#But I got it years ago and I still reread it from time to time

[sophieswundergarten]

Has anyone else read "What We Found in the Sofa and How It Saved the World" by Henry Clark?

It's kind of like MBS in that a group of kids who are basically alone have to avert world domination from an organization that uses cell phones (among other tactics) to affect people's minds and is capable of erasing memories (Although there's no recovering from it) and the big bad guy has a crack team of violent henchmen with silly names and a familial connection to the eccentric man who recruits the kids

But other than that it's nothing like MBS and is absolutely off the walls bonkers insane

And I love it

[wundrousarts]

Something I’ve noticed for awhile is that I often get comments from people about how they are surprised how I always come up with theories and try to guess what might happen and they “could never do that” themselves. I want to say: yes you can! There’s honestly a shortage of Nevermoor theories and ideas and speculation and etc and I want to see MORE!!!

Want to talk about how Morrigan’s mom is actually secretly alive? How the Scholar Mistresses are a Wundrous Act? Do you think the Tempus Divinity looks like an owl, or do you think Weaving and Ruination would be met together? Or have you ever thought about how this one line, from Chapter 19 of Nevermoor, about Betram Crow actually means he was a Cursed Child? Whatever it is you want to talk about: GO FOR IT!!!

I personally find it very fun to go sort of “English class mode” and look at the text in front of me and think about what different things might mean and analyze it and even overthink it to an unnecessary (but fun!) amount. But that’s just me and how I like to approach things! You don’t need to make long posts and quote specific lines if that isn’t your style. The big thing to remember is that so much can happen in the next six books, so throw any idea out there! You never know what twists and turns will be thrown at us. I think it’s fun to share these ideas and discuss with other people— sure, maybe there’s just something you missed when reading, but perhaps some new ideas spawn might from it. Some speculation could even serve as inspiration for fics!

There are some theories and thoughts that I’ve posted that have been “debunked” when I reread a book, or when someone pointed out something, or even just when something had a real-world basis that I as an American didn’t catch. But it was still fun to think about it all, and there’s some bits and pieces that I see as notable and worth considering. I think most of the Silverborn Masterpost is going to be “wrong”, but if just 1% of it is “correct”, even indirectly, I will take that as a win. I know it feels like during the hiatus everyone’s talked about everything, but I hope that the incoming communal reread (fingers crossed) and obviously Silverborn brings some speculation back to the fandom because I want to discusssssss!

[necrotic-nephilim]

I’m gonna be honest I didn’t realize the new 52 messed with Kon that much till I read your post and now I can’t get over the potential. I’m a Tim/Kon girly at heart so I would devour anything you write exploring the 52 vs typical Kon. Also Time being in a clone sandwich is 👌.

the new-52 messed Kon up SO bad it's ridiculous. like, to the point i would personally argue he's a completely unrelated character to pre-Flashpoint/Rebirth Kon. his personality, his suit, his origin, all different. the only real similarities are the name and powerset. and even New-52!Kon's powers are slightly different from pre-Flashpoint!Kon. New-52!Kon is a clone of a future version of Jon Lane Kent, cloned by N.O.W.H.E.R.E. to provide genetic material to Jon Lane Kent, whose body was not handling being half human/half Kryptonian well, it was a whole thing. New-52!Kon is also where we get the infamous "Kon-El means 'abomination of the house of El' and Kara basically named him a slur in Kryptonian culture" tidbit, because that is the only time that's canon. (originally Kon-El was a name gifted by Clark to accept Kon as his family way back in the 90s) he also never went by Conner Kent. New-52!Kon just straight up didn't have any real human identity or connections, outside of being very close to Tim and some Titans.

the very TLDR of Kon's history is: during post-Crisis/pre-Flashpoint, a clone called Superboy is created by CADMUS. at first, he's considered to be a clone of a dude named Paul Westfield and is not Kryptonian whatsoever, he was simply made to look like Superman and only has Tactile Telekinesis as a power. then, it was made canon that actually he was a clone of Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, but Lex hid this fact and slowly, Kon developed more Kryptonian powers. he's given the name Kon-El by Clark, and is taken in by the Kents, getting the name Conner Kent. then Flashpoint happens, we get the New-52, and we're given the above version of Kon-El, who is a clone of Jon Lane Kent, created by N.O.W.H.E.R.E. who has mostly very strong telekinesis powers and some Kryptonian powers. he's with the Titans for a bit, then at the end of the New-52, he kills some aliens and feels bad about it so he decides to fuck off and is never seen again, it's presumed he's dead but never confirmed. then Rebirth happens and DC makes Jon Kent the current Superboy, we get Supersons and all that, and it's assumed that no version of Kon-El exists. just at all. he's not around whatsoever, Jon is our only Superboy. *but* in 2019, we get a new Young Justice run and the pre-Flashpoint Kon-El is back, and we're given the explanation of: Kon got accidentally teleported to this alternate realm called Gemworld and then Flashpoint happened, and since that was a Crisis Event that changed the timeline, the poor lad got *erased* from the timeline, causing most people to *not fucking remember him* and for him to remember a timeline that no longer exists. some of the Young Justice team vaguely remember him, Ma and Pa Kent remember him, but notably, Clark *does not remember him*. it's not an issue of "Clark ignored Kon in favor of Jon" it's an issue of "Kon was erased from the timeline and didn't exist for years bc he was stuck in Gemworld and Clark just doesn't remember Kon or Kon's timeline" which to me, is far more tragic but i digress. since then, Kon has been back and is present in most significant Superfamily runs, with his own recent mini-series, Superboy: Man of Tomorrow. (which was very good btw)

so basically: the New-52 fucked Kon up so bad they wrote him out of comics for years and then brought back the pre-Flashpoint version, but never *explicitly* killed the New-52 version off. so hypothetically, it's possible that there are currently two characters existing in the DC universe named Kon-El who have been Superboy. and like i said above, one of New-52!Kon's only real significant relationships was with Tim, it was the only thing the New-52 managed to get right about Superboy, his closeness to Tim. they have a *lot* of moments that read incredibly queer. and ofc, it's just outright confirmed in Dark Crisis: Young Justice that Tim had a crush on pre-Flashpoint!Kon at some point. so while comics are intent on pretending New-52!Kon doesn't exist, i am intent on putting Tim in a clone sandwich.

because i do think it's fun to play with Tim having genuine feelings and potentially a relationship with both of them. and the fucked up nature of him not fully *remembering* his relationship with pre-Flashpoint!Kon (which is a canon thing, in YJ(2019) Tim has vague memories of Kon he's struggling to piece together and understand why he cares about this guy he doesn't recognize so much) and how frustrating that is for Tim. he knows he loves Kon, but it's all foggy besides that. and so it's even *more* fucked up if Tim dated New-52!Kon before he got emo and ran off into the unknown. obviously in canon no one has told current Kon about New-52!Kon bc comics are doing the good ol' tried and true of "sweep that shit under the rug" but for fanfic, i think it's fun to ask the question of: would anyone *tell* Kon? especially Tim? who now remembers dating both versions of them? would he admit to Kon that briefly, he had another Kon? how would Tim cope with that and move on? personality wise, they could not be more different. they dress and act and look different. they're not the same person, but there's certainly a questionable factor of Tim's dating history including two Kon-Els.

the idea i've had for a while is Tim slowly starting to date pre-Flashpoint!Kon again. it feels familiar and like home. and Tim has grieved and accepted that wherever New-52!Kon is, he doesn't want to come home, he didn't love TIm enough to stay and try. so Tim takes the Kon he has, and genuinely has a happy relationship. like for once, life is good and things almost make sense for Tim. but then, of course, New-52!Kon comes back. he decides he wants to try again and he finds Tim. only to find well. he's been replaced. and technically, he's been replaced with the *original* that he didn't even know *existed*. and if being a clone is bad enough, that just makes it a hundred times worse. because imagine knowing you're actually the second Kon-El your boyfriend who you never *technically* broke up with fell in love with. that's gotta give you some kind of complex.

so i think it's fun if both Kons try to step back and let the other Kon date Tim. both of them have reasons to feel like the "replacement" or "fake" Kon, and it makes them incredibly awkward with each other. do they count as the same person? bc they definitely don't *feel* like the same person to each other, but with weird timeline stuff, who can really say. them settling on an awkward throuple that's really meant to be Tim just dating them both but somehow they end up dating each other too is so fun for me. they both feel like imposters to the Superboy name but are so deeply in love with Tim Drake, it's the one thing truly connecting them. and then of course, Tim feels bad in that somehow, he's betraying both of them for having feelings for the other. but they make it work, with a lot of awkward angst and miscommunication. i just think it'd be fun. very difficult to write to get all the weird timeline nuances down in a way that's understandable in a fanfic (bc you can't just. infodump like i did on this post) but doable. also difficult to tag, because even though i argue these are two different characters, i'm pretty sure Ao3 groups them under the same character tag. so it'd be difficult to convey it's not *really* as selfcest-y as it would imply. comics, man. DC will never acknowledge New-52!Kon again, and he's admittedly a terrible adaptation of Kon-El, but. i think he was sort of neat in his own right and i'd *love* for DC to just inexplicably bring him back and make the current Kon deal with the consequences of all that. and them make Tim kiss them both. obviously.

[fictionadventurer]

Potential January Reads

A Brilliant Night of Ice and Stars by Rebecca Connolly

Rhododendron Pie by Margery Sharp

So Big by Edna Ferber

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

Vibrant Paradoxes by Bishop Robert Barron

The Diary of a Country Priest by George Bernanos

Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope

Katherine Wentworth by D.E. Stevenson

[blueskittlesart]

Since you're asking for requests... Maybe Ran from Case Closed?

YEAHHHH if no one else got me i know my one follower who likes the same bad japanese detective show as me got me ‼️

[fellhellion]

insert joke abt glutton for punishment etc etc but truly i am that dude who reaches the end of every wayhaven book like waow...detective/A have come so far 🥰....

[sysig]

Wouldn’t want him getting lost now, would we (Patreon)

[pyrriax]

ANYWHO goodnight tumblr i'll be back on the art grind tomorrow i think 🙏

[dhmis-heritage-posts]

This account may be in dormancy until next June 19th or if there's any time earlier I would feel comfortable dedicating a couple whole days to sorting through people's archives to try and find what was niche-popular. (Unless there's submissions, that takes less time).

So here's my periodic post to say I haven't forgot about the blog, as always I’m simply Tired (and Busy haha)

[xawkward-ariesx]

Related to the discussion about commenting on older fics. I personally like it when people comment on older fics cus it also reminds me that that fic exists and gives me the chance to reread it divorced from the original stress of writing it, that allows me to remember why I wrote it for myself in the first place

[aromantic-jason]

pinned post ✌️

Hi, I'm crow and/or rook. any pronouns. I made this blog as a place to store my riordanverse themed thoughts so i have somewhere to put them instead of just rambling to my siblings.

If you want to see non riordanverse things, follow me on my main, @funsizedcrow

Art tag: #crow's art

Original post tag: #crow.txt

[arminsumi]

Another geto size kink vanilla smut please. I can't get enough. I always go back to reread yours it's so good

Oh, boyfriend Geto Suguru and his petite girl — who he's obsessed with.

+ warnings; size kink, panty-humping, some dirty talk

+ an; omg this was so yum to write, thank you for reminding me that Geto Suguru + a size kink exists 😋💗

Bf!Geto who's got one enormous hand resting on the small of your back during parties, his straight lips twisting into a grin when he looks down at you — a dirty grin that gets you tingly all over. Oh his heart lurches when you crane your neck to look back at him. As he commented when the two of you first met three years ago, "It's cute that you have to put in so much effort to look up at me."

... and pre-bf!Geto who used to randomly whisk you off your feet, big biceps twitching and flexing against your sides, as a 'joke' — yeah, yeah, it was just to surprise you. But he just wanted to have a sweet small girl in his arms, and wanted to show off how strong he was.

Just standing behind him and seeing his big broad back worked your imagination — how d'you think he'd look from the back while driving into your sloppy hole, how his muscles would flex?

And you know, Suguru was always aware each time you were staring even though you thought you were little miss slick, so of course he straightened out his posture — he had to remind you that he hits that 6'3 mark!

Bf!Geto's favorite thing is rubbing his thick fingers up and down your tiny clit through your innocent pink panties, making you shiver and twitch and whine in response to the subtlest friction as he's got you bent over his black-sheeted bed. It makes him smirk, it makes his cock stand stiff and upright in his pants, leaky cockhead dripping precum against his inner thigh.

It's in this bed that bf!Geto loves eating you out — of course, he likes to get you impatient, taking his time tying his hair up until you tug at the hem of his shirt and practically pull him into you for a hot, sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that he just melts into. In minutes he's sliding down, big rough n' calloused hands prying your thighs apart, dragging you closer to his face like you weigh nothing — because you do weigh nothing to a big boy like him.

You're especially reminded of his size kink when he thumbs your pussy lips apart, or when he stuffs his thick fingers inside you, rubbing against your favorite spots like it's just a fun little game for him. Or when he thumbs your actual lips apart to explore your mouth a bit before sliding his fingers in — "Get 'em wet for me, baby." he murmurs, eager to feel your tiny mouth.

Bf!Geto loves squishing his cock against your slit, dividing your soft lips until they sandwich him. Of course, he acts so nonchalant, blowing his hair out of his face as he looks down at the pretty sight of your pussy getting dwarfed by his thick girth.

When his black, sultry eyes drift up to meet yours, you feel your stomach drop and your face heats up.

"Feel me pulsing, baby?" he teases, "Aw, sorry, I didn't mean to make you shy. No, come on, don't be shy — " he giggles, leaning in for a fat kiss. "You're so cute."

As the thick middle of his cock's sliding through your folds, his free hand meets yours and pins it down, holds it tight — did you see that? Did you catch the glimpse of his bicep twitching when he squeezed your hand?

bf!Geto still goes crazy each time you grind your pussy back on his cock as if it's the first time all over again. He lets out a hot breath, presses his cockhead tightly against your hole, and rubs so hard through your thong that he half-fucks it into your gushing pussy. They're totally ruined with gooey cum and sticky juices by the time he's done obsessively rubbing his cock against you.

And bf!Geto loves your tiny thongs, loves pulling them back and letting them snap against your holes when he's got you in reverse cowgirl.

And he just simply loves how much smaller your clothes are. When you and him weren't dating yet, he'd let you wear his big t-shirts or hoodies for sleepovers — only to choke and drool the next morning over the sight of little you in his big clothes.

bf!Geto's got thick, thick muscular thighs that press into the back of your plush, smaller thighs. And his long legs? He loved flirting joking "... I think I'm too tall for you — yeah we'd have a hard time having sex, huh?" long before you and him were dating.

And it's true. It's pretty difficult, getting railed by a 6'3 thick-muscled boy like him — that's why sometimes he just resorts to lifting you and fucking you while standing, weighting you against the wall with his whole body and each thrust of his cock.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

suspicious detail

I was rereading the prologue to collect some information for a response and came across this interesting tidbit from Crowley:

“The student selection process has not erred once in its century of existence!” So the Mirror of Darkness has been the one selecting and sorting students for 100ish years. This aligns with what we knew about NRC’s nearing 100 loss streak against RSA.

BUT THAT’S REALLY WEIRD???? Because we now know that NRC has been around for MUCH longer than 100ish years. Lilia first got his invitation to the school 500 years ago:

Meaning that NRC was still a thing 500 years ago?? But if we take what Crowley said in the prologue into consideration, that means that the Mirror of Darkness was a recent change in the selection and sorting process. For those 400 other years, some other method was used. (~400ish years is also coincidentally how long Silver was cursed to sleep for.)

Well, TWST???? Care to elaborate??? To explain????? 😭

At this point, we still do not know how long Crowley has been headmaster for. He seems to have been the one in charge when Lilia decided to enroll in NRC 3 years ago, as Lilia thanks Crowley specifically for allowing him to be a student:

Crowley’s beef with Ambrose the 63rd in book 5 seems to indicate a long-standing rivalry. According to Crowley’s Raven Jacket vignettes, he was around as headmaster when Trein was tenured and Crewel was a student. Crowley also questions his own age, wondering how many decades ago he encountered and recruited the cafeteria’s skilled ghost chefs.

Therefore, I believe it’s entirely possible that he has been headmaster for at least the 100ish years of NRC’s losing streak. The question now is how long has Crowley been headmaster for??

If it was more than 500 years ago, then it debunks the “Crowley is Raverne/Malleus’s dad” theory, since it was Raverne who told Lilia it may be valuable to go to that school even after Lilia had tossed the acceptance letter away. How could Raverne be headmaster of NRC and be an ambassador for another country? Why wouldn’t Lilia be aware of this other occupation?

If it was less than 500 years, then it throws suspicion upon Crowley’s identity because WOW, why’s this new headmaster suddenly taking up the reins at this school that he told his friend several hundred years ago to reconsider?? And seeing how it was Crowley who let Lilia in, that’s even more shady. This would also explain the mask he wears at all times, perhaps to keep Lilia from noticing who he really is? (Though the only way this would work is if Crowley was also purposefully faking his voice, as Lilia implies that Raverne’s voice sounds like Malleus’s.)

But then thinking about how the Mirror of Darkness only started picking students 100 years ago… That means whoever was headmaster 500 prior used a different selection method??? And how does that fit into Crowley’s unknown length of tenure as NRC’s headmaster?? 💀

I don’t know if I really ended up reaching a conclusion with this post but I’d figure I’d still put it out there in case anyone found this interesting or wanted to expand on these ideas ^^

[leirastar]

new world | chapter 2

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 3k | 12 Mins A/n: I had to reread this more than 100 times and almost got sick of it HAHHA but here it is, a little description to goretheron bloom. Also, don't you think her uncle is so sweet. Warning: Mentions of blood/injury, poisons, medical discussions, emotional distress, loss of flight (wings), implied danger, and unsettling imagery

It had been days since he left. The indigo feather he’d left behind still rested on your desk, a constant reminder of the stranger who crashed into your life—quite literally—and then disappeared as quickly as he came.

Foolish.

You told yourself it was foolish to dwell on it. He was a noble, someone from outside your quiet life, and you were just a simple healer. But despite your best efforts, his piercing gaze lingered in your thoughts, the memory of his presence as vivid as the storm that had accompanied him.

The soft rustle of wings outside caught your attention. You paused mid-motion, the faint sound unmistakable to anyone familiar with the graceful flutter of wings. Peering through the window, you spotted a familiar figure landing with practiced ease—tall and dignified, his gray wings folding neatly behind him as he approached the cottage. His fine but practical coat fluttered in the breeze, and despite the weight of his years, he carried himself with the quiet authority befitting his status.

You smiled faintly. Uncle.

Your uncle, Earl of Caius and one of the kingdom’s renowned royal healers, had chosen a noble’s life long ago. It wasn’t a life he sought—he was chosen by the prior king himself, elevated for his extraordinary skill. His visits were rare but always welcomed.

He always brought a little something from the capital: exquisite teas from faraway lands, rare herbs carefully packaged in silk pouches, or candied fruits so sweet they melted on your tongue. Small tokens, but each one a glimpse of the world beyond your quiet cottage—a reminder that he still thought of you even when duty kept him away.

Your uncle straightened his coat, brushing off imaginary dust before stepping toward your door. You were already there when he opened it.

“Uncle,” you greeted warmly.

“You look well, Y/N,” he greeted warmly, his sharp eyes immediately sweeping the room with practiced precision.

You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around him in a firm embrace. For a moment, he stiffened, caught off guard, but he quickly relaxed, chuckling softly as his arms encircled you in return.

“And here I thought you’d outgrown this,” he murmured, though his voice was touched with affection.

“Not yet,” you replied lightly, pulling back with a faint grin.

His sharp eyes swept the room with practiced precision as he stepped inside, as though cataloging every change since his last visit. You handed him a cup of tea, and he settled into the chair by the fire with a contented sigh.

“Still tending to the wounded of this village?”

“Someone has to,” you replied lightly, pouring yourself a cup as well.

He tilted his head, studying you with the piercing gaze of a man who noticed everything. “You look better than I expected. No surprise injuries or reckless incidents, I hope?”

You scoffed, stepping aside to let him settle further. “No more than you’ve come to expect from me.”

“Which is precisely why I’m asking,” he countered dryly, though his smile softened the words.

The warmth of the fire crackled gently as he took a sip of tea, his gaze sweeping the room approvingly. “You keep this place in good order. I don’t know how you manage it alone.”

“Well, someone has to. It’s quieter that way.” You brought over the teapot, settling into the chair opposite him. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another few days.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I found myself ahead of schedule and thought I’d drop by to make sure you haven’t run yourself into the ground.”

You shot him a wry look. “And how’s the royal court treating you?”

He sighed dramatically, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. “Full of insufferable egos and politics as always. But I’m alive, and they still need me to mend their wounds. Even kings are not immune to bad decisions.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Uncle. One of these days, your wit will land you in trouble.”

“I’ve lived long enough to handle it,” he replied with a small grin, though his tone turned more contemplative. He studied you for a long moment, the steam curling from his cup. “And you? How have you been—truly? Still burying yourself in books and herbs?”

You shrugged lightly, sipping your tea. “They keep me occupied. Better than idleness.”

Your uncle’s gaze lingered, thoughtful as ever. “Good. It’s safer that way.”

The mood shifted then, the air in the room growing heavier as he set his cup down. His expression hardened slightly. “Speaking of safety…”

You tilted your head, sensing the change. “What is it?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “There’s news from Caius. Bandits have been stirring trouble across Hala.”

Your brows furrowed as you leaned forward. “Bandits? This close to the borders?”

“Bold ones,” he confirmed, his tone low. “But it’s more than that. A few kings are gathering in Caius for a summit.”

That caught your attention. “A summit? Why?”

He sighed heavily, as though the words weighed on him. “A treaty of sorts. But rumors have been spreading of poachers—dangerous men—harvesting an herb best left untouched.”

The sharp edge in his voice made you sit up straighter. “An herb? What kind?”

Your uncle’s face darkened slightly, deepening the lines at his brow. “One you shouldn’t concern yourself with.”

You frowned, curiosity flaring. “But you know something, don’t you?”

His gaze snapped to yours, a silent warning in his eyes—the look he always gave when he wanted you to drop something.

“You wouldn’t know of it,” he said after a beat, though his tone turned teasing, a small smile curling his lips. “Your books aren’t that outdated, I hope?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You underestimate me, Uncle. I might surprise you.”

He chuckled softly, though the shadow of the conversation still lingered. As he leaned back into the chair, the tension in the room seemed to ease, just a little.

But then his tone turned serious again, his sharp gaze meeting yours. “There’s one more thing.”

You paused, your attention sharpening as he continued.

“The bandits… they’re said to be after a purple flower. Goretheron Bloom.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the name, the weight of it familiar, though distant—like a half-remembered tale.

“Goretheron?” you echoed.

He nodded gravely. “It was locked away in Kaizo for generations, hidden behind royal protection. For good reason, Y/N. It’s not a flower to be trifled with. Powerful in its properties, but dangerous—capable of healing or destruction, depending on who wields it.”

You leaned forward, your voice quiet but insistent. “And now? It’s been taken?”

“So it seems,” he confirmed, his expression grim. “Word is spreading that someone managed to harvest it—how or why, no one yet knows. But the kings wouldn’t gather in Caius unless it was serious.”

The room fell silent for a beat, the crackling of the fire the only sound between you.

“If it’s resurfacing…” you began cautiously.

Your uncle’s gaze sharpened. “Stay out of it, Y/N.”

You looked at him, your curiosity warring with the unspoken warning in his voice. He exhaled softly, as though seeing the stubborn resolve on your face.

“It’s beyond you, for now,” he added gently, though his tone carried the weight of authority. “I just wanted you to be aware. And careful.”

You nod, “I will.”

You settled into the chair opposite your uncle, both of you cradling steaming cups of tea. For a moment, the silence was comfortable—just the crackling of the fire filling the space—but you knew it wouldn’t last.

“You’ve been keeping busy, I hope?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet with a pointed look.

You sighed softly, knowing where this was going. “If you mean running around with baskets of herbs, tending wounds, and arguing with stubborn patients, then yes, Uncle, I’ve been busy.”

He huffed in amusement, shaking his head. “You’ve always had a way with people, even the difficult ones. I can’t imagine how they’d manage without you.”

You smirked faintly. “I’m sure they’d survive. I’m no royal healer like you.”

His smile faded slightly, replaced with something more thoughtful. “That doesn’t mean your work is any less important, Y/N.” He paused, studying you again, the familiar weight of concern in his gaze. “Though it wouldn’t hurt for you to find help. Someone who can share the burden. You can’t do it all alone forever.”

oh god. this talk.

You looked away, swirling the tea in your cup. “I’m managing fine, Uncle. Besides, you know how I like my peace.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Peace is one thing, solitude is another.” He leaned back slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t make me bring you a royal apprentice to follow you around and pester you.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I might. If it keeps you from working yourself to the bone.”

The two of you shared a small laugh, but beneath it, you could sense his genuine concern. He had always been this way—watchful, protective, perhaps because he knew better than most how fragile life could be.

His tone turned quieter then, contemplative. “Do you ever think about leaving here, Y/N? Coming with me to Caius, or even Kaizo? With your talents, you could—”

“No,” you interrupted softly, shaking your head. “This is where I belong. The people here need me, Uncle.”

He studied you for a moment, the lines of his face softening. “You’re stubborn, like your mother. But I suppose that’s not always a bad thing.”

You smiled faintly at the mention of her, though it stirred something bittersweet. “It’s not.”

He nodded, finishing the last of his tea and setting the cup aside. “Very well. I won’t argue. But…”

His tone shifted again, “how are your wings?” he asked after a pause, quieter this time.

You hesitated, your hand brushing instinctively against your back as though checking for pain. “They’re fine. Nothing’s happened since… you know.”

His gaze softened, though a trace of worry remained. “You were always special, Y/N. Fragile once, but stronger now. Your parents would be proud of you.”

You smiled faintly, hiding the faint unease his words stirred.

He chuckled under his breath, though his expression turned earnest again as he rose. “Just be careful. The world is shifting, and you’ll need to be ready.”

You followed him to the door, watching as his wings stretched out gracefully, their tips rustling faintly in the breeze. He turned to you one last time, his expression softening.

He stepped toward the door, stretching his wings, their gray feathers rustling softly as the breeze tugged at them. You followed him, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you held something close—a woven basket lined carefully with cloth.

“Wait,” you said, stopping him before he could step out. “I made you something.”

You handed him the basket, its weight familiar in his hands. He glanced at it with surprise before lifting the edge of the cloth to peer inside.

“A few herbs for the Capital—things you’re always running out of,” you explained, pointing to a bundle of carefully tied plants. “Your headache medicine, just in case you’ve been overworking yourself. And some food. I made that bread you like with the herbs and cheese.”

He blinked at you, his expression softening in a way that was rare for a man who had seen so much of the world. “You spoil me, Y/N.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Someone has to.”

He gave you a look, both amused and touched. “You take better care of me than half the nobles do.”

“I trust you’ll put it all to good use,” you teased, crossing your arms.

He grinned faintly, tucking the basket into the crook of his arm. “You have my thanks. The headache medicine will save me from the royal council, and the food will keep me from the capital’s dreadful cooks.”

You smiled softly as he stepped outside, his wings stretching wide once more.

“And don’t forget,” he added with a smirk, reaching into his coat pocket. “I brought you something.”

He handed you a small, silk-wrapped parcel, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was a familiar ritual—something sweet, a rare herb, or a delicate trinket from the capital. Unwrapping it, you found a small vial of blue-hued lavender oil, the scent rich and calming.

“For your nerves,” he teased with a wink.

“Thank you, Uncle,” you replied softly, clutching the vial as you watched him take flight, his silhouette fading into the open sky.

The cottage felt quieter after he left, the weight of his words still lingering. You turned the vial over in your hands, the faint scent grounding you as you returned to your desk—your thoughts already drifting toward the herbs and secrets he hadn’t quite shared.

You glanced toward your bookshelf.

Hours later, you sat hunched over your desk, sifting through dusty tomes and journals. One name leapt off the page like a whisper from the past: Goretheron Bloom.

The description was chilling. A rare, forbidden herb with properties that could heal or destroy, depending on who wielded it. It was said to be locked away in the Kingdom of Kaizo, its secrets hidden beneath layers of royal protection. And yet, here it was, being mentioned among poachers.

The book described its misuse in ancient times—villages decimated, the land poisoned, and entire bloodlines eradicated in a single night by those who dared to wield its corrupted essence.

Fields that had once been green and thriving were left barren, their soil turned black and lifeless. Those who survived spoke of a sickness that spread like fire—skin paling, veins darkening, and a madness that drove entire families to destruction.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing the faded ink of the passage. The sketch on the page—a twisted, thorny bloom with petals of deep, unnatural purple—seemed almost alive under your gaze.

“The Goretheron Bloom,” the text read, “is both a cure and a curse. For in hands unworthy, it becomes death.”

The book chronicled its history in agonizing detail. Fields turned barren, their soil poisoned and blackened. Those who mishandled it suffered horrific fates—skin paling, veins darkening to sickly shades of violet, life leeching from their very blood. Villages, once thriving, had crumbled into ruin at the hands of those foolish enough to wield its dangerous potential.

But the text didn’t stop there.

“The bloom itself carries no power unless manipulated,” the next passage warned. “Its petals must be woven into a band or pressed—forced—against flesh to take root. The essence must be bound with iron, a conduit to drive its poison deep into the veins. Without iron, the bloom is harmless. With it, it becomes death.”

“Woven and laced with iron…” you whispered, your voice hollow as the implications took hold. This was no accidental poison. The Goretheron Bloom could not simply happen to someone. It required intent. Someone had to craft the means for it to work, to deliberately place it against the victim’s skin and wait as its venom spread.

You stilled, your breath catching as you absorbed the weight of the words. Your eyes lingered on the illustration: the bloom, vibrant and dangerous, its thorny petals wound tightly into what looked like a crude bracelet.

A shiver crawled across your skin. This was no mere herb; it was a weapon. And someone out there knew exactly how to use it. You turned the page and kept reading.

“Its poison spreads swiftly,” you read, your voice barely audible, “seeping into the veins like fire. Without intervention within minutes, the sickness consumes the body. Breathing slows, the heart falters, and the wings—fragile as they are—begin to fracture under the strain.”

You stilled. “Wings… breaking?”

And then you saw it.

Your breath caught as your eyes settled once more on the image of the bloom, its petals inked in a deep, unnatural purple. The exact shade Yunho’s wound had carried.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat and your breath hitches. Memories surged forward—the faint sheen of violet bleeding into the edges of his gash, the way his pale skin seemed almost tainted, the way you thought at the time it was merely infection. But no.

It was this.

The ink on the page seemed darker, heavier, as though the words themselves carried dread. But now, staring at the book, the truth slammed into you like ice.

“Should the sickness go untreated for an even twenty minutes, the wings lose their strength entirely—shriveling, weakening—and the Aether within them dissipates. Flight becomes impossible. The afflicted may live, but their wings are left as hollow shells, little more than fragile remnants. They become grounded. They become human.”

Your hand hovered over the page, trembling faintly. You swallowed hard, the words echoing ominously in your mind.

“If he hadn’t made it to my cottage…” you murmured to yourself, the realization leaving you cold. Twenty minutes. That was all it took.

Had he pushed himself too far? Had he known the danger when he stumbled through your door? You thought back to the way he had held himself—rigid, stubborn, as though every breath was a battle. Yet even then, he hadn’t told you how dire his condition truly was.

Your eyes flicked back to the inked sketch of the Goretheron Bloom, its deep purple petals almost gleaming in the firelight. “How did he come into contact with this?” you wondered aloud.

The thought of wings breaking—of an Aetherion being grounded, flight ripped away from them—was enough to leave a hollow ache in your chest. For beings born to the skies, losing their wings was like losing a part of their soul.

And Yunho had nearly reached that point.

You closed the book slowly, your hand trembling as you rubbed at the faint chill creeping across your arms. Whoever was harvesting this plant—these poachers—knew exactly what they were doing. If it had already reached Yunho, what other dangers were brewing beyond the borders?

You exhaled shakily, your mind refusing to quiet itself. The Goretheron Bloom wasn’t just dangerous—it was deadly. And now it had resurfaced.

Masterlist

1 | 3

Taglist (CLOSED):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchlingdumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom

@ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirlxh01bri @neemaxx @Furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618 @pixie0627

@laurtiny112 @innocygnet @the-first-mate @miniverse-zen @katyeongs @Nuggiesnuggetdog04 @Sweetmoonlight9 @staytinyluv @bluesiebirdie @kaqua @ateezaddict24 @bamdoe @Kandy108 @pixie0627 @bunnii-dolls @kheartost @xlilehx @lalelol @Tiny2018 @salnovna @roryy95 @Fairylover68 @meowmeeps @awkward-fucking-thing @blackandgreenandblue @moniesmoon @skteezcursed

[rivalsispunk]

Beneath The Surface (Chapter 2 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (eventual) smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), more warnings added per chapter

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter summary: Declan grapples with the risk of hiring you while you grapple with whether or not you're good enough. Once the verdict is in, you both realise you may have jumped in feet first a little too hastily.

A/N: Things are heating up in more ways than one and I am soooo ready for you guys to meet the silently unhinged Declan... Oh, and in this universe, Declan did end up interviewing Margaret Thatcher. Also not entirely proofread so may be some mistakes. Happy reading!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Two: Beneath The Surface

“A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.”

You’ve spent the last half hour reading, then rereading, the same page of Pride and Prejudice, your creature-comfort book since you were a young teenager. Normally, you’d be able to recite the passage from memory by now, but your mind has been elsewhere than focussed on the words in front of you. It’s been over a week since your interview with Declan and you’ve heard nothing. Zilch. Nada. For days, your brain has been stuck in a constant loop of questions you’ve no answers for.

Why hasn’t he called? 

Why haven’t you heard anything? 

Did he find someone better?

That last one has been the most burning question of them all, coupled with the memory of Declan’s gravelly voice telling you, I’d be lucky to have ya.

So, why hasn’t he called?

It’s not lost on you that you sound more like a needy girl hanging out for a guy after a date than someone waiting to hear back about a job you weren’t even sure you wanted until the moment you were sat in his office. But you do want it.

The job, that is.

Taggie was none the wiser, too. She’d told you her father had barely given her an inkling of where his head was at, and that he remained suspiciously mum on the outcome of the interviews he’d had in the days succeeding yours. “I think he’s just been busy,” she countered, mentioning that Declan had been on edge in the lead up and preparation for his televised interview with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. You were well aware, and knew how much the opportunity meant to him, so you’d made a conscious effort to stay away from The Priory, as not to overwhelm Declan or put any additional pressure on him to make a decision about the assistant position. Instead, you’d met Taggie in town for afternoon tea on the days she wasn’t preparing for an event, or a meal at Bar Sinister when time called for a catch up. But the Thatcher interview was days ago now — a roaring success with both viewers and ratings — and you were getting restless for news.

Slamming your worn out copy of Pride and Prejudice shut, you reach for the phone by your bedside and dial your best friend for what feels like the fiftieth time this week. You’ve called The Priory so often in recent days that she doesn’t even say hello when she answers.

“Still no word yet,” she sighs down the line. “He’s in an awful mood tonight, though. Went straight up to his office when he got home, refused dinner. I think Mummy being away is getting to him.”

You hum in agreement, not that you have any real insight on the matter. “I’m sure he’s fine, Tag. Probably tired of putting up with that Tony Baddingam’s shit. I told you what a right arse he was to your dad when I was there, didn’t you?”

“You did. Honestly, I didn’t think about anyone else at Corinium when I suggested you work for Daddy. It’s one thing for you to be under him, but to be at the beck and call of Lord Baddingham, too?” You practically hear Tag shudder down the line. “Makes me feel ill the way he treats the women who work for him.”

You push aside any runaway thoughts elicited by Taggie’s mention of you under Declan and shrug. “It’s fine, Tag. I’ve dealt with enough Baddinghams in my time to know to tread carefully.” You pull the phone cable taut and pluck it with your finger. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve got the job anyway. I should have heard by now.”

In the room above Taggie, Declan stubs out his cigarette, reclining in his office chair as he listens to his daughter’s voice reverberate through the house. One final plume of smoke emerges from the pile of ashes and butts that have accumulated in the tray over the last twenty-four hours. He ought to be prepping for his next TV interview, a fairly benign chat with a local farmer who has grand plans for the land on the outskirts of the Cotswolds. A piece of cake, he’d told Tony earlier today when he was asked how his preparation was coming. However, he’d flicked through his notes and research God knows how many times this evening, yet couldn’t recall one lick of fact about his upcoming subject. Instead, he’d spent hours — no, days — agonising over whether he should hire you. His producer, Cameron Cook, was breathing down his neck for him to hire someone so he was spread less thin, but it’s not an easy task. On paper, you’re the perfect choice. Hell, in reality, you’re the perfect choice. Still, he prayed that one of the interviewees after you would prove better candidates (and notably male), but no one measured up to you. Sure, they were intelligent. Passionate, somewhat. But then there was you; intelligent and passionate, and looking far too delectable in that bloody skirt that belongs to his fucking wife. Yes, his wife — that’s if she still even wants to be called that — who’s been gone for weeks without as much as a phone call or letter to the house. Their son, Patrick, had mentioned that she’d phoned a couple of weeks ago to inform him she was back in the city, but spared their university-bound child the details of her whereabouts. Declan loves Maud, despite her shortcomings — of which there are many — but he couldn’t help but resent his wife for her absence, and moreover, for the constant dull ache that had been burdening his cock since seeing her skirt on you. He rationalised that if Maud was here, he wouldn’t be up at night thinking obscene thoughts about his daughter’s best friend who had showed up to his office all smiles and curves in his wife’s long-forgotten hand-me-downs. Every time Declan closes his eyes he sees the shallow dimple that adorns your left cheek. He gets random flashbacks of that black lace bra he imagines holds perfect breasts, if he just allows his mind to wander.

He flexes his hand in an attempt to rid it of the itch that’s been daring him to relieve himself ever since you left his Corinium office. There have been countless instances over the last week where he wondered if he just gave in — just a little, just a stroke, something, anything — that the ache will go away. But there’s a bigger part of him that’s afraid that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop, and then how will he ever be able to face you again? Face Taggie again, knowing the pure filth that’s taken him over in the moments when he’s alone?

Cameron had demanded that afternoon that he chooses someone to pick up his slack by the weekend so help her God or she’ll stick him with an intern with more boobs for brains, and he knows — he knows — he can’t be stuck with someone with the same level IQ as a stale loaf of bread. He’d combust. So, against his better judgement, he decides as he lights yet another cigarette, that he’ll offer you the job as his assistant.

So help him God.

The phone rang just after half seven as you took your first bite of marmite toast. “Do you want the good news or the best news first?” You wince at Taggie’s chirpiness so early in the morning.

“Umm, best ‘til last,” you option. “Good news first.”

“Well, I’m making shepherd’s pie for dinner and you’re coming over.”

“Alright,” you giggle. “And the other news?”

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating you making shepherd’s pie?”

“No, you nitwit! We’re celebrating you! You got the job! Daddy just told me on his way out this morning.”

Your chair whines against the floorboards of your flat as you shoot to your feet. “I got the job?”

“You got the job!” Taggie shrieks down the line. “Daddy said he was going to phone you when he gets to the office but I couldn’t wait to tell you myself. I know you’ve been anxious waiting to hear back.”

“Oh, Tag, I can’t believe it! I really thought he’d found someone more suited,” you express, cheeks pinching with a grin.

“He said he was very impressed with you,” your friend continues, voice laced with pride. “He also suggested we go shopping for some new officewear.”

“So, he hated my outfit, is what you’re saying.” Him and everybody else at that bloody station.

“No, it’s not that. I think him seeing you in Mummy’s clothes freaked him out a little, is all,” Taggie confesses. “He’s been a bit all over the shop since she’s been gone and I suppose when it comes to her, out of sight, out of mind is best.”

You think back to Declan spluttering his tea everywhere during your interview, and his little explosion afterwards. It makes sense that he doesn’t wanted be reminded of the woman who stepped out on him. You were just glad his reaction wasn’t to something you had done.

You and Taggie chat for a few minutes more about potential shopping destinations and your plans for the day before she rushes through a goodbye, eager to get to the market to pick up groceries for your celebratory meal. An hour later, Declan calls.

“Morning, it’s Declan,” he says, words stifled by the cigarette between his lips. “Declan O’Hara.”

You bite down a smile at the unnecessary clarification. You do the same to thwart your enthusiasm at finally receiving his call. “Hiya. It’s nice to hear from you. How’re you this morning, Declan?”

“Yeah, good, good. Tony’s riding my arse as per usual but other than that, good.” Silence reigns as you wait for Declan to relay the good news. After a moment, he clears his throat like he just remembered you’re on the other end of the line. “Look, I don’t have long, but I wanted to give you a bell to let you know the assistant job is yours. If you want it.”

Although you were already aware of the job offer, you do a happy jig in your kitchen. “Yes, thank you! Of course, I accept.”

“Great. Does Monday work as a start date?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be there. Thank you, Declan.”

“Welcome. Chat soon.”

The line goes dead not second later, and while you’re still overcome with excitement about the new job, your chat with your new boss seemed off. Declan seemed off. Far removed from the chatty, friendly man you sat across from at Corinium just days ago. But like he said, Tony was on his back. He’s probably just… tense.

It becomes clear to Declan as he watches you and Taggie move seamlessly around the kitchen while clearing up after dinner that you’re effervescent. Far more than he’s ever noticed, in all the times you’ve visited his daughter over the recent months, and it bothers him. He hated how his pulse quickened at the sight of you on his doorstep two hours earlier, David Bowie T-shirt peeking out from beneath your checkered coat. If you were at least the tiniest bit irksome or slow-witted or just plain dull, he’d be able to reckon with the fact that his reaction to you was purely chemical. Just another man taken by a young woman’s good looks. But then again, if he found you any of those things, he wouldn’t dare allow you anywhere near his work, near his research. Nor would he be impressed with his daughter adopting a friend as such, either. 

Your laughter trills, egged on by the celebratory champagne Taggie had provided, and Declan catches the tailend of his daughter flinging a handful of dishsoap suds in your direction. You were a good girl, a good friend, being there for Taggie in the last few months. Always willing to lend a hand, or an ear, certainly a shoulder to cry on more than Declan liked to think about or admit. But you were just that: a girl. A girl who was now his assistant. He’ll be damned if he were to become another man at Corinium taking advantage of that power imbalance, which is why he replaces his glass of bubbles with a whiskey and retires to his office after supper, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s forehead as he goes.

You decide to sleepover at The Priory after consuming a few too many glasses of champagne for it be considered safe to drive home. Although, sleepover may be too generous of a word because you’ve barely slept a wink since sinking into bed beside Taggie over an hour ago. Your friend, however, had no trouble drifting off, only to start snoring so loudly the whole bed vibrates. You’ve already tried covering your head with a pillow and the counting backwards from one hundred trick to coax yourself to sleep, but it’s no use. You slide out from under the poppy-printed covers and tip-toe downstairs in a sweater hanging on the back of Taggie’s bedroom door. You’re swimming in the woollen brown garment. It falls to mid-thigh and is sleeves are at least half an arm-length too long, but it keeps the chill at bay when you swing open The Priory’s back door. You slide on a pair of Wellington boots that sit on the doormat and step out into the biting air. In it, the inches of skin between the hem of the sweater and your long socks prickle with goosebumps, and your breath forms a fog under the soft glow of fairy lights leftover from a garden party the O’Hara’s hosted in the summer. Somewhere in the distance, a owl twoos and foxes rustle through shrubbery. When you lived in the city, the nights were overrun with sirens and drunken hooligans singing football chants down the alleyways and other racket that made it very difficult to hear yourself think. Meanwhile, out here, in the countryside, you could just be.

“Nice sweater.”

“Fuck!” The sudden verbiage shocks your shoulders to your ears. There’s no mistaking that voice, yet you have to scan the area to see where the Irish lilt is stemming from. It’s not until you hear the swish of water that you realise he’s in the hot tub that’s tucked away from the courtyard, his silhouette barely visible against the night. “Declan. You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “Taggie’s snoring like a freight train.”

As your eyes adjust to the dark, you just catch Declan’s moustache quirk with a lazy smile. “Just like her mother.”

The comment coaxes you closer to the tub, waiting for Declan to elaborate, but whatever story he might’ve spieled evaporates with the steam from the water. The heated pool was just another of Maud’s extravagant buys, and Declan hated the addition when it showed up in a delivery van, during summer, of all seasons, because he knew it would be forgotten about in a matter of days once she’d found something new to obsess over. There was always something with Maud. If it wasn’t an extravagant purchase to distract herself with, it was a lover, and if it wasn’t a lover, it was a trip far, far away from the Cotswolds. Her recent truancy being case in point.

There’s hardly any light in this corner of the yard, aside from a small golden glimmer beneath the hot tub surface, but it’s enough for you to take in Declan’s form. He’s lax, whiskey in hand, with his head reclined against the lip of the pool. You notice the thick smattering of chest hair across the breadth of his torso, dark and unruly. The few men you’ve ever been with have been around your age, either trimmed or unable to grow body hair where its desired. But then again, they were just boys in the scheme of things. Declan has always been so fucking manly. His already dark hair black with water, pushed away from his face like he’s slicked it back with his hands. It hasn’t stopped miniscule curls frizzing to fruition at his temples. Declan takes a sip of the amber liquid in his glass.

“If I’m being honest, I thought you’d be a tad more excited when I spoke to you this morning.” The subject change surprises you.

“Oh, trust me, I was! But–“

“But Taggie had already broken the news to you by then, hadn’t she?”

You look down at your feet, not wanting to give your friend away, but Declan knows his daughter has a hard time keeping a lid on her excitement. “It’s alright,” he chuckles. “She means well.”

“She’s a good friend. They’re hard to come by.”

You’re telling me, Declan thinks, taking a one-handed inventory of his own close companions.

The frosty air hugs you and your toes seize under its bite, even through your socks and boots. “Do you mind?” You point to the hot tub. It takes a moment for it to click in Declan’s brain that you’re asking if you can join him. It would be rude for him to say no. Stupid for him to say yes. Instead, he gives a non-commital shrug and whispers Lord, help me into his glass. Over its rim, he watches you perch on the edge of the tub to while you toe off your wellies. They land with a thud on the pavement and you giggle to yourself, oops, when one ricochets into a nearby shrub. Muscles zip up the back of your leg when you peel off your socks, and Declan has to force himself to look away when the hem of your sweater — no, his sweater, one of many Taggie had stolen away — rides dangerously high on your thighs as you swing your legs over the lip of the heated pool. He’s thankful that only one of the lights below the surface is in working order because his prick rouses when a satisfied hum seeps from you as your feet kiss the warm surface. Declan’s jaw ticks. The devil on his shoulder probes that you’re purposely torturing him and his conscious bites back that he’s a sleazy bastard for thinking as much. You’re not doing anything. You’re just here.

Get a grip on yourself, O’Hara, he scolds, and chases it with a swig of whiskey he only hopes will burn away the filthy thoughts you manage to conjure for him.

“You got another one of them?” When he faces you again, you’re pointing at the glass that’s fogged up in his sweaty palm.

“The champagne not enough for ya?”

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t want to share, just say so.”

“You can’t handle this.”

“Are you really going to sit there and tell a girl what she can and can’t handle?” you press, eyes locked in on his. “You’d be surprised what I can handle, Declan.” You don’t mean for it to sound so provocative, but challenging him has set your whole body ablaze. For good measure, you quirk an eyebrow at Declan, and the subtle move has his cock doing the same in the confines of his striped swim shorts. Without another word, Declan floats across the hot tub to where you’re seated and presses his glass into your hand. You offer a thank you in the form of a gentle smile before pressing your full, blush lips to the rim. Tilting the glass to the sky, you can feel Declan’s heavy gaze on you, watching. Waiting. You allow your eyes to fall shut as the bitter prickle of the whiskey waves over your tongue, so you don’t see him slide a hand to the back of his neck. His nails dig crecsents into the skin there, both as punishment for and distraction from the fact his mind is trekking to dark places where your lips are pressed somewhere far more sinister. He can’t keep his eyes off you while you drain what’s left of the whiskey, your eyes fluttering open when you realise there’s nothing left.

“I told you I could handle it,” you tell Declan, ignoring the slight burn that stings at the back of your throat. You both reach your hand into the small space between you, fingers grazing as you pass the glass back to Declan. 

The air between the two of you is charged. You wouldn’t be surprised if someone lit a match and the whole world went up in flames taking the pair of you with it. That same pained look that took Declan’s expression over during your interview rears its head again. Before you get the opportunity to put a name to it, a door creaks in the distance and your name echoes into the night.

“Are you out there?”

Taggie.

Taggie.

There’s a flurry of movement as Declan slides to the opposite side of the hot tub again and you all but catapult yourself onto the pavement as if you’d been caught redhanded. Doing what, you weren’t entirely sure, but you were certain it wasn’t a good look. You yank your socks over your damp feet, followed by the wellies and make a start for where the kitchen light illuminates your friend in the doorway.

“There you are!” she sighs, almost relieved, when you meet her at the step. “You alright? I thought you might’ve driven home after all.” “God, no. I’m fine! Just…” you glance over your shoulder to where the blaze of a cigarette burns in the darkness. “Just getting some air.”

Loved writing this chapter, and things are just getting started!! Reblog, share, comment: it all means the world to me!! <3

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview

[luveline]

hi jade!!

if you’re still taking hurt/comfort requests could i request poly marauders and how they all respond to one of remus’ chronic pain flare ups/his chronic pain in general? i think you did one with reader a while ago so feel free to ignore if it feels too repetitive. i love the way you write remus and his chronic pain it means a lot to me as someone who has chronic pain too!! sometime when i have a flare up i reread all your remus fic and it makes me feel so much better ♥️

thank you lovely!! modern au, fem, 1k

“I just don’t know what to say to him,” James whispers. 

You wipe the lip of the bowl, the steam that’s billowing from it fragrant with fresh chopped basil and warm on your cheeks. “You do, Jamie, you’ll just say what you always say to him.” 

“I feel like he must get very tired of me, I just verbal diarrhoea at him while he’s crying.” 

You give James a loving smile. “And he appreciates it, I promise. Are you gonna come in and keep us company?” 

“No. I don’t know. Maybe you can have a look if he’s up for both of us and come and get me?” 

James is too much a sweetheart. He’s been taking care of Remus for years and he’s still never sure if he’s doing the right thing, especially when Sirius isn’t there. You promise James you’ll come and get him as soon as Remus says it’s okay, which he most likely will, and start up the stairs with Remus’ dinner tray to the master bedroom. 

Remus thankfully isn’t crying now despite a rough morning. He’s sitting against the headboard with his jaw locked and a loose neck pillow on his shoulders for support, the TV on a low volume opposite and lighting his face. 

“Can I turn on the light?” 

“Please.” 

You flick it on. “Your soup. Did you want toast?” 

“No… Thank you.” You put the tray on his lap carefully. He tips his head up, smiling weakly. “Thanks, dove.” 

“You’re welcome.” You sit down at the top of the bed with him. “Can I stay?” 

He’s insistent that you stay. You’ve not got much to say while he eats, his small mouthfuls a mixture of relief and wincing, but you take up station by his worst leg and run a loving hand up and down the front of it. When you’re sure he’s alright, you let your hand slide under, your finger to the soft part behind his knee and pushing downward.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” you say, beginning the familiar motions of a massage. 

“I don’t think you could,” he says over the lip of his glass of water. 

You turn away from him with a smile. Even poorly, he’s a wild flirt. “You’ll have to tell James he’s allowed to come and see you. He doesn’t want to be annoying.” 

“I’ll shout for him.” He sighs and holds his tray on either handle. “Jamie!” he calls, sounding himself but admittedly heartbreakingly tired. “Can you come here? Please?” 

James is straight up the stairs. He was probably waiting on the bottom step. “Yeah?” he asks, his irises like mint two pence pieces, his hand sliding down the door frame. 

“Can you move this for me? And sit down?” 

It’s as lovely an invitation from him as any when said so tenderly. James walks around to Remus opposite side, putting his tray on the wide window sill before situating himself in the mountain of blankets. It must be weird to be someone’s boyfriend but to have been their best friend for a long time before it; they fit together effortlessly in some ways and maintain a certain shyness in others. James has no problem sitting as close to Remus as he can, but he doesn’t look at him right away, not until Remus leans up to kiss James’ brown cheek. 

“You’re never annoying,” Remus says. 

James wraps an arm behind Remus’ back, confident though cautious not to hurt him. “If you say so,” he says sincerely. 

Time slugs slowly for you all when Remus is in pain, but eventually he has to lay down, his leg twitching frantically in your hold, his nose pressed hard to James’ arm. You persuade some painkillers into him and stay at his side with his water bottle, your cheek resting on his shoulder.

You get out your phone to text Sirius. He’ll get upset if he isn’t in the know. 

Hi Siri, Remus is in lots of pain, has had 600mg of ibuprofen and three co-codamol because he hasn’t had any paracetamol yet, is that okay? 

Sirius texts back quickly. That’s fine, don’t give him anything else even if he asks for it, three co-codamol is one too many 

Sirius again, on the way home. do we need anything from the shop ? miss you lovely 

You’d smile if you weren’t worried about the boy shaking under your cheek. I miss you too, don’t worry about getting anything

Sirius does worry, you can hear the crinkle of a shopping bag when he gets home a few minutes later. “He was quick,” you say, sitting up to kiss Remus’ cheek. “He’s gonna hog you now.” 

“Love you, dove.” 

“I love you.” 

Remus tries to savour that through the hot pain rushing all over. His pain is strange, it always has been, disobeying reason and often people’s belief. Half of it is a mystery, the other misery, and you and the boys have always believed him nonetheless. He’s never treated as childish or dramatic, only cared for, James’ endless stories and Sirius’ stern concern, and now you, his sweetheart, with all your soft touches and tone. You speak to him like he’s your favourite person on earth, voice underlain with fondness, always. And you’re selfless more often than not as you are right this moment, moving back to his leg, giving Sirius room to crawl breathlessly into bed beside him. 

“Hello, gorgeous. What’s hurting tonight?” Sirius asks.

Not said to undermine him, Sirius just needs to know. He wants to fix everything. 

“My back and my legs, mostly,” Remus confesses through a shiver. He’ll cry soon. No one will make him feel bad for it. 

“Maybe you should try laying on your front for a bit, yeah? James can still harass you,” —Sirius brings his hand to Remus’ cheek and strokes it gently with the bends of his knuckles— “it’s less pressure on your back, is all.” 

Remus feels himself calming already. It’s hard to feel hopeless when he’s well looked after.