to do those things without having to provide your login information to a random person running an app. Here is a round-up of solutions to the most common reasons I've seen people give for wanting an app instead of the plain AO3 website.

These solutions are based on the following assumptions:

You know what Archive of Our Own is

You often or primarily access it through a mobile device running iOS or Android

You understand what a browser is

You understand what a browser bookmark is

You understand what a site skin is

Edits:

Edited to clarify that you must be logged in to use custom site skins

Edited to add more tips and tricks from the reblogs

Edited to add new entry about notifications/emails

Edited to add new entry about reading statistics and the tracking thereof

I need a widget on my phone's homescreen, not just a browser bookmark.

You can do this with any website, not just AO3! Instructions here: https://www.howtogeek.com/196087/how-to-add-websites-to-the-home-screen-on-any-smartphone-or-tablet/

I need Dark Mode.

AO3 has a default site skin for Dark Mode, it's just called Reversi. Find it here, or at the bottom of any page on the website. https://archiveofourown.org/skins/929/

If you'd like Dark Mode on your whole browser (and you're on Android), sorrelchestnut has advice here: https://www.tumblr.com/sorrelchestnut/737869282153775104/if-you-want-dark-mode-and-dont-want-to-mess

I need to be able to read stories when I don't have internet.

Every work on the AO3 has a download button, so you can click on that and download the story for offline reading in the ereader app of your choice. More info on how to do that is in the AO3 FAQs: https://archiveofourown.org/faq/downloading-fanworks?language_id=en#accesslater

I need to be able to change the text size of the website itself.

If you have an AO3 account (and you should!!) you can do this with a personalized site skin! There is a simple tutorial here: https://www.tumblr.com/ao3skin/667284237718798336/i-have-a-request-if-you-dont-mind-could-you

I need to be able to change the text size in downloaded stories.

My personal recommendation: Don't download in PDF format. All the other formats you can download in can scale the text size up and down, assuming you open the work in the correct app. For me, I download works in EPUB format and read them on the built-in Books app on my iPhone. I hear good things about Moon Reader on Android as well.

I need to be able to replace Y/N in fics with an actual name.

ElectricAlice has a bookmarklet for that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34796935

I need to be able to save specific tags and not have to search them up every time.

If you have an AO3 account (which you definitely should) then you can favorite up to 20 tags which will appear on the landing page. The AO3 FAQ explains how that works: https://archiveofourown.org/faq/tags?language_id=en#favtag

I need to be able to save specific filters and be able to apply them to any tag.

Reisling's beautiful bookmarklet has you covered: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33825019

I need to be able to permanently hide certain tags.

The best option is adding this to your site skin. (Must be logged in.) Instructions here: https://www.tumblr.com/ao3css/719667033634160640/how-to-permanently-filter-out-certain-tags-on-ao3

I also hear things about the AO3 Enhancements extension (just for Android/desktop, sorry iOS folks): https://www.tumblr.com/emotionalsupportrats/686787582579851265/browser-extension-everyone-on-ao3-should-know

I need it to save my place on the page and not reload.

This is really mostly a browser error--Firefox on iOS does this to me A LOT. Your best bet is to download the work and read it in an ereader app. A lot of people also will make an ao3 bookmark and write in the notes section which part they were at, but that assumes you aren't falling asleep while reading. (Which is the main reason I have this issue, lol.) For more info on bookmarks, see the FAQ: https://archiveofourown.org/faq/bookmarks?language_id=en#whatisbookmark

I need it to keep track of which stories I've already read/opened/kudos'd.

If you have an account (which you should) then the "My History" page keeps track of every fic you've ever clicked on. No, it isn't searchable or sortable, but it does exist. For fics you've kudos'd, I have yet to find a solution for iOS. For desktop or Android, you can use this excellent userscript: https://greasyfork.org/en/scripts/5835-ao3-kudosed-and-seen-history

@the-sleepy-archivist and @inkandarsenic have a solution for iOS here to use userscripts: https://www.tumblr.com/the-sleepy-archivist/737895174683885568/this-is-a-great-guide-one-thing-i-can-help-with and https://www.tumblr.com/inkandarsenic/737827438571192320/the-user-scripts-will-also-work-on-ios-there-are

I need an app because the website's search is terrible.

(I genuinely don't understand this one but I have seen it multiple times so on the list it goes!!) The search bar at the top of the screen is a keyword search. If you'd rather search within a specific field (like title or tag) then you'll want to click on the word "search" at the top of the screen and select Work Search or Tag Search. To search users, use People Search. To search Bookmarks, use Bookmark Search. (If this is you, please tell me what the heck you mean by "search is bad" and how an app helped with this.)

I need to be able to sort stories by date posted/number of bookmarks/alphabetical/etc.

You can do this using the filters sidebar. Pick a tag you want to filter on (like a fandom, character, or relationship) and then click on the "Filters" button. The sidebar will pop out and you can sort and filter on a boggling array of specifics. A good filtering guide: https://www.tumblr.com/saurons-pr-department/718665516093472768/if-there-is-something-you-dont-want-to-see-in

I need to be able to mark stories to read later.

AO3 has this feature built in! If you have an account (which you should) there is a "Mark for Later" option on every work.

Edit: Thispersonishuman reminded me that History and Mark For Later can be disabled, so if you're not seeing the Mark for Later option, check your settings.

I need to be able to listen to stories using text-to-speech.

Microsoft Edge web browser has a built in text to speech function. Supposedly it works on both iOS and Android, but I have not personally tested that. iOS also has a native accessibility feature in settings for text to speech that will work on the Books app, so I assume Android has a similar functionality. A bunch of people in the reblogs have more in-depth Android recommendations here: https://www.tumblr.com/protect-namine/737957194510794752/seconding-voice-aloud-on-android-for-tts-my, https://www.tumblr.com/smallercommand/737884523093704704/i-use-voice-for-tts-on-android-its-got-some, and https://www.tumblr.com/doitninetimes/737869463749263360/for-text-to-speech-on-android-you-can-also-check

I need to have in-app notifications for updates/I can't ever find story updates in among the rest of my emails/checking my email stresses me out.

Set up a separate email address using a free service like gmail, and use that email address JUST for AO3. Then the only emails in that inbox will be your story updates. I use Apple's Mail application for all my inboxes, but it's very easy to use the Gmail app instead, and you could log in to JUST the ao3 email and set it to notify for every email.

(Also as a general PSA: don't use your work, school, or military email as your AO3 email. Just don't.)

I want statistics like how many hours I spent reading, how many words I read, what my most read tags were, stuff like that.

So we've finally hit something that isn't easy and that requires a hell of a lot of manual work. Short version: AO3 does not track this data because they don't want to. (Mostly due to privacy concerns.) The lack of this tracking is a feature, not a bug. You can crunch these numbers yourself, but it will take a hell of a lot more effort, and it's something I personally found is not worth the effort the couple of times I have tried to crunch those numbers. If you are willing to download your history to an actual computer (not a tablet or chromebook) using Calibre, you can get a rough idea of your most popular tags via their tag browser, but it won't play nice with typos synned to a Common Tag (Canonical Tag/filterable tag) like ao3 does. (If anyone has used an app that gave you stats on this, please let me know in reblogs/replies/via ask how that worked because I am very curious.)

I need an app because <other reason>.

The AO3 Unofficial Browser Tools FAQ might cover your use case: https://archiveofourown.org/faq/unofficial-browser-tools?language_id=en If not, give a shout and we'll see what other tumblr users suggest!

#ao3 #archive of our own #ao3 app #ao3 tips #if you want official answers please use the contact forms on the ao3 or otw websites #standard disclaimer that while i am an otw volunteer i do not speak for the organization #my opinions are my own and do not represent anyone else

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gods-perfect-idiots · 2 months ago

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Okay bear with me folks, I have some ~thoughts~ about the Vanessa/Wade relationship (or frankly lack thereof) in Deadpool & Wolverine. I should start by saying that I am analyzing this with the (likely erroneous) assumption that everything on screen is 100% intentional and mindfully written to deepen the characters and inform their arcs. For the record, I don't necessarily believe that's true - there is certainly room for mistakes, lazy writing, confusing plot elements, or in this case, sidelining a potentially strong and important character for nebulous reasons (I'm guessing scheduling conflicts + run time concerns + actor's strike complications but idk for sure). (Also thanks to @gossippool and @kendyroy for encouraging me to post my thoughts instead of just rambling in the tags in the first place, y'all are the realest)

Long rambly post below the cut fyi

Now, granted, it has been a while since I watched the original Deadpool so I am not as well-versed in their early relationship as I am in the handful of scenes Morena Baccarin has in dp3, but I do think it is pretty canon that Wade generally struggles to express his deeper worries and feelings (without filtering it heavily through crude humor, sex, and pop culture references of course), especially after the events of dp1 and the physical and mental damage he sustains, and Vanessa is frankly no exception despite how much he cares for her. The entire first movie hinges on the fact that he doesn't really believe she could love him in his post-Francis mangled state, which is pretty contrived imo given that the film has established already how bonded they are, and she doesn't strike me as being written to be so shallow as to reject him based on a physical deformity. I mean iirc she wanted to stick around through chemo despite him being literally riddled with inoperable cancer, so she clearly is in it for the long haul (at least in dp1), messiness and all.

Now, in dp2, obviously she is shot and killed early in the film, and Wade spends much of the rest of the film wallowing in his very profound grief, trauma, and guilt over losing her due directly to his violent lifestyle. He goes to prison, he basically gives up on life and seems very resigned to dying once he has the power suppressant collar on, even excited to do so so he can be reunited with her. She is mostly sidelined as a Fuzzy Dead Wife trope basically, but the important thing here is that he spends weeks if not months in the throes of despair over losing the love of his life just as they were trying to start a family, and trying to reach across the boundaries of death to be with her.

Now, my first couple times watching dp3 I was frustrated by the trite narrative presented in the interview scene towards the beginning - specifically Wade's whole "my girl is getting tired of my shtick and I need to show her I matter". It felt contrived and disingenuous, and I just brushed it off as iffy writing, a means to an end, but the more I reflect upon it the more I think it is based in an emotional reality that is just handled with a very light touch by the film in favor of fanservice and Poolverine content (NOT that I'm complaining in the slightest - I think this movie is a masterpiece in many ways, albeit a flawed one but that's beside the point here), which for the record I am not against because I think it lends it an air of realism. This is Wade's story after all, Vanessa is a part of it but it is ultimately about him and his journey.

Basically, I think the combination of what happened to him in dp1 (the brain damage, the trauma, the awareness of the fourth wall, etc) followed by the events of dp2 (Vanessa's death, his grief and the associated guilt and trauma of being the direct cause of her death) led to an unbridgeable emotional gap between the two of them that ultimately leads to their breakup.

It's important to note that I don't think Vanessa has any recollection of her own death, given that Wade goes back and saves her before she can take the bullet, and so of course she can never fully fathom what Wade went through grieving her and their life together and their potential family, for however long he spent between her death and bringing her back with Cable's device. She can try (and she clearly does in the one scene I'll talk about next) but I fear she accepts, maybe even in that scene, that she can never succeed. He is beyond her reach by this point, and vice versa, his experiences having fundamentally changed him.

The one scene we really see from their relationship between dp2 and dp3 is the one where Cassandra mind-gropes Wade in the Void and we see Vanessa struggling to reach Wade across this aforementioned gap - she wants him to open up, she wants him to share what he's going through, she wants him to be the person she initially fell in love with (not even selfishly - to her nothing has changed really, because to her no time has passed). But not only does he not understand what she's really asking for but he responds in such a way that makes me think he has unprocessed issues that are only tangentially related to what she's saying - ie the stuff about mattering, about asking her if she even wants to be with him, etc. And he's not the Wade Wilson she met back in dp1 anymore. He watched her die and grieved her and brought her back, believing it would make everything go back to normal and they could resume their life together as if nothing had changed, but he has been fundamentally changed in a way that she can't grasp, even if he WAS good at externally processing his trauma openly without the artifice of wry jokes. She didn't "come back wrong" - instead, she came back exactly the same as before, but HE'S different now. Not wrong, per se. But changed.

It's an interesting scene because it's obviously a memory, and a crucial one at that, but you can see how Wade is misunderstanding what she's saying, viewing it through the prism of his own lack of self-worth and his own hopelessness - he takes away that she thinks he doesn't matter (even though like he says she didn't actually say that, but I don't think Cassandra invented that wholecloth - I think she pulled it out of his psyche because that's what he believes deep down, hence why his fixation on mattering even though she never said those words exactly), he takes away that she doesn't want to be with him, that she thinks he's nothing. Which would be frustrating as an audience member to witness as a pretty simple misunderstanding which could potentially be solved with one conversation, but it feels believable to me that these two people who have shared a great love would be fundamentally separated by unimaginable, cosmic trauma, and the on conversation they would need to have to rectify the misunderstanding is one that is impossible for Wade to verbalize and equally impossible for Vanessa to conceive of. It was one thing when they had shared trauma like violence and SA in dp1, but what Wade has gone through in dp1 and dp2, humor aside, is unfathomably traumatic, brain-breakingly so even, and that's not even factoring in the possible mental illnesses he now struggles with (I've seen folks suggest schizophrenia, DID, depression, etc. but I won't get into armchair diagnosing a fictional character here - suffice it to say he is canonically unwell as a result of what has happened to him, and yes it manifests as quirky fourth wall breaks and cheeky one-liners, but within the universe of the movies he is undeniably profoundly mentally ill, and that includes this humorous alter ego he created to cope with his trauma).

I think off-screen Vanessa probably really tried to reach him, maybe for years (the six year gap implies to me that they didn't break up immediately, that they tried for a while to stay together), trying to get her Wade back, but that Wade is gone. He struggled to express that to her until eventually he started to feel rejected because he couldn't express his trauma or how much he has changed, because even he can't fully conceive of the gulf that has formed between them. The truth is, he WANTS to be that Wade again, for her and for himself, but that Wade died when she died. Or maybe he had already started dying when Francis got a hold of him in dp1.

Anyway, all this is to say, I think Morena Baccarin WAS criminally underutilized in dp2 and dp3, but I think there is a strong argument to be made for the believability of their breakup regardless. I think even relationships built on enormous love can crumble due to trauma, and what Wade suffers over these movies is mind-bogglingly enormous trauma. It's especially heartbreaking that he blames himself for their relationship ending, talks like she just got tired of him, thought he didn't matter, whatever. But it is a credit to him that he never seems to feel anger towards her about it. He doesn't seem to feel entitled to her, though he longs for her and what they had and what she represented (hope, love, a future, a family), but ultimately she becomes more of a symbol of what he lost when he gained his powers, because let's be super fr right now - even if they had succeeded in having a baby, not only would they have lived in fear of her or the kid getting killed, but ultimately Wade would likely outlive both of them even if they managed to die natural deaths. The moment he gained his powers he was already destined to lose her, which is heartbreaking because she was the only reason he opted for the treatment in the first place - so he could stay with her.

I think a big part of Deadpool & Wolverine is watching Wade continue to process his own motivations (vis-a-vis Vanessa but also his other friends) and how he does eventually let go of the idea of "mattering" in favor of just saving the people he cares about (*cough* and being saved right back *cough* by Wolvie, as the final line and shot implies). And in the process he finds someone new who cares about him, who thinks he matters, who tries to sacrifice himself for him and his friends after mere days of knowing him, who comes home with him at the end of the story, who breaks his own centuries-old patterns, who has also experienced unimaginable grief and trauma, who has struggled with wanting to die and being unable to, who not only matches his crazy but matches his FREAK and also not only won't die on him but CAN'T die on him - and more importantly cannot be randomly killed by a stray bullet.

Idk if any of this makes much sense but I do think if you read between the lines and consider the potency of trauma and grief, guilt and emotional damage at play here, Vanessa and Wade's off-screen breakup is actually pretty realistic, and really heart-breaking to boot.

You can tell she still cares about him in so many ways - she shows up for his birthday party, she shows up to his welcome home party at the end, she finds excuses for physical contact multiple times, her eyes get soft when she looks at him, but there is a distance there that Morena Baccarin does an incredible job of portraying. She cares about him deeply, she has mourned the loss of their potential life together, she has let him go and accepted that the Wade she fell in love with is gone, but she wants him in her life even though she's moving on because she realizes he's gone somewhere she can't follow (literally and figuratively). And she wants him to be happy which is why I fully believe she would immediately clock the Poolverine of it all and not-so-subtly encourage them to make it official.

Anyway. Poolverine forever. Nothing against Vanessa at all - I think she delivers a nuanced and beautiful performance, I think their relationship is sweet and heart-wrenching in large part due to her acting chops, especially given how little she is given to work with - but I think their relationship was sadly doomed from almost the very start, because Wade becomes this traumatized superhuman and Vanessa would always be at risk in his orbit, but also would always on the outside of his multiverse superhero experiences. I think it's weirdly beautiful, even if I am filling in a lot of gaps and giving the writers maybe undue credit.

Anyway... thoughts? Please DM me or write in the tags, I am feral about this movie and just want to talk about it with anyone haha. If you have further insight into these characters too I'd love to hear it - I am by no means an expert in these movies or characters!

#wade wilson #deadpool & wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #deadclaws #wolverine #deadpool #deadpool 3 #deadpool x wolverine #vanessa x wade #rambly meta thoughts #anyway thanks for reading if you made it through #I def didnt edit this much just sorta wrote it out #I have more to say but it will have to wait I think #deadpool meta #vanessa meta

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destinationtoast · 1 month ago

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Toastystats: Halloween fanworks!

So the thing is, I get to Blaze one post per month by virtue of having Tumblr Premium. And (while I have enjoyed Blazing pictures of my cats in the past) I thought perhaps this month people might enjoy some Halloween fandom stats + fic lists? So I threw something together. First, the stats:

Less that 1% of AO3 fanworks use the "Halloween" tag (or a subtag like "Happy Halloween" -- only 0.32%, in fact. But I found some big fandoms (10K+ works) that use a substantially higher-than-average rate of Halloweenery. (I couldn't look through every fandom on AO3, but I did look through all the fandoms with 10K+ fanworks as of January 2024. Note that some fandoms may write about Halloween a bunch without tagging it, and those aren't be captured here.)

Fall Out Boy leads the pack among these big fandoms, with nearly 1% of its fanworks using the "Halloween" tag or a subtag (0.93%). (I'd be curious to hear theories about why!) Some of the other fandoms shown above have a natural element of spookiness or horror (e.g., IT, Stranger Things), but many do not. The longer list is here. (These stats are based on pretty small numbers, btw, so please don't take these rankings too seriously. This is just a bit of fun.)

I also thought people might want to read some Halloween-themed fics from each of the above top 25 fandoms, so I highlighted works from each fandom that were complete and highly kudosed. If you're curious, the list includes this sort of info:

And I thought people might also appreciate Halloween-themed fics for different relationship categories (F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, xReader). Here's a screenshot of some of the fics in the relationship category list, if you're curious:

More information about how I created these lists below the cut.

Before we get there, could I interest you in taking a quick poll, since I am Blazing this post and curious about the audience Blaze reaches? Thanks -- and happy Halloween season! :)

The construction of these lists was definitely not an exact science. For each fandom or relationship category, I filtered to only show works with the "Halloween" tag. I then looked for complete fics in each fandom that appeared to actually be about Halloween or a spooky topic (based on their summary and/or a quick text search), and had a lot of kudos. (I didn't actually read these fanworks myself, though.) I also tried to diversify and make sure that each category included a variety of ships/fandoms. I ruled out collections of one-shots and things that appeared to be part of a long series such that they couldn't be read as a standalone. I also ruled out things that looked like incredible bummers, and honestly a few things that had major grammatical errors in the summaries.

But I linked to more in each case, so you don't have to visit the example fics I highlighted -- you can explore more on your own!

Also -- I did a lot of copy/pasting, and there may be errors in here. Feel free to let me know if you find any. Thanks, and enjoy!

#halloween #halloween fic #fall out boy #polls #ao3 #fandom stats #toastystats #op #tumblr blaze #50 #100

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soft5ku11 · 1 year ago

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Soft5ku11 D15c0rd Server (+ Masterpost)

Everything under the cut! Gen-AI PROMPT TYPERS, POSTERS AND ENJOYERS GET OFF MY BLOG

D|SC0RD

Disclaimer: No extreme sizes, vore, scat & piss (etc), mpreg or kink content depicting minors is allowed. 18+ ONLY.

MY WEBSITE

Wix sucks. I'm looking to find an alternative that I don't have to pay for but for now, use the archive feature on my blog! I'll try to post NSFW art on Bluesky if it can't go on my blog here.

TUMBLR

{you are here right now! good job!}

BLUESKY

Slowly becoming my secondary place for sharing my art online. It might not have as many features as Twitter currently does, but at least you can see people's likes. It'll surpass Twitter eventually, trust me - the beta is also no longer closed so you don't need an invite link to sign up!

PILLOWFORT

I don't post on PF because there's nobody there ._. Just in case of posers though, I have an account.

AO3

I only have one fic as of July 2023, but I might post more in the future.

twitter. (tomato tomato)

All I do on twitter is complain and retweet things. Follow me there if u want that I guess... (Just make a Bluesky account its not owned and flooded by idiots.)

ART SUGGESTIONS/REQUESTS

I may not do everything left in the suggestion box, but I will see it. The more detail, the better!

This post will update if/when I have new socials or links to other sites to share.

COMMONLY USED TAGS

#my art - Original art made by me

#soft5ku11 speaking - Off-topic stuff, you can filter this if you're only here for the art

#soft5ku11 asks - Any inbox asks I reply to

#soft5ku11 headcanons Headcanons posts, usually alongside the asks tag

#soft5ku11 gamedev - Posts about the development of my still-unnamed game concept

#soft5ku11 WIP - Screenshots of unfinished artwork

#soft5ku11 commissions - Commission posts, artworks, and updates

Character tags will be abbreviated to three characters, eg my Guzma tag is "#gzm tag".

(Feel free to filter these tags if and as you see fit)

#my art #fat art #gzm tag #chubby guzma #weight gain #weight gain art #guzma weight gain #male weight gain art #thank you professor mikey gentlerubz III for shading this for me and fixing the anatomy at the sketch stage ily brother #fat guzma

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bunnis-monsters · 2 months ago

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Good morning, I hope you're doing well.

I've been a shy onlooker of your work for quite some time, however as of recently I've been noticing with a couple of the bee-hybrid ficlets that you've been writing, one or two of them that involved (specifically) child/infant characters were tagged with the 'monster fucker' and various such related tags..?

I love the bee stuff, I do! Please don't take this as a hate message because I really don't mean for it to come off as such. But if you're going to include infant/child characters under the age of 18 in your fics, please don't include them in NSFW scenarios, fics, or situations or put them in NSFW tags. I don't think that's entirely legal in some places and I say that out of the goodness of my heart for your protection and your readers.

There was a woman banned off Youtube who was criminally charged for breastfeeding her child and uploading it and I know this is in no way as severe but I honestly don't want to see you get banned and all your fics wiped off tumblr because you put 'minor characters' in NSFW situations/tags. :(

You could try maybe just not tagging the stuff with baby bees?? You have a huge follow base and a discord (that i'm too shy to join) so I'm sure people would still find that content if they're following you.

I'm sorry for bothering you, I hope you have a good day.

Uh.

I tag all of my fics as monster fucking… because that’s the genre. The baby bees are a result of said monster fucking.

I specifically use monster fucking on all of my posts so people who don’t like the monster fucking genre can easily filter my posts out.

I do not include any smut tags like I do on my other posts, and SPECIFICALLY tag them as “monster sfw” or “monster fluff” when I remember.

Not only have I never sexualized or plan on sexualizing the baby bees, if you or anyone else sees anything regarding them as sexual… idk what to say. They’re the most innocent posts on my page.

Read my REQUEST INFO so you can understand that I do not write for pedophilic relationships or situations. The baby bees are children.

I think you’re reading a bit into it. I’m not sure about that case of a YouTuber being banned for breast feeding, but that’s a real person with real children. These are fanfics. There could have been more behind that, and I know for sure there are cases where parents exploit their children on the internet in ways that are in the grey area, like for example, breastfeeding them and sexualizing it purposefully(breastfeeding isn’t inherently sexual, but it can be sexualized and sold as such to an audience) or having them do things that are suggestive for their pedophile audience to continue using them as a cash cow.

This is not that. The baby bees are fictional, and not once have they been sexualized. I am not interested in doing so. They’ll still be under the monster fucker tag because the baby bees are tied to the bee hybrids which ARE very NSFW. It’s a genre.

I use tags that relate to my post and can help them be easily filtered by those that DON’T want to see my content.

Never ask something like this again, it made me deeply uncomfortable.

#anon ask #ask answered #tw pedophila mention

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angelwhisp3rs · 10 months ago

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⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ nuance

Pairing: DI!Leon x Fem!Reader

Summary: Always at eachothers throats, they just don't know they've been doing that in a lot of ways.

Tags: Smut; fluff; p in v; oral (m); i imagined reader being 23-25 and leon in his late thirties; breeding kink; brush play (shh its hot don't judge it); reader is called bunny; daddy kink; enemies to ???; leon is a perfect soft dom; clit spanking;

Notes: hehe older leon makes heart go brr; also: i changed the characters in the header, bc jasmine and alladin looked whitewashed (i always put a filter on the header to tone down the colors on the collage bc i always think they look like a hot mess unfiltered). I wanted to apologize and explain to clear any misunderstanding, and i'm sorry to have ever caused any doubts, i aim to make this a safe space for everyone!

Minors do not interact!

Whenever they went on the field, the rest of the agency always wondered how they came back alive, seeming as if they could, they would the other by their own hands, no need for bio-weapons. They were always bickering, Leon with his cocky ways, and her with her serious and diligent one.

No one ever understood how they worked, but their results never lied: a mission that usually took weeks, was successfully squashed in days; their cases solved higher than anyone else’s in the whole organization.

Everyone kept teasing Leon for working with a “human leash”, while the women teased her for not trying anything with him, since he was so ‘perfect and dreamy’ - their words, she would rather be dead than ever say that.

It always bothered him how she was too correct. Always with a bun in her hair, and her squared glasses, she hated whenever they didn’t follow her plans, believing that Leon definitely had a death wish, and was pulling her into a suicide mission every time.

In her case, it bothered her that he was a show-off, always doing way more than it was needed, just to prove how “awesome” and “skilled” he was. While fighting with an infected with chainsaws, instead of just walking back, he just did a fucking flip. Why?? He saved the president’s daughter, for fucks sake, there was no need to prove people that the was the goat. That encounter always made her seethe, since when he ended the battle, she only looked baffled at him as his cocky smirk never fell once from his stupid, and way too handsome face.

On the field and in life, they always had their differences, wondering everyone how they kept being scheduled together, but with the interesting thing that life is, they managed to find just one place where they could meet their interests.

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'

“Just like that, bunny”, he grunted breathless, hips moving to meet her face, holding her hair in place.

Fucking her pretty throat as her eyes got teary, he felt how thigh and warm it always was, always begging to be fucked with his big cock. Her hair was down, her cheeks all blushy and she behaved beautifully on her knees, Leon sitting on his bed as he drilled into her sweet hole.

“Love fucking you like this. Always the perfect way to celebrate the end of our missions”

She whined in agreement, her face wet, as her spit coated his member and his heavy balls, since he hadn’t fucked his pretty toy in so long. She gagged and rolled her eyes back, loving being used as a fuck doll, seeing that hunk lose himself in pleasure as he used her smaller body.

“G’nna give my bunny her favorite meal”

He grunted out, cumming in her throat and making her swallow it all, watching as a line of spit connected her abused lips and the pink head of his fat cock. He had a relieved and proud smile as he panted, pulling her up to sit on his lap and pressing kisses to her overworked lips and sensitive neck.

“So proud, baby. Daddy's little throat sleeve, aren't you? Gonna reward you for being such a good little girl”

He spread her legs as she sat on his lap, her hips squirming on his hold, making him hiss as she ground her perfect ass on his spent and sensitive member. At that, he slapped her right thigh, making her whine.

“Don't make me punish you, bunny. Daddy just wants to play properly with his toy”

“Too needy, daddy, ‘m sorry”

Leon taking pity on her, managed to lock her legs apart with his strong ones, letting his fingertips travel through her soft skin.

“I know, baby girl. Bunny always needs her little cunt to be played with, and I've been neglecting you, hm? Don't worry, gonna reward you for being such a good doll for me”

With a slight and feathery touch, he caressed her thighs, moving up to the top of her mound, and descending to her wet and puffy cunt.

“Will you let me stretch and play with this hole, baby? Till you are too sore to close your legs?”

She whined in response, nodding eagerly.

“Yeah, it's gonna feel so nice, isn't it, bunny? Then, I'll use you some more since you are gonna display yourself so nicely for me”

As he said his filthy words, his teasing fingers began to softly touch her pussy up and down, just barely there. She was creamy for him as if he taught her pussy to get ready for his thick dick.

She tried inching her hips up, desperate for more friction, but he put his fingers away, slapping her clit. This made her keen and throb around the air, the pain feeling welcoming on her puffy, wet button.

“Fuck… I knew you were gonna enjoy that. Little sluts love to feel pain, right? And I just got the prettiest one to play with”

He spanked her cunt again, making her sob at the friction, her hunger heightening tenfold since it's been weeks since she felt any contact at all.

“Daddy, please… need you to play with my pussy”

“Behave and I will then”

Taking pity on the girl, his fingers circled her clit with a little more pressure than the last time, his other hand scissoring her lips open to grant direct contact with her. She moaned and tried to keep her hips from moving, squirming just a little as his fingers brought her into delirium.

“Good job, bunny. Let me use you, daddy's just gonna appreciate his bunny's little cunt.”

He stayed like this for minutes, till she creamed on his fingers, her thighs almost cramping from being spread like that. After she came, he massaged her legs, kissing her cheeks and jaw.

“That's it, baby, made me so proud. I know you are sensitive, but can daddy play with you some more?”

He asked as he pinched and rolled her erect nipples, making her clench again around nothing as she squirmed on top of him. She nodded, and he grabbed something from his nightstand that she couldn't see.

“Saw this on a video and almost came in my pants. Kept imagining myself playing with my baby like that as she made a mess”

He moved her to lay comfortably on the bed, letting her spread her legs again. He pressed an adoring kiss to her clit, making her moan. He chuckled, groaning at her taste on his lips.

“As much as I wanna eat this pussy, don't wanna overwhelm you. Later I will, angel”

Then, he grabbed what he had hidden from her sight: a makeup brush. The bristles looked soft, with a round top. She looked at him curious and kinda unsure: is he seriously planning to fuck her with his thin thing?

He chuckled at her reaction. “Not gonna do what you think I will, doll. And I promised I washed it thoroughly before you came, I didn't want to harm you. Do you trust me?”

She nodded, and it was the truth. As she trusted him with her life on the field, she trusted him to heighten their pleasures to highs she had never felt. She was always pleasantly surprised whenever he planned something new, so she trusted him to make it good.

Sensing her newfound trust, he tentatively toyed with her clit as he brushed it gently, her hips twitching at the new feeling, not feeling bad at all.

“Good, bunny?”

“Yeah, daddy”

Glad with her approval, he kept “brushing” her cunt as if he was a painter making his new masterpiece. He always pressed the item firmer on her swollen little clit, watching as her slick gathered on the item and her entrance.

He grunted at her moans and the sight. The video was hot, sure, but seeing this in front of him made him want to go crazy and fuck his cock into the sheets like a fucking teen.

She was sensitive already from the spanks and his fingers, and now the soft bristles made her pleasure skyrocket. He began rolling and going back and forth with it, and she knew that she was done.

“D-daddy!”

“That's it, baby, cum again. Let daddy keep having his masterpiece”

She groaned and held tightly onto the pillow underneath her head, legs shaking but not daring to close as he played with her, her heartbeat quickening by the second.

Soon enough, she came hard, seeing stars. It wasn't a completely different feeling or a potent sex toy, but the novelty and thought behind it made it so hot that she swears that she almost passed out.

He kissed up her legs, letting her lay down on her side as she shivered in pleasure, moving behind her and hugging her.

“That good, bunny?”

“Y-yeah, fuck. Don't even know why” She giggled, her mind pushed deeply into that sweet and welcoming submissive place her job never allowed her to reach, but the asshole behind always granted her.

“It looked even hotter to see. Cock throbbed so much I thought I would cum untouched.”

“Maybe you are losing your hand, daddy”

“Says the shaking bunny from a mere brush”

She giggled, turning her head back and kissing him. Her gentle hands moved to his hair to let her fingers caress it as his strong and big hands push her more into him, trying to be patient but his cock screamed for attention.

“Daddy, want more” She begged between the kisses.

“So do I, bunny. Let my fat dick kiss your womb, baby”

He raised her leg to his hips, allowing both to keep spooning as he gently slid his shaft in her, groaning at her wetness and warmth. He put his foot down on the bed to use as leverage, and as he held onto her flesh, he began thrusting.

The position was so intimate that it made his mind think things that he never had before. And honestly, it made his heart ache the same way it had done previously with Ada. Fuck, he didn't want to think about that now.

He fucked her harder to make him forget about it, which wasn't hard since that was the first opportunity he had, other than her great blow job, to properly blow his load inside his bunny's hole.

She held tightly onto his hand, the other one supporting her leg up too, as she screamed and drooled in pleasure, completely cock drunk. He groaned at his baby's situation and moved his hand to her abused clit to rub it again.

“Can't hold it, you were so hot, baby… gonna blow my load deep into that delicious” thrust, “wet” another thrust, “thigh” another one, “cunt” he thrust harder.

She was babbling nonsense, feeling the welcomed pressure on her lower tummy again, begging him to cum in her and breed his bunny. Her voice and pussy tightening around him made Leon feel like he was about to explode, so he kissed her roughly.

Both came together as they shared a kiss, her legs shaking as they felt him coating her gummy walls with his much-needed cum. He gently lowered her leg, staying inside her as he kissed her neck, tending to her gently to not make her drop.

Sex was always the best way to find a middle ground, after all. Maybe tomorrow they would be back at screaming in each other's faces, but with their voices just a little strained, since right now they only wanted to scream in pleasure.

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #resident evil #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #leon x reader #leon smut #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy death island

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dragonheart2497 · 1 year ago

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things twitter migrants may find useful that dont often get included in "how to tumblr" posts

1- queueing!

instead of feeling bad for spam-reblogging and clogging up other people's feeds, you can click the dropdown and add it to your queue instead!

you can edit how many times a day your queue posts, and between what hours. You can easily re-order or completely shuffle your queue as well!

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REBLOG STUFF. Tumblr doesn't run on an algorithm!! YOU are responsible for putting cool stuff onto your followers feeds!

"but if i reblog too much people can't see my posts!" i have just the thing for you

2- personal tags

You can have different tags you use on your blog to help people navigate! for example, i use "dh rb art" when I reblog art and "dh rb" for most other reblogs- that's so that people can filter my reblogs out of their feeds if they dont wanna see that, and only want my original posts to show up.

On the other hand, my art is tagged "dh2497" so they can easily search my account for it!

If you open a person's blog and click the search button, a list of Featured Tags will show up. By default this is just the blogger's most used tags, but you can customize what shows up on yours in your blog settings

You can follow entire hashtags too! if you wanna see hermitcraft fanart without following every hermitcraft artist, follow the tag :D

3- Filtering

Tumblr actually hides things you don't wanna see, very nicely!

In your account settings, you can filter specific tags, and even specific words that show up in the post.

sometimes different bloggers warning tag differently (i do [trigger] tw or [content] cw) so you can try to input every variant, but if its something you really want to avoid just put it in the post content as well. Blocklists aren't really a tumblr thing, so if you wanna avoid an entire community you can block their tag as well

NEVER. CENSOR. YOUR WARNINGS. PLEASE. On twitter or tiktok or wherever, you may have to do that or else the algorithm suppresses it- THERES NO ALGORITHM HERE!!! if someone reblogs your post, it will show up for others, don't worry!!! you're just bypassing filters placed for people's safety, if you censor words.

Also! don't worry too much if a word you wanna filter is commonly used in unrelated contexts- tumblr doesn't remove it entirely, but rather adds a 'spoiler' so that you have to click on it to view it. So just in case it is what you want to avoid, you have time to prepare to see it.

4- effective tagging

[read more in detail here] Only the first 5 tags will show up for people who follow the hashtag. That makes them the most important! Then, the first 20 tags will make the post show up when searching that tag. The rest of them do not give your post any visibility.

I see a lot of people reblogging art with fanart tags- that can be useful for searching back the tag in the reblogger's blog specifically, but doesn't actually give the OP more visibility in that tag.

You'll learn what tags to use by checking the content you come across! most communities are "[word]blr", and most fanart goes "#[character/show] fanart". tumblr tags can have spaces!

Lastly, a few notes

you will only have 1 PRIMARY blog. this will appear when you like a post, comment on a post, or follow a blog. your sideblogs will not link back to your primary blog, but you cannot do those interactions as those sideblogs.

artists love receiving compliments when you reblog!! commenting does NOT boost the post. most people put their compliments in the TAGS of their reblog, so that it doesn't become a long post/thread, and if people reblog the reblog of your reblog you won't keep gettings notifications about it. The artist will still see and very much appreciate it

read up on tumblr etiquette, do not treat this place like twitter or you'll be disliked lol. there are some 'big blogs' but follower counts aren't public, popularity isn't a contest here. make friends, or just block/ignore people you don't get along with. no one cares about your petty arguments

if you noticed the lil cat in my screenshots, that's from a very useful browser extension called XKit!! it enables 1-click queue reblogs (automatically adding your tags), mass-post editing, and lots of other great tweaks vanilla tumblr doesn't have! and the cat is a silly cute thing you can enable in it as well

#hermitblr #trafficblr #empiresblr #hermittwt #traffictwt #how to use tumblr #how to tag on tumblr #tumblr help #i didnt mean for this to be a whole tutorial thing but if it helps one person it's worth the hour i spent on this

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m-o-l-d · 5 months ago

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Werewolves Timber, a tired druid, and Eirwen, an energetic necromancer, embark on a journey to undo a magic bond accidentally set by an act of good will.

Together they will learn what life has to offer...

Together, they will die trying...

FULL STORY CHRONO First Part

CHAPTER 1--Ties That Bind || Chrono | First Part Ask Block #1 || Chrono | First Part CHAPTER 2--Blessed Snow || Chrono | First Part

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

WARNING

IN TIME, THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN THE FOLLOWING THEMES, MENTIONS, AND IMAGERY:

DEATH INJURY/BLOOD VIOLENCE SUICIDAL IDEATION SEXUAL ASSAULT MISCARRIAGE SPIRITUAL/SOUL DISCUSSION. (Not really in a Christian sense, but I'll try to tag it as such if it gets too close.) CHILD ABUSE CHILD NEGLECT CHILD INJURY/ENDANGERMENT CHILD DEATH

I will do my absolute best to tag and warn appropriately for each part. If ever one is missing a tag/warning you think it needs, please kindly let me know in the comments or over on my main blog, @loupy-mongoose. I am human, relatively naive, and my mental filter doesn't always work the way I wish it would. ^^

To those ready to take those themes, welcome! I hope you enjoy the story to come! ^w^ And to those who choose to skip this blog altogether for ANY reason, I completely understand, and wish you a wonderful day! <3

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

EXTRA THINGS

-Tag for Lore related to this story HERE

-Extra character information can be found HERE

-Closer look at twins Timber and Brook here, in case you have trouble telling them apart.

-AU exploration HERE

-Extra art related to MOLD HERE

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

List of tags relevant to the above topics if you wish to block: (putting it under a bar for space saving reasons--I will add to it if needed)

#TW: Death -- #TW: Injury -- #TW: implied injury -- #TW: Blood -- #TW: Violence -- #TW: Suicide -- #TW: Suicidal Ideation -- #TW: Suicide Mention -- #TW: Sexual Assault -- #TW: SA -- #TW: SA Mention -- #TW: Miscarriage (I haven't seen that one mentioned as a trigger, but just in case.) -- #TW: Christianity (If it comes up, but I don't expect it to.) -- #TW: Child Abuse -- #TW: Child Neglect -- #TW: Child injury -- #TW: Child Endangerment -- #TW: Child Death

#Extra stuff

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 9 months ago

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“If You Don’t Look Good, We Don’t Look Good” - Dean x Reader

Rating Explicit

Dean x Reader

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Humor, Shameless Smut (I got carried away), Cameo Appearance by Soft!Dom Dean, Unprotected Sex

Word Count: 4200

You and Sam had decided on a code to use in the most grievous, world-shattering of situations.

Full Dean Meltdown

Neither one of you have had to use it – until you get a text from Sam. A case has gone all kinds of awful for Dean. You are not ready for the version of Dean you have to face in the aftermath.

Notes: This is total self-indulgence because I miss This Dean.

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Hair Pulling" square.

Image created in Canva (links for photos used - found on Google: Jensen Ackles, Liverpool Comic Con, 2023; Jensen Ackles Photo Shoot

You stare, mid-muffin chew, at Sam’s text.

“Fuck me.” A few stray crumbs and a rogue blueberry land on a page of lore you should probably be more careful with. But you can’t be bothered with MOL reference handling procedures at the moment.

This is Red Alert. Defcon 5. Designated Survivor Mode Activated.

You and Sam had decided on a code to use in the most grievous, world-shattering of situations.

Full Dean Meltdown

“Fuck.” There’s no point in continuing to curse to yourself. “Fuck.” But you can’t help it. Neither one of you has ever had to use it before. You’d come close a few times.

The book is forgotten, pushed to the side on the table surface. Your fingers glide over the phone’s keyboard.

Is he alright?!? What happened? Please, tell me this is a joke?

I wouldn’t joke about this. Sam’s words bubble up, line by line. Well, I made the mistake of joking right after it happened. It’s gotten progressively worse the entire drive back. He hasn’t said a single word since we got in the car. IDK what’s gonna happen.

“Fuck.”

Should I evacuate? How much time do I have?

Just pulled into the garage.

Shit, Sam! Do you not understand how a code word for disaster preparedness works? One needs enough time to actually prepare for the disaster!

You wait. More bubbles. Then nothing. Maybe Sam didn’t make it out alive. Maybe you should make a run for it through the war room and up the stairs. Save yourself.

I received some communication. He’s headed straight for the showers. Meet you in the lab.

“A what?”

“Musca.” Sam sighs. “Ever seen ‘The Fly’?”

“On cable years ago, filtered through my fingers.”

Sam continues. “They secrete this sticky goo to build a nest.” His mouth crinkles. “Dean landed in it.”

“The nest?” you ask.

“The goo. A puddle of the stuff. Monster fluids freak him out.”

You shiver in disgust at the thought. “Fuck creature feature fluids. 100% in agreement.”

“So, we tracked the musca to its hideout in an abandoned factory. We split up when we got inside…”

“Why do you always split up?” you ask, following it with a frustrated groan.

Sam purses his lips and then proceeds. “When I found him, he was basically glued to this massive conveyor belt holding the goo like it was a kiddie pool. I had to cut him out of most of his clothes to free him.”

The thought of a half-naked Dean has you shiver for other reasons. “Poor guy,” you add in an effort to express sympathy over your dirty thoughts.

Sam chuckles.

You straighten with worry Sam has figured out your crush on his brother. Ready to dispute any yearnings, you add a grumbly edge to your voice and the question. “What was funny about any of that?”

Sam fists long strands on the right side of his scalp high in the air. “Even his hair got stuck to the belt. I had to hack half of it off.” He fingers his bangs back into effortless waves. “Once we killed it, Dean mumbled, ‘Vidal Sassoon you ain’t, fucker.’”

You shrug, confused. “Well, I mean, I get the trauma from the nasty gnat excretions. But that doesn’t explain why you had to warn of a possible Dean disaster.”

Sam’s gaze tears from yours to stare at the floor by his boots.

“Sam?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I might have said something like, ‘We can’t all be masterful hunters with glorious locks.’”

You frown. “Sam…”

Sam raises a hand in defense. “Hey, maybe now he’ll finally shut up about my hair being a liability. I mean, hello, I’ve still got mine.”

The temptation to knock on Dean’s bedroom door is great. But you refrain, hiding away in yours instead. He’ll be better in the morning, you decide. Especially if you fry up some bacon.

A light rap of knuckles against mahogany distracts you from the latest show binge on your laptop. You pause the action. “Yeah?”

“Got a minute?” Even with the question, Dean’s tone sounds like a command.

You gulp. “Sure.” Rotating in the seat, your hand grips the top of the backrest. You’ll try to hold the line against the Dean Winchester Offensive.

The door swings slowly on its hinges. Dean slinks into your space. It’s the opposite of his usual bluster and humorous bellows that lead to inevitable laughter on your end. His slippers shuffle along the tile. He’s wearing roomy sweats and a dark t-shirt that hugs his torso. A folded towel is wedged into the crook of his arm.

Your brain locks onto two things that appear off about Dean. The first thing totally out of place on the masterpiece before you is the baseball cap.

In the next second, you remember why he’s wearing it. It’s not because he’s undercover as a delivery driver or Fish and Wildlife Game Warden.

Dean does not want you to see his hair in its current state.

The second thing makes your pulse quicken. His beard is… gone. You can’t remember the last time you saw him even close to clean-shaven. You forgot what that sharp jawline used to do to your insides.

“Hey.” You don your best don’t-let-on-to-anything smile.

Dean scrutinizes you as if you are a witness in his rapid-fire way and then huffs. “Son of a bitch told you, didn’t he?”

You decide not to remind Dean he and Sam share the same mother. “He did. I’m sorry. You okay?”

The door clicks shut. “I’ll live. Sam might not see the light of day, though.”

You ignore the murder threat, instead focusing on a new scent in the air. You sniff, nostrils flaring with the deep inhale. Dean smells like he’s working on an amazing beach tan.

He nods at your reaction. “Coconut Oil. I had to use all that was in the kitchen for…” He circles his lower body with a finger and eventually points to the baseball cap.

“Did it do the trick?”

“Better than I hoped. I even got all that nasty shit out of my hair.” His weight shifts from one foot to the other. “But I need a favor.”

“At your disposal.” Still seated, you somersault your hand as if addressing royalty.

That at least cracks a tiny smile into his serious veneer. “I had to take a razor to my hair and cut it pretty short. Can you clean me up in the back?”

You clutch your chest and gasp in the most dramatic fashion you can muster. “You trust me to touch your hair?”

“I trust you with my life, wiseass.” Dean smirks. “Can the sass and help a guy out, would ya?”

A warmth blossoms in your heart at Dean’s words. The heat spreads to your skin. You wave a hand at the towel and clear your throat. “Those the accouterments?”

Dean quirks a brow and grins. “Croutons?”

“And you call me the wiseass.” You sigh.

He shrugs with a nod in agreement. He drops the towel on the desk and lifts one of the corners to reveal the electric razor inside.

“Okay. Here’s as good a place as any, I suppose.” You rise from your seat, close the laptop, and move it to your dresser.

“You sure? We can go to the bathroom.” He thumbs at the door.

You wave a hand at the chair you vacated, now standing behind it. “Here’s good.”

Dean sits. The wooden chair creaks.

“Towel.”

Dean grabs the razor before passing the towel. You flap the fabric, channel your inner toreador, and let it billow over Dean’s frame like a sail. When it settles, you wrap and tuck it into the back of the collar.

Moments like this are pure indulgence. Getting within close proximity of Dean years ago left your brain unable to process the simplest tasks. Breathing. Blinking. Talking. Eventually, you got a handle on your senses. Now, you could treat yourself to the experience of him on occasion in a myriad of ways. No one had to be the wiser that the mundane helped create many fantasies.

“Razor.”

Dean chuckles, presenting you with the razor over his shoulder. “It’s not surgery.”

“Hey, appreciate the seriousness with which I’m embracing this endeavor.” You step to his left. “Dean?”

He lifts his head to peer up from under the brim of his cap. “Yeah?” His blinks emphasize the question.

All that does is force you to focus on his pretty lashes and the eye color he’s daring you to try and describe in your head. The cheekbones and the manicured five o’clock shadow aren’t helping matters either. You swallow and remember what’s supposed to happen next. “Can’t do much with that hat on your head.”

“Oh. Right.” He sighs. “Just, no laughing, alright?”

You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze softly in confirmation. “No laughing. Promise.”

Dean exhales. You suck in your lips and hold your breath. He closes his eyes and peels the cap off.

You stare dumbfounded.

“Say whatever you gotta say,” Dean mumbles with scrunched features and shut lids.

Your vision clouds. Heart races. “It’s…”

“Awful,” he interrupts.

“Perfect,” you whisper.

Eyes open at the word. His gaze shoots up to meet yours. “Huh?”

Gone are the 90s dreamboat bangs he’s been growing out and tending to since 2020. In their place are a couple of directionless inches that need gel after the scrubbing, clipping, and hat matting. The Musca goo must have done most of its damage around the sides and back. In those areas, he’s shaved it short and close, done his best to fashion a fade that you imagine was muscle memory for him even after all these years. You eye the spot at the base of his skull that needs to be cleaned and tapered.

You’re blinking, fighting back tears, utterly speechless.

Dean stares, total confusion lining his face. “Are you crying? Why the hell are you crying?” He taps the top of his head. “Shit… is it that fucking of a fiasco?”

“No.” You cover your mouth at the possibility a nervous laugh might spill out, which will only irritate him further. Moments pass as you struggle to steady your breath.

“Well, what the hell is it then?”

Dropping the hand covering your mouth, you beam down at him. “It’s you.” You could care less about what you were supposed to do with the razor in your hand. Instead, you perch your ass against the desk so you can lean back and take him in.

Dean’s eyes widen. You’ve seen that look of concern many times. “Yeeaaah. It’s me. Who else would it be? Do I need to get Sam?”

Your head shakes in amazement at the vision. “I haven’t seen this Dean since… damn, since before the pandemic. Since you and Sam made that bet, remember?”

“Gonna have to be a little more specific. Sam and I make lots of bets.”

“The one about you being unable to resist the temptation to take a razor to your hair during lockdown. I don’t even remember what the stakes were.”

Dean contemplates. “Hm. I haven’t got a clue. That was like, what, four years ago.” His lids shade the dark green of his irises. “This Dean?”

You nod. Your breath hitches at the swell of emotions rising. “The guy I first met.”

Dean shifts in the chair and leans forward. Every furrow and crinkle on his face melts away. His eyes appear to double in size as he waits for you to continue.

“My hero.” The whisper is a physical manifestation of how vulnerable and exposed you feel at Dean’s silent interrogation method. You press on. “The one that risked his life to save me… forever ago.”

He lifts one side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. “Sam was there, too, you know.”

You laugh. Cheeks warm at the adorably smug reaction. “Yes, you’re right. He was.”

Dean shakes his head. “Sam’s had the exact same haircut for years. I don’t see you crying every time you lay eyes on him. He’s a walking reminder of the guy you first met.”

“But he’s not you.” In your haste to provide an explanation, you realize you’ve said too much.

Dean’s mouth opens a fraction. His brows downturn. He’s working it out in his head in real-time.

You’re terrified.

A new smile forms. You think you spot a blush on his cheeks. “What else do you remember about this Dean?”

You shrug and tear your gaze from his. You don’t want your words to betray you again.

“Hm.” Dean rambles off a laundry list. “A lot of brooding back then, wasn’t there? I was a really good brooder. Hard to figure out? Distant, too, right? Definitely knew what was best for everybody. Stubborn jackass.”

You remain silent.

“Okay, still a stubborn jackass.”

You giggle. He joins in with a chuckle. Your anxiety eases and you find courage to look at him again.

“We’ve all changed in different ways, I guess. You, for example.” Dean gestures in your direction.

You stiffen. This could go many ways. You aren’t ready for any of them.

“You don’t take any of my shit, for one.” He raises a finger. “You're confident. You speak your mind. You have a life outside of these bunker walls.” Four fingers are on display for a while. He smiles and elongates his thumb. “But you still make this your home.”

“Every second of the life I’m able to live is because of you guys. I owe you everything. I’m lucky you let me make this my home.” You reason.

Dean’s smile drops. The open palm clenches into a fist and rests on his thigh. “You don’t owe us anything.”

“You and Sam did all that for me without batting an eye. You didn’t expect anything in return. You and Sam gave me so much more than I could ever repay. You gave me a second chance. You gave me a home.” You shrug and smile. “You became my home.”

He studies the floor and smirks, stating more to himself, “Not the only long-standing bet I’ve lost to Sam today.” Dean inhales and sits tall, focusing back on you. He nods, slow and calculated. “So, perfect, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get a big head.”

“A little late for that.” He grins and reclines back. “Would you go so far as to say this Dean” – he sweeps his hands in front of his figure in a dramatic gesture – “is irresistible?”

You exhale. “I don’t know if I’d say irresistible.”

He licks his lips. “Whew. Well, that’s good. I mean, otherwise, you’d have the same problem I have.”

You drop the razor on the desk and cross your hands over your chest. “What problem would that be?”

A heated gaze, beginning at your socked feet, rakes over you with his answer. “How much I find every fucking thing about you irresistible. You could shave your head and wear a potato sack, and I’d still have to keep my feelings in check.” You're practically on fire by the time his eyes lock with yours. “Every goddamn second of every day I’m around you.”

“This would be one of those times I don’t take any of your shit,” you scoff and squint back.

It’s his turn to clutch his hand to his chest. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re having a little too much fun at the expense of my soul-baring.”

“Wanna bet?”

Dean’s voiced that question countless times. Tonight, though, certainty laces his words.

He seems to take your silence as the only needed response. “Kiss me.”

“Wh-hat?”

“If you think you can resist, kiss me, and it’s a one-and-done.” His brows lift. “But if you can’t… Well, I might not leave this room anytime soon.”

“That doesn’t sound like a wager. More like a dare.” You straighten your stance. “Besides, you’re assuming…”

He grumbles out an interruption, “Sounds like somebody’s stalling.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

“Maybe we both take the armor off for a night. Take a chance on something that could be awesome.” Dean posits. His hands rub the cloth atop his thighs. “I can make it awesome.” The tone is low and promising. “If it helps, I’m this Dean tonight. We can worry about that Dean tomorrow.” He smiles, reaches a hand out to you, and nods in encouragement.

He’s struggling to play it cool, keep his emotions in check. You’ve seen this Dean before. He’s inhaling and exhaling fast through his nose. His jaw clenches and it cracks your resolve even further.

You drop your shield and let this Dean win you over.

You melt, wrapping your fingers over his. This Dean’s touch electrifies every cell and awakens every dormant hope you had put to rest. He tugs you into his space. His lead forces the parting of your legs in order for his thigh to slot between. You hover. Your chin drops to your chest while his chin tips up high to hold your gaze. His body heat pulses off him like a vibrational energy. “Kiss me.” It’s the sweetest and softest request you’ve ever heard this Dean utter.

Your fingers trace along the freshly shaved hair over his right ear. It’s slippery and smooth in one direction, scritch-scratchy in the other. You can study every battle scar on this handsome canvas. No bangs of curtains or overgrown beard can hide them from you now.

His lips part and release a deep sigh. Your fingers slip down his neck. Warm hands rest on the curve of your hips.

“I won’t be able to resist you,” you whisper.

“Good,” he hums. He’s guiding you with a firm grip to straddle his thigh. Then, there’s an encouraging push with a large palm and splayed fingers against the middle of your back. The sweet smell of coconut hits. Your gaze zones onto that bowed top lip. The way the plump bottom one parts from it to grant entrance.

Dean huffs an impatient groan you are all too familiar with. “You don’t kiss me in the next five seconds, I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” you tease.

“More like a warning.” His voice is gruff and deep.

You hold back a moan at the sound, then dip down and do as you’re told.

Everything about the kiss is eager and rushed. Together you’re a tangle of limbs and fever pitch need. You’re pressed tight and right to his body - all muscle-tense and trigger-ready. His lips respond in kind to your every brush, swipe, and nudge for more and more.

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he murmurs through the kiss.

You gasp in satisfaction at the intention.

His lips skim to your jaw, under your ear, then down your neck. “I gotta know that’s what you want.”

“Yes, Dean.”

Another hum thrums against your skin. You shiver as fingers creep under the hem of your t-shirt. His nose nuzzles along the frayed v-neck collar. He cups your breasts under the fabric. A thumb and finger twists one of your nipples even more erect. Teeth scraping and tongue lapping over the other fabric-covered nipple draw a strained moan out of your throat.

Soon the shirt is tugged hastily over your head for removal. Then you feel his mouth and hands all over your breasts again, unencumbered.

You’re a panting, heaving mess riding his thigh like you’re on an X-rated carousel. You arch your chest into his face. He’s slurping and sucking your nerve endings into the stratosphere. He pops a tit out of his mouth long enough to order, “Yeah, come for me so I can fuck that nice wet pussy.”

Dean staring at you, commanding you to come for him, is the tipping point you need to orgasm hard and fast.

“Yeah.” He grabs a fistful of your hair and clamps his mouth to yours. “Gonna feel so good around my cock.” He steals every gasp of air you expel with his inhales.

You’re tingling all over. He peels you off his thigh to sandwich his standing body to yours. He towers over you. He’s stiff and erect in his sweats, pressed into your lower tummy. His hands sweep up and down the channel of your spine.

“This Dean’s got a lot to make up for.” His tongue licks at your lips. “But I gotta be inside you right now.”

You nod. “You got five seconds to get me naked and on that bed.”

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester is not up for a challenge.

The chair behind him is now careening towards the bedroom door on all four legs. You scream-giggle as he lifts you into the air while he twirls, then tosses you onto the mattress, bouncing at the impact.

The sound of the chair crashing and toppling into a corner does nothing to distract you from watching Dean tunnel out of his t-shirt, kick off his slippers, and hopscotch out of his pants and boxers. His hard, thick cock springs to attention.

Fuck. You want every inch of that deep inside you.

He hooks his fingers onto the hem of your pants and manages to pull your socks off along with them. Kneeing onto the bed, he croons, “Been wanting you for so long, baby.”

Your head falls back into the cushion of the mattress, woozy from Dean’s actions and confession. “Probably been wanting you longer.”

Your panties are off and tossed over his shoulder next. “You don’t gotta wait anymore.” He grips under your knees and drags you to him. He slides over the wet heat of your folds and hisses, “Wanna fuck you without a condom.”

You whimper, “Just fuck me already.”

He smiles, grabs his cock – that must be fitted with a pussy homing device – and pistons into your entrance without any further mother fucking ado.

You gasp at the searing heat and sharp pain of him stretching you open. But he doesn’t stop fucking you. He’s minding how your facial features accept the brunt of each thrust and the agonizing slow release of his cock. Over and over. His descent is just as slow as he fucks. But eventually, your legs clamp around his waist and he wraps you in an embrace. Chests plastered together, moaning into each other’s mouths.

Your fingers inch into what remains of his bangs. You pull at the hair and Dean groans out, “Yeah.”

It’s lovely and languid for however long you both have the patience. The feel of him everywhere and inside is something you don’t ever want to end. But there’s a second orgasm building. The thought of Dean spilling into you has your walls clench in impatience around his cock.

“Fuck,” he grunts, face tucked along your neck. You lift your head up to enjoy the view of his undulating back and curvy ass clenching and raising as his fucking gains momentum. You pull at his hair again. “Fuuuck.”

He stills, turns to stone, and you feel his cock pulse and warmth spill inside. Moments later, a hand wedges between your bodies to thumb your clit and trigger your second orgasm.

You cry out his name.

“I got you, baby,” Dean whispers into your ear. And he does. Not letting go and practically swaddling you with his body. The sexiest weighted blanket on the planet.

You smile and stroke – instead of pulling – at his hair. “Who’s got me exactly? This Dean or That Dean?”

He sighs, sounding winded. “You get all the versions. Whether you like it or not.”

“I’d like that very much.”

He leans back to stare at you. “Yeah?” He’s red and flushed and the happiest you’ve ever seen him. “Even if I grow my hair out again?”

You nod. “Yeah. More for me to pull.”

Dean groans and flops to his back beside you, chuckling.

You listen to the rhythm of your collective breathing slow down and regulate. His fingers brush along the flesh of your thigh. “Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Earlier, you said something about losing two bets to Sam today. What was the other one?”

“Asshole told me you had a thing for me years ago. Let’s hold off on telling him he was right, or I’m doing his laundry for an entire year.”

“I don’t think we have to tell him anything, Dean. I’m pretty sure he heard everything.”

“Hm. You’re right.” He’s up on an elbow, staring down at you. “Maybe text him that code thing? That might get him out of the bunker for a while.”

You blink. “Code?”

“Don’t play coy now.” Dean shakes his head. “But what’s the ‘66’ mean?”

You bite your lip.

He waits.

“It was Sam’s idea.”

He waits.

“The 66 Seals.”

Dean cringes.

You shrug. “Too soon?”

“And he says I have a twisted sense of humor.” Dean yawns. He finds the edge of the comforter you both are lying atop and tosses it over your naked bodies. “So, will you still clean me up in the back? Maybe wait until morning, though?”

“Absolutely.” You snuggle into his chest, secure that Dean will wake up next to you in the morning. “If you don’t look good, we don’t look good.”

It takes a beat before Dean responds with a teasing smack to the back of your head, followed by a kiss on your forehead. “Wiseass.”

#jacklesversebingo23 #dean winchester fan fiction #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic

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fatesundress · 1 year ago

Text

⭑ 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.

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