#i'm only putting this on the tag in case anyone's filtering it out

[very-merry-birthday]

Envy

Lust Gluttony Envy Sloth Greed Pride Wrath

Summary: You call Dean to the strip club you've been working in for a case.

Warnings: Smut, semi-public sex (not dwelled on), stripping

[Asked to tag: @bitchykittenconnoisseur // Just reply/message for a tag!]

The second you'd found out this hunt was going to lead to a strip club, you'd thought of Dean.

Dean- who'd taken you out for a meal the last time you'd met. Dean- who'd kissed you goodbye at the end of the night, both of you shuffling awkwardly at the intimacy of the moment, trying to blow it off as purely sexual. Dean- who you hadn't seen for two months.

You'd waited until the hunt was over, not wanting any time wasted once he was here. Of course, you'd kept up the pretense when you'd phoned him, "Oh Dean, you just have to drive here! I'm so confused! All alone on a hunt! I don't know what to do! I need a big strong man to come save me!" Okay, you hadn't quite worded it like that, but you knew that was the impression he'd get.

Of course you'd also told him not to bring Sam, that maybe you'd be able to sort it just the two of you.

He hadn't known about the strip club until that day, when you'd texted him the address, indicating that you'd tell him everything once he arrived. There was still some doubt in your mind he would show up at all, the possibility that he'd be pulled away at the last moment across the country weighing on you.

The doubt only festered as the clock ticked on. You knew you could only work here for one more night, even if you hadn't actually told anyone that. You wanted to be gone by morning, but the longer you walked around the cloying room, looking out for Dean, the more you worried he wouldn't show at all. At least the money was good.

You'd almost packed the whole thing in by 2am, when the evening crowd had filtered out and you'd been left with the leering presence of men too desperate to go home. That's when you'd seen him walk in, awkwardly making his way across the corner of the dark room towards the bar, his eyes darting all over the place as he tried to take in where he was.

If he had been here only a few hours earlier, when you were expecting him, you'd have been on stage, dancing, putting on a performance he'd know was only for him. But no, of course he had to come in when you were in the middle of a lap dance, locking eyes across the room right as you were pushing your tits into another mans face.

He eyed you carefully as he ordered his drink, watching the way you moved. Your outfit didn't leave anything to the imagination, only just covering your most intimate areas. Dean had seen it all before, of course, but never like this, never so publicly, a dozen other eyes able to see the same.

The man below you was handsome. Of course not as handsome as Dean, not that anyone could be, but handsome enough that you didn't really mind the way he oggled you, nodding his head slowly as you danced for him.

Deans face, however, was straight as you looked over at him. That was worse than angry. Even if it was negative, you were desperate for some kind of reaction from him.

You swayed your hips in time with the music, your hands flowing over your body. You teased him, your thumbs hooking into your stringy underwear, dragging it down only slightly, before letting go again, snapping against your skin. The man reached up, pushing another dollar bill into the band of your bra, taking the opportunity to graze your skin lightly with his fingers before retracting.

You turned around, looking away from the man, and from Dean's gaze, allowing them both to see your ass as you bent down letting your body press only slightly against his groin. Then you pulled back up, still moving your hips to the music, resisting the temptation to turn back and see both of their expressions. You pulled your hands through your hair, relaxing into your dance.

You slowly spun back around, immediately seeking out Dean again. His face was dark, his eyes still fixed on you, but it was unmistakable- there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. You didn't know if it was better or worse than him being jealous- he was enjoying this.

His gaze only spurred you on as you continued to sway your hips, biting your lip to stave off your own smirk. The man in front of you reached out again, another dollar bill in hand as he slowly moved towards the top of your panties. You let him push it in, his finger hooking under the fabric only slightly, lingering for a moment. You kept your eyes on Dean, who lifted his eyebrow, urging you on.

As he went to move away you reached down, pulling his hand towards your hip. He looked surprised as he let his fingers land on your skin, wrapping his hand around your waist. They felt far too soft, nothing compared to Dean's calloused hands that somehow felt firm and gentle at the same time.

You pushed yourself against him even more, letting your body seem his for only a moment, your tits in his face, your legs between his thighs, his hand on your waist. You leant forward, brushing his hair back the way you had to Dean a hundred times before. And then you let your fingers fall to his nape, the way you had when Dean had kissed you the last time you'd seen him.

You looked over to Dean, inspecting his face. He finally broke his eyes away from you, his expression dropping as he stood, making his way towards the door. Before you'd even realized what was happening he was gone.

You pulled away from the man in front of you, his face falling confused as you turned your back on him again, walking away without a word. You felt sick instantly, fearing you'd crossed a line you couldn't uncross. Dean had come here, travelled god knows how many miles to see you, and you'd let another man fondle you as thank you. You were confused, angry, not able to understand what his reaction had meant.

You pushed the door open to the small dressing room, now empty stave for the mess. You knew the girls still on the floor would be out there for a while, and welcomed the quietness of the room. Looking at yourself in the mirror you pulled in a shakey breath, trying not to cry. You couldn't cry, not over Dean.

Dean- who was purely for sex and nothing else. Dean- who'd dropped everything just to see you. Dean- who you weren't supposed to have feelings for.

"You do that on purpose, sweetheart?"

His voice startled you as he walked in through the back door, leaning against the wall as his eyes swept your body.

"D-do what?" Your voice was shaky as you pulled yourself together, you hoped it wasn't obvious.

"Call me here just so I could watch from afar?" He kept his face stern.

"Dean I-"

"You know every man in that room was watching you, right? Every single one was thinking about what depraved shit they could do to you."

"Weren't you?" You cocked an eyebrow, confidence coming back to you.

He stared at you, his brow furrowed, jaw fixed. You swallowed hard, the pause overtaking you both. And then he broke, a grin spread across his face, warmth filling him as he stepped towards you, "C'mere."

You half skipped over to him as he reached towards you, opening up his arms. You collided in the middle, wrapping each other in a hug.

His voice was soft against you, "I missed ya, sweetheart."

He let his hand find the small of your back, keeping you pressed against him, breathing you in. He held you just a little too tight, just a little too long.

He finally stepped back, his eyes falling back over your body, "I like this." He hooked his finger under the strap of your bra, nodding.

"Thought you would."

"I'd like it better if you took it off."

"No one's gonna be happy if they come back and find some guy in here."

"I'm hurt, darlin', thought I was more than just some guy." He smiled, facetious. "Guess we gotta be quick then."

When you'd called him here you'd honestly hoped he'd pay for a private room for the two of you. But of course, Dean wasn't going to spend a cent on something he knew he could get for free.

He grabbed your hips roughly, pulling you towards him, his mouth on your neck instantly. He bit down hard, causing you to gasp as he marked your skin.

"Can't go back out there if you leave hickeys, Winchester."

"That's the idea." He sucked at your skin again.

"Thought you liked seeing me dance for other men?" You laughed lightly, testing the waters.

He pulled back, his eyes flicking over you face, "You know what I liked? I liked knowing every man in there wanted one thing, and I was the only one who was actually gonna get her. Go on, show me what they wanted-"

You swayed your hips gently for him, teasing, as he leant back against the long dressing table counter. He reached a hand out to you, one on your waist, feeling your movements, his other gently brushing it's way down your collarbone, pushing your heart into your throat. His touch was gentle, but not cautious, knowing he could have you without a second thought. His eyes flicked over your body again as you swayed, savouring every part of you.

You turned your back on him, bending slightly as you pressed your ass against his groin, already feeling his hardness through his jeans. Again his hand was on you, a line drawn down your spine as you grinded against him, his other hand reaching down to your ass, caressing you.

"Bet you've had every guy in here wrapped around your finger, darlin'." His voice was breathy, filled with desire.

You turned back to him, running a finger down his chest as you sunk to your knees in front of him. He pulled in a shaky breath at the sight, watching as you reached out to the buckle on his belt, undoing it with grace. He'd seen you naked dozens of times, and in your underwear a dozen times more, and you always looked stunning, always took his breath away. But the way you were dressed now- push up bra, tiny thong, tall stripper heels- he hesitated to even think the word- but you looked slutty. And he fucking loved it.

You tugged gently at the top of his pants, his cock springing free. Wrapping your hand around the base, you stroked it gently as you felt him harden under your touch. You pressed your tongue against him, running it over his head, listening to him groaning above you. You looked back up, his face fixed on yours, his teeth gritted together tight.

Dean couldn't believe his luck, only an hour ago he'd been driving through the dark, his eyes on the clock as he made his way here, and now here you were, dressed as a stripper, on your knees in front of him. Of course sex was a given between you two, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stay long, and if that meant only helping you on the hunt he'd have been happy to. He was starting to feel more and more okay with the time spent without sex, where it was just you and him, your conversations, your laughter. He wanted to keep his composure- wanted to put on a front of dominance during sex- but as you looked away, focusing your energy on your actions, he let himself smile, genuine. Only for a moment, a sparkle of warmth in his eye.

And then he broke again, pulling his jaw tight. "Deeper. I wanna feel my whole cock down your fuckin' throat."

You pushed your head down, your lips tight around him, heat flooding your body from his words. You gently started bobbing your head, letting him fill your mouth inch by inch as you adjusted to his size, until his head was hitting the back of your throat.

You felt a rustle from above as Dean pulled off his jacket, his hand falling down to your hair as he guided your rhythm. You moaned into his cock and he took in a sharp breath, the vibrations digging into his core.

"Jesus sweetheart- you're so fuckin' good at this."

His words spurred you on, taking him deeper, holding yourself back from choking as he slammed into your throat, his thrusting becoming more rapid as he felt his body aching for an orgasm.

He looked back down at you, your eyes wide as you looked back up at him, desperate to please.

"Fuck- I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that-"

You didn't let up, continuing to move even as the corners of your eyes began to water slightly, your breathing becoming strained.

"Shit." He looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard, before looking back down at you, gently pulling you off of him, "Need to feel you, sweetheart-"

You stood again, quickly, as he took another look at your body. He grabbed your hips, spinning you around and pinning you against the dressing table, his cock pressed against your ass. He didn't even take your underwear off, instead just pushing it to one side, his finger sliding through your folds to test your wetness, pushing into you only slightly as you let out a needy moan.

He took his cock roughly in his own hands, pressing himself into your pussy quickly, one hand grabbing your hip, the other placed on the small of your back as he bent your body forward. You looked up to the mirror in front of you, watching him carefully as he looked down at his length pushing into you, and then back up at you. He began thrusting, pushing into you slowly as he stretched you out, letting you feel every inch of his cock at your entrance. Then he looked up again, watching you in the mirror.

"You like watching yourself getting fucked?" His jaw tightened as he sped up his movements, slamming into you hard.

You bit back a moan, your own body quaking from the feeling.

"Jesus, sweetheart, you look fucking incredible like this." He sucked in another sharp breath, his eyes looking between your ass and your reflection, unable to hide his smirk.

You could see his face in the mirror, watching your body move below him, your ass shaking as he pounded into you from behind. You looked at yourself, dressed up for Dean in the most seductive clothes you'd ever worn, enjoying knowing how much he liked it.

You pressed your hand up against the mirror for stability as his speed increased, his need for release evident. You arched your back, pushing your ass out for him, watching him blink hard, trying to keep his composure. You moved your body in time with his, pushing him deeper into you, feeling stretched out by his cock.

He pulled out, his cum spilling out across your back as he pumped himself with his hand, his other grabbing ahold of your hip tight as he let out a loud groan. You watched him carefully, his eyes fluttering shut, his body quaking.

He gave himself only a second to breathe through his release before grabbing a makeup wipe off the table and wiping it down your back carefully, the cooling sensation sending a small shiver though you. Then he was spinning you back again, lifting you slightly onto the countertop, crouching so his head could dive between your legs.

He let his fingers find your entrance, pushing into you at the same pace his cock had only moments before as he lapped at your clit, desperate to give you your own release. You combed your hand through his hair, grabbing hold of it tight as your head rolled back.

He pulled back, looking up at you, "Fuck, taste so good for me, darlin'." Then he dove back in, frenzied movements, his tongue dancing on your clit.

He lapped you up, practically fucking you with his tongue, fingers still buried deep inside of you. Your hips bucked against him, needy as you watched him shut his eyes below you, savouring your taste.

You wrapped your legs around him as you came, your body tensing up as it fell back against the mirror, coolness flowing through your burning skin. You felt your mind clear, pleasure pulling at you, a loud moan escaping your lips.

You unwrapped your legs from him, slumping back against the dressing table as Dean stood back up, leaning next to you, breathing hard. You both sat panting for a moment as Dean pulled himself away, looking down at you again, before cupping your cheek and pulling you into a soft kiss.

"God you're something else." He swallowed hard, looking away from you again.

You hopped off the counter, straightening yourself out and pulling on a loose pair of booty shorts as you smiled over at him.

Dean reached for his jacket, pulling it on as he looked back at you, his own smile overtaking his face, "Did you even have a hunt?"

You laughed slightly, "Finished it two days ago, sonuvabitch is long gone."

"You sneaky-" He shook his head with a smile.

"Didn't make you drive too far did I?"

"For that, sweetheart, I'd have driven to Alaska."

"You sticking around, I've got a motel booked round the corner?"

"Told Sam I'd only be a day, I really should drive back tonight..." he sighed, looking you over again. He knew he could probably spare another hour, but he also worried if he got back to a bed with you he'd never leave.

You pulled him into hug, his hands lingering on your body, his breath hot against your neck. You didn't want to let him go.

He pulled away from you, starting to walk towards the door without saying anything else, afraid of what he'd spill out.

As he reached out towards the handle he stopped.

"Shit- I almost forgot," he spun back around, "I got ya something."

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small crumpled paper bag. He unfolded it, tipping the contents into his hand and holding it up to you. You took a second to work out what it was, a thin chain dangling from his fingers, a tiny star pendant hanging off it.

"It's a necklace-" you looked up at him, shocked.

"Saw it a few weeks back, guess it made me think of you." He shuffled awkwardly, dropping it into your hand.

"You- you got me a necklace?"

"It was in some second hand junk shop, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to." He looked down at his feet.

"No- No! I love it- I like it- I..." you swallowed hard, "Put it on me." You pushed it back into his hand, turning your back on him.

He carefully brought his arms in front of you, pulling the necklaces across your neck and securing it behind you. You spun back, looking to him for comment.

He looked you over carefully. It wasn't often he had a nearly naked woman standing in front of him, and was only able to look at her from the neck up. In fact, he wasn't sure it had ever happened. But right now, that's all he could do, staring at you wearing your new necklace - his necklace. He swallowed hard, "Yeah. Looks nice."

He leant forward, pulling you into a final kiss, softer than he had been all night. Your lips pressed together, only slightly, his hand relaxing on your hip. You pulled your own hand to the nape of his neck once again, drawing a small line down his spine. He pulled away, a bittersweet smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You shook your head with your own smile, "Go on then, you better get going."

[hulknussen]

nico hülkenberg/kevin magnussen fic collection

because the ao3 tag dedicated to nico and kevin is very overrun by fic where they only feature as a background pairing, if at all, I have taken it upon myself to create a collection that aims to collect every fic tagged as them that also centres on them (and also isn't a oneshot/drabble collection).

the result was a sum of a little over 200 works when I started it, though it's still growing and I'll keep updating it. you can find it here. I'm sharing it both to hopefully reach people who are struggling finding fic for them and to replace the rec list I created six+ months ago. if you're looking for my personal favorites, you can simply filter the collection via the Recs only feature

I've set up a tagging & filtering system for it, which is further explained below. it's primarily set up after my personal preferences and uses, but I figure others can still get use out of it.

as I wanted the collection to serve archiving purposes, too, I've applied three groups of tags to the bookmarks. you can filter these in/out in the "bookmarker's tags to include/exclude" field:

-> a tag for the year the fic was written in. this is helpful for trying to figure out trends: for example, you can tell at first glance that there have already been more works published for them in 2025 (32 and counting) than the entirety of 2023 (20) - neat!

-> a tag for the setting. I don't always want to read every setting, and not every author uses the same tags to express the same concept, making filtering harder. for this collection, I have used the following tags:

Alternate Universe

Omegaverse

Other Motorsport

Canon Divergent

20xx Formula 1 Season

Genderbending

some works are tagged as multiple, and if I haven't read the fic myself I tagged to the best of my ability.

-> a tag for the "status" - this one is completely for myself so that I can filter out works I have already read or that I wrote in the first place. but they're there for you to peruse too if you want.

in some cases I found that the body of the work did not accurately depict the contents of the work - most often, a fic rated below explicit despite containing explicit content. in those few cases, I have added a tag ("Explicit Sexual Content") to make anyone aware before going into the fic.

apart from the tagging I ran a browser extension to automatically input key information into the bookmark notes in the form of a drop down menu. this is helpful if any fic ever gets deleted because you're still able to tell which fic it was. it looks like this when collapsed:

and like this when opened:

not every fic in this bookmark collection has them as the endgame or only pairing. there were some cases were they were broken up by the end of the fic, or shared about equal time with another pairing. in those cases I have added a drop down menu where I answer these question, so that those who want can avoid spoilers, and those who prefer reading fic where they are the endgame pairing can check before going in.

with every part that makes up a bookmark explained, here's how it all looks put together:

as a final note, the downside of running this all in bookmarks means the "Sort By" menu is severely limited. it only allows you to sort by "Date Bookmarked" or "Date Updated", and none of the usual Kudos/Hits/Comments/Wordcount/etc. ao3's hidden search operators also don't seem to work, but if anyone finds a work around for this please let me know

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Steph, do you have any "there was only one bed" recs?

Hi Lovely!

Ahhh, not SPECIFICALLY "only one bed" but I do have a LOT of "Bed sharing" fics where the majority of them are "victims of circumstances" so in turn Share A Bed, LOL. And because I need a list for today, I'm using your list to put out the next part that doesn't have much but I did go through my MFL list to pad it out a bit. For those, I whittled down that section to fics specifically tagged with "one bed" LOL, so check that section out to get more closer to what you're looking for.

If anyone has some fics to share that are SPECIFICALLY One Bed, please do!!!! One of these days I will properly sit down and go through all my bookmarks, and then I'll filter those out from these lists.

BED SHARING Pt. 7

See also:

The Speckled Blonde / BedSharing

BedSharing Pt. 2 and Insecure Sherlock

Bed Sharing Pt. 3

Bed Sharing Pt. 4 

Bed Sharing Pt. 5

Bed Sharing Pt. 6 (Mar 2023)

BOOKMARKS

Both Sides Now by Silvergirl (M, 14,724 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TEH / Reunion Fix-It, Bed Sharing, First Kiss / Time, Undercover John, Couple for a Case, Assassin Mary, Big Brother Mycroft, Norfolk Coast, Angry John, First Kiss, Worried Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Alternating POV, Infidelity, Meddling Mycroft, Emotional Love Making, Matchmaker Mycroft) – Sherlock, undercover on the Norfolk coast, texts that he needs help; John is still seething after Sherlock’s gambit in the train car, and he refuses. When Sherlock goes missing, Mycroft sends John in to pose as Sherlock’s bit on the side.

Spare Parts by Raina_at (E, 63,497 w., 10 Ch. || 24th Century / Futurism AU || Post TRF, Pre-TRF Relationship, Case Fic, Mutual Pining, Estrangement, Reconciliation, Science Fiction, Reunion, Nightmares, Angry John, Cybernetic John, Emotional Discussions / Heart to Heart, POV John, Scars, Past Drug Use, Forehead Touching, Emotional Lovemaking, Kissing, Apologies, Kidnapping, Rescue Mission, BAMF John, Bed Sharing, Top Sherlock) – Two years ago, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of New London Hospital. Two months ago, he walked into John's clinic as if no time had passed at all. John hasn't seen him since. But then Sherlock knocks on John's door with a case he can't say no to, and while figuring out why the biggest manufacturer or synthetic limbs in the System is going after veterans, they also need to find out whether there's a way to fix what's broken between them. Part 1 of Realigning Gravity

Out There by DiscordantWords (T, 131,695 w., 10 Ch. || X-Files Fusion || Past Soldier John, Panic Attacks, POV Alternating Present Tense, Anxious John, Canon Adjacent, Deductions, Obsessive Sherlock,, Travelling, Sherlock’s Family, Jealous Sherlock, Mind Palace John, Awkward Flirting, Batting Cage, Kidnapped/Abducted John, Semi-Reverse Reichenbach, Worried/Anxious Sherlock, Hospital, Slow Burn, UST, Case Fic, Government Conspiracy, Aliens, UFOs, Mutants, Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Coma John, Forehead Touching, Hand Holding, Drinking/Bars, Past Jolto) – FBI Special Agent John Watson, medical doctor and army veteran, is assigned to assist eccentric genius Sherlock Holmes with paranormal investigations on the X-Files project.

MARKED FOR LATER

One Bed That Wasn't Slept In, and Another That Was by ancientreader (E, 8,455 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, First Time) – John doesn’t mind sharing a bed with Sherlock. Sherlock dissents. Things go downhill from there.

The Perfect Place by meet_me_in_samarra (T, 10,070 w., 14 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting AU || Crack / Humour, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Only One Bed) – Sherlock needs a flatmate and already has the perfect person in mind. Now he only needs to convince his object of desire to move in and also find out if he desires Sherlock as well.

All of the Things I Need by thalialunacy (E, 10,337 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Big Brother / Uncle Mycroft, Frottage, Anal, First Kiss, First Time, Only One Bed, "Straight" John) – In which John has to be shoved into moving forward, Sherlock actually manages to be surprised, and Mycroft turns out to be an A+ uncle. (And they all live happily ever after, of course.)

The Cavern by elwinglyre (M, 28,323 w., 12 Ch. || The Beatles / 1960s Rockstar AU || Only One Bed, Mutual Pining, Rock and Roll History, Erotic Dreams, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Homophobia, Heavy Petting, Kissing, Inspired by Music, POV Third Person Alternating) – Sherlock is not into making magic. He doesn’t believe in it. He does, however, believe in making rock and roll history. His best chance is to join John Watson’s band, the Magic Makers. They begin at the Cavern. There he learns to believe in more than magic with a little help from his friends. AU is set in Liverpool during the early 60s—when homosexuality is a crime.

Roommates are for little people by alexxphoenix42 (E, 69,042 w., 14 Ch. || Teen/Unilock || Forced to Share a Bed, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Relationship, Sherlock is a Prick, Drinking, Inadvertent Drug Use, Family Wedding, Footballer John / Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Frottage, Slow Burn, Mild Dub Con, Cuddling While Sleeping, Slight Homophobia, Posh Boy, Dirty Dancing, Endearments, Nosy Family, Bathing Together, Mild Angst, UST/RST, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff) – John was looking forward to seeing his friends back at uni, but a new year brings new complications, not the least of which is a dorm room with only one bed, and a stroppy roommate with an utterly spectacular arse. God, John doesn't need the headache.

Trick or Treat by Accident and holmesian_love (M, 88,310 w., 8 Ch. || Halloween, Costume Parties / Masquerade, Love Confessions, Only One Bed, Injured John, Three Continents Watson, One Night Stand, Case Fic, Jealousy, Greg and John Relationship, Caring Mycroft, Ghosts) – Sherlock has a new case. One that John is unlikely to get on board with, so it's going to take some convincing. Little does he know that John is discovering new feelings and this whole adventure may unravel more than just a killer.

[helmarok]

ok since there seems to be several new people from tiktok, i want to talk about how we tag stuff on tumblr. which is especially important for a fandom like MCSM where the source material is for all ages and minors are likely to see your posts.

on tumblr, we tag things not only for visibility but so someone could potentially filter out triggering content. so instead of adding giant trigger warnings to the top of a post, we use the tagging system for sensitive topics. if a post includes themes of abuse or suicide, it should be tagged with "#abuse" and "#suicide mention". this applies to every potentially triggering thing your post could mention. that way, when someone is scrolling the tags, rather than seeing it they come across THIS:

and the same applies to nsfw. i know tumblr added a new thing where its like, you can mark your post as mature content, but this is the way i know (i havent updated my tumblr in years 😅). you tag your nsfw as "#nsfw". or if it's not that crazy and it's just like a butt or something, i've noticed some people use "#nsfw ish" just to be safe. now you don't HAVE to tag your nsfw, but PLEASE be mindful of minors that could be scrolling the tags just looking at their favorite minecraft characters!!! or even adults man!!! even some adults just don't wanna see that.

now most importantly for those new here, make sure that when you trigger tag:

spell the words correctly and uncensored.

i've never used tiktok but i'm aware that over there you guys have to censor your trigger words. THIS IS NOT THE CASE ON TUMBLR. in fact, censoring them this way only makes it MORE DIFFICULT to avoid! that's because every time somebody filters a key word, ANY spelling variation is registered as an entirely different word that they need to put in, making it hard to filter every potential weird spelling of a trigger tag.

i hope this helps anyone new here. tiktok and tumblr are two VERY different sites so it's easy to make a mistake like this.

[fatesundress]

⭑ sunlight parallel pseudostars. tom riddle x reader

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

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

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

word count. 4.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom refrains from turning his head.

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

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

“I know.”

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

It must be very late.

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

you, after all this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit, please.” 

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

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

You’ll want to tell.

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

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

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

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

“Mm. Your guilty conscience.”

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

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

“Then I’ve disappointed you.”

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

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

“Still funny, too.”

“Still indecorous.”

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

“Be good company and I might.”

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

“I was reading a very good book.”

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

Torturous creature you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Note: you’ve been courted plenty?)

“Inventive, then? Erudite?”

“Do go on.”

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

“It was just the one, unfortunately.”

“Why did you find me?”

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

Addendum: “Why now?”

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

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

“Where did you go?”

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

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

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

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

“No,” he says, “you don’t.”

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

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

Oh?

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

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

“I didn’t know you had an interest.”

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

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

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

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

“Slowly but surely.”

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

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

Ah, that. “Denied, unfortunately.”

“Seriously? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m too young.”

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

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

“You’ll have to write an owl.”

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

“Teaching you?”

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

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

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

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

Illegible signs for him to attempt to read.

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

His answer is yes, naturally. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I missed home.”

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

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

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Risqué?"

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

“So I was right in calling you indecorous.”

“Hardly. I’m an observer.”

“Upstanding, then.”

You tug playfully at his sleeve. “Saintly.”

“You might revisit those churches in Portugal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you want to stay?”

He did not. It was a courtesy question.

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

Just for a song, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm. Secrets.”

“Damn you.”

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

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

“Wretched,” you repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hard to make a mess in two days.”

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps you should have.”

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

“You brought me here.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy the predicament,” he guesses.

You smile. “I do.”

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

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

“Shall I count to three?”

He does. He does want more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, he thinks there is.

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

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

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

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

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

“The moment you first missed me.”

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

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

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

There.

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

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

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

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

“Ah, so you let me in?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you?”

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

“Will you let me in?” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

“Plenty,” he recounts.

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

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

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

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

“And tomorrow?” he finally asks.

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

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

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

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

“And what might I be joining you in?”

“Tourism.”

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

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

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

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

“Well? Is it below you?”

“Yes. What time?”

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Tom.”

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

[karmacharmeleon18]

Just close your askbox if you won't answer any questions ffs I was really interested in your opinion about San since he's my bias but you never post about him (I've seen you talk more about Jongho??) but obviously you're just another coward hater

Anon, anon, anon...

😔

Things that have happened to me since I've started talking about Ateez on Tumblr.com:

I've had people block me for no reason that I can discern

(we never interacted, and I only noticed because I can't reblog their posts when I see them on blogs of Atiny I follow)

I've had people reach out to me privately, asking me to write some Mingi meta, and to please tag them when I post it, and then block me a couple of days later

(maybe I wasn't quick enough? was that a direct order and my autistic brain just mistook it for a friendly offer to discuss Mingi, and I disappointed them when I disobeyed? Mind you, she's the same person that told me to "go make your own post" when I commented - positively - under her own Mingi meta, and when I apologized to her for being annoying she was perfectly civil and friendly, told me that she loves long comments so why are you apologizing?, complimented my knowledge of Ateez and Mingi, all very polite, until she blocked me after asking for more Mingi meta??? so I AM CONFUSHON like, I really don't understand what they wanted and what I did wrong?? people also told me she's a know fandom bully?????? So maybe I was just ignorant and fell into some sort of trap that I'm too stupid to understand???? idk)

I've seen people liking my posts "in secret" (ie with different blogs, not their Ateez-focused ones) and then not acknowledge my post at all with their Ateez-focused blogs

I've seen people mention my content on their blogs with their Atiny friends, without mentioning me (because maybe it would upset the people that have blocked me? maybe they want to reach a wider audience, and my name would put people off? someway? somehow?)

(Say My Name, Say My Name, SAY MY NAAAMEE)

I've had people that I've interacted with in a very friendly manner suddenly start ignoring me, to the point that I don't tag them in stuff anymore - they won't answer anyway - and don't reblog from them anymore either in case seeing my name in their notes might annoy them (I'm also debating unfollowing them, but I do like seeing their posts on my dash 😩)

And lately *drumroll*

I have received insults, death threats and suicide bait for daring to make a post about Ateez and plastic surgery

Though I'm kind of used to it, because I've already received lots if insults, death threats and suicide bait for the mild criticism I've directed towards San in the past

(I'm sorry to say this, but I've never met anyone as bloodthirsty as San biases? Yunho biases understand he has flaws and even agree with me; San biases stubbornly ignore his flaws, pretend they don't exist, pretend he's just an adorable little kitten and I lowkey feel offended on San's behalf? because his own fans diminish his character so much? He is a man, he is a professional, he is acting)

Though the hate and threats don't disturb me as much as the sudden stonewalling from people

I've started posting on tumblr because I was looking for a community that is just not there on tiktok or twitter (where long meta is impossible). But I'm actually debating going completely silent again or leaving altogether because I'm obviously not welcome

(And I understand why: my comments are always annoyingly long, I do have almost no filter, I am a bother; it makes sense that people on here got tired of me, but I am a human, and it upset me 🤷🏾‍♀️)

But right now any time I post something I feel guilty about taking up space in the tags. I have to keep telling myself that Atiny will enjoy videos about our lovely boys no matter what, and will just ignore the fact that I posted them, that they are on my blog; we are all adults (most of us) here, so surely they can tolerate that I posted something if they get a silly or hot video of Ateez out of it

And in the midst of all of this, you've been continuously asking me to take a baseball bat to the hornets nest that is San's sub-fandom

If taking some time for myself to recharge and put some distance between me and this community is cowardice, then yes, I'm a coward

(I call it survival instinct lol)

But sending me dozens of asks about the same topic won't magically change that? 🤷🏾‍♀️

I also really dislike the implications of your comment about Jongho. You seem to think that he's not worth talking about? You obviously think he's less worthy than San

And I just don't vibe with this type of behavior.

[bunnis-monsters]

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.

[angelwhisp3rs]

⋆｡ 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.

[middlingmay]

Thanks to everyone who gave me advice on side-blogging versus main blog!

So, if you don't already know, I kind of do my own original writing, too. And I've promised myself this is the year I start to put it out there and hopefully publish my first piece of fiction.

A huge part of this has been writing my main fic, That Ol' Devil Called Love. Because it's kind of proved to myself that I can write novel-length pieces if I'm obsessed with them enough <3

Big thanks to @avonne-writes @amiserableseriesofevents and @jjubilee-fluff for being so encouraging on my earlier post looking for advice, and smooches to @soliloquy-dawn who's had eyes on an old draft of my main original work and shared their very lovely feedback.

SO. If that's not your thing and you're here for MOTA, or any of the other fandom content I blog, then I'll be tagging posts with my original work with the tag #original writing. and the name of whatever piece it is I'm posting that day. Creative, I know. But just in case anyone wants to filter it out :)

Here's a little taster for my main work, called All Grown-ups Must Die, set in 1960s Scotland:

.

She was silhouetted against the headlights. They were the only source of light on the back road.

Mama would be raging at her, being out so late.

The thought floated in some quiet space in her mind. It erased the pricks of rocks and pebbles and stones digging into her palms and carving a home for themselves in her knees. The car radio continued to spit out soft sounds.

The night we met I knew I, Needed you so. And if I had the chance I’d, Never let you go.

She watched the gnarled and matted mass of her hair catch the nighttime breeze. All her oils and sprays hadn’t held up to their end of the bargain. She laughed once. It was a gasping, rough sound. Maybe mama would writer her a letter to the manufacturer. Of all the things she’d had to endure tonight, she could have done without the split ends and tangles.

Her wrists were red and stinging. Her nails were scuffed and several were broken ragged. Her favourite ring—a sapphire that mama got from her mam, and her mam, and her mam—was covered in a dark splotch.

“-Enny?” The tinny voice crackled into life through the open door of the idling car. “Benny? –ick up…radio!”

Benny sat back on her heels. The spike of one pressed against the small of her back. If felt good, grounding. She gradually took stock of the cooling and sticky blood speckled on her skin and splashed in her hair.

So won’t you please, Be my, be my baby? Be my little baby, My one and only baby.

A leg hung out of the car on the driver’s side. She hauled in a ragged gasp of air and bared her teeth, pearly against her skin and the blood, in a snarl.

“Benny! Hey – give it!”

“Benny? Pick up the radio Benny. Will—fucking gonnae drive faster!”

Benny dragged and scraped her palms and shins as she crawled across the dirt and gravel road. Little pricks of pain left a red, spotted line chartering her progress towards the car, like a treasure map.

[wolfertinger]

https://www.tumblr.com/throwaway-callingbs/785558085900042240/holy-assumptions-batman-wow-okay-so-hi-ive?source=share

So he really just accuses anyone who disagrees with him of being a white person talking over black people and poc, huh?

copying their reblog, as i cannot reblog it directly.

"Holy assumptions, Batman!

Wow okay so hi, I've never had anyone lose their goddamn marbles over something that wasn't supposed to be hostile or anything. This is going to be my only post on things in an ATTEMPT to clear shit up for other people (minus Salem because it's clear that you have some issues and you're determined to paint me a villain based on lies and assumptions). I don't care enough for this to be a back and forth thing but I am NOT gonna sit here and have some rando label me as a pissed off racist white person when that couldn't be further from the truth.

Fwiw the original response was on Salem's like, black art comparisons between actual POC artists and white people. I'm not taking whole screenshots, Salem blocked me within maybe minutes of me posting my comment and then went on his whole tirade I guess. I understand why you use that weird filter on shit now I guess, you're just looking to take shit out of context and twist things into something they're not.

Anyways

This? This just read unnecessarily ugly and I said so. I want to state that I didn't see comments of people getting pissy/hurt or patting themselves unnecessarily on the back but also I only looked at direct comments and not tags or reblogs so idk how folks acted over everything. But hell maybe he blocked those people too idk how blocking works here I've never been blocked and then had someone spreading lies about me before. Or he was making shit up because that's what he's doing to me.

The biggest thing I had to say:

I'M NOT FUCKING WHITE!!!

I AM LATIN AMERICAN!!!

MY PEOPLE ARE LITERALLY BEING PUT IN FUCKING CONCENTRATION CAMPS AND SHIT JUST FOR EXISTING IN THE U.S. DO NOT TALK TO ME ABOUT WHITE PRIVILEGE OR WHATEVER BULLSHIT. MY PEOPLE ARE ACTIVELY BEING PERSECUTED.

Maybe I didn't word shit right, idk, but nah, sorry man, on a post about drawing black people, going "idk why white people are wanting to be congratulated like they're children for doing something basic" does come across as hostile or aggressive or at the very least, kind of mean-spirited. Sorry, I know from experience that you don't talk down to white people if you want to see changed behaviors. Literally was all I was saying.

You wanna see change you gotta tell people they're doing a good job when you see it. Not "Lol why should I say anything positive you should have had this from the beginning!"

ALSO

I have NO fucking clue what you're talking about with the block evading shit. I have not and WOULD not use racist remarks on anyone! I literally only saw this response because someone linked me off-site to your post and I wasn't signed in to tumblr. When I tried using the app it told me the post didn't exist so I knew I'd been blocked. As you can see I had to use a throw away account to address anything because it's REAL easy to call someone a racist white person when they can't even see your shit.

I am not white.

I did not call you racist against white people.

I SURE AS SHIT did not "block evade" (already this is too much effort but you accusing me of this pissed me off) to call you racist things.

Either you're full of shit or someone else came after you, but it was not me. But with how you reacted and went absolutely nuclear even if you turned around and said it must have been someone else I would not believe you.

Sucks because I genuinely loved your art and it gave me better body positivity too.

And before you try to use whatever other lies you can- i am also queer and disabled! In case you start trying to call me some other bullshit like claim I used homophobic or transphobic slurs or something against you next. 🙄

Anyways, I'm done. I just wanted to set the record straight but I'm not going to argue all day with a toxic kid whose using their platform to make shit up when there's REAL. ACTUAL. issues of white people talking over POC and all the other shit you bitch about.

This is public on the platform and that's all I care about. Peace."

[saphushia]

I would describe all four of those with very different body plan words. The first one I would describe as “swirl” or maybe “swarm”. The second one is so ball that is a ball of ever I saw one. But if you need anouther word for that body type maybe… dollop? Orb? Idk I think if anything that one should be ball and all the other balls should be something else. It’s Too Ball. The fourth one makes me think of a very abstract fish if a fish were also a plane, so maybe “fish” or even “finned”. Actually I like “finned” better yeah. That last one is molecular that was 100% my first thought when I saw it “oh what a weird looking molecule I wonder what this posts about”.

Anyway all of this is coming from someone who knows next to nothing about digimon, in fact it is only because I trust you as a digimon expert that I believe those are all from the same game(?) and not just four random unrelated drawings. Hope this in any way helps ^—^ d

ok so that is very reasonable and makes sense, but there's a couple reasons that i'm not splitting them like that.

firstly- i actually have 2 different filters relating to digimon's shape/look; body and appearance.

body is relating to posture and limbs (ie upright, hunched, quadruped, taur, etc). it's basically the 'shape' pokedex category, but using words because i'm not sure how to code a drop down list with images, and i still need to have a word to use as a tag in order to filter the entries

appearance is what they look similar to (ie mammal, reptile, fish, ooze, humanoid, etc). originally, i only had appearance, but i was running into a lot of conflicts and conundrums in tagging digimon. for example:

on its own, i miiiiiight consider ancient volcamon (right) humanoid, as it's bipedal and has a fairly human-shaped head and arms, but it feels wrong to put it in the same 'humanoid' category as angemon (left) when angemon is just. a straight up guy.

then there's the case of something like these guys ^^^

i want people to be able to filter to just see these 'animal-like' digimon, but then these are also very different. so they're both 'quadruped', but in addition left is 'mammal' and right is 'reptile'.

so what i'm looking for is "body plan", and while "ball" makes sense for appearance (and i'm probably gonna add "ball" or "shape" or smth to the appearance tags, now that i'm thinking abt it), it doesn't succinctly describe the body/limb layout which is what i'm looking for

the other thing (and the reason i'm not just stealing the pokedex shape categories) is that digimon have. a lot. of body variation. so im having to make kinda broad categories in order to avoid having 30+ options, some of which containing only a single digimon, and making the dropdown list entirely unwieldly.

so i'm putting all of these in the same body category, because they all hit the same general vibe as 'wierd nonspecific thing that's pretty much just a face/head with no significant limbs'. i just haven't figured out what to call it

rn i'm leaning towards 'head' or 'limbless', but if anyone has suggestions then i'm still looking to see if there's anything better

[desognthinking]

WIP... Wednesday

Tagged by @willowedhepatica  (thanks!) I'm so sorry that this comes so late 😭 life got in the way. Not sure who i can tag who has things in the works they can share, but please Please know if anyone has any snippets or sneak peaks I would love to see them and yell about them with you pleaseee

Not strictly a WIP but here’s just under 3.5k of an oldish experimental AU inspired by this post :’) in this one they’re… *checks notes*, ah, hmm. Chimerical tomb guardians carved from stone.   

-----

It’s a wickedly stormy day when a procession scores up the hill through beating rain and blowing dust, but there’s no time to waste. The wedding will not wait, and on its occasion, as a symbol of the new ties between the families of the bride and the groom, there is a terrible, beautiful new guardian grotesque to be received by the Silva tombhouse from the Salviuses. 

It is surely mounted on the property sometime during the silver-black onslaught of sky upon earth, but Beatrice cannot clearly see it through the rain and the  maze of trees that still separates the Silvas from their neighbors. The families on this hill are not quite rich enough to expand at the pace of the wealthiest among them, who slice and raze to add to their already broad campuses of tombs. Instead, in this part of town, modest, often unmatching clusters dwell amongst the wildflowers and long-lived trees sprayed across the land. 

Beatrice likes the nature. Her perch is kept cool by the damp and dewy mornings, birdsong flickering from above and around. In the filtered haze of heat and light there is some measure of peace too – here, there is less to fight over, and fewer lines of tension between the families. Hidden by farther slopes, there are fewer threats from beyond. And, overshadowed by the lower circuit of large gated tombhouses, there are far milder spoils for aspiring robbers. 

It’s from one of these large inner-city tombhouses that the new stone protector is said to arrive. The Salviuses have money spilling out their hands and down their wrists. It’s said, it’s said, it’s said – it’s whispered in the wind that carries the falling leaves from vine to vane, so easy for Beatrice to stretch up and put an ear to. The pollen clouds dispersed over grass in shapes spelling disruption  and newcomer. It’s gossiped over pages in the library, first with smug nods and just you wait and see, dear, we’re never wrong from the grandfathers and grandmothers as Beatrice pores through the volumes in the upper shelves, precious books pressed so high and so far back that they’re backed into both wall and ceiling. 

Then, inevitably, it carries through the air in the giggles and hushed gasps of the living members of this family, hands curling over yarn and needle as the youngest children breathlessly run and hide behind the walls and in the shadowy pockets of the tombhouse. The Great-great-great Grandmother who had been the first to break the news is mollified by the confirmation, and generously refuses to gloat.

A Silva girl is marrying a Salvius boy, and the Salviuses are pledging a guardian – the spirits know they have too many anyway, but still, a Salvius guardian – to this hill. 

“You’ve got to go over and see what’s going on,” Beatrice is instructed one morning, in no uncertain terms. They’re going over integration by partial fractions on the little platform at the back that looks down over the mills: her, Great-Grandfather, and Lilith, who’s slunk over yet again from the Villaumbrosias’ for some ‘peace and quiet’, and also because Beatrice’s family likes her for some mysterious reason. They pretend it’s because they need the extra pair – or, well, pairs, in Lilith’s case – of eyes. The massive, foreboding, Villaumbrosia affair the next hill over already boasts so many fearsome hands on deck, and they only have one Beatrice. 

Great-grandfather is gentle and teasing about it; Beatrice (and Lilith, although she will never admit it) is his favorite captive audience. 

Of course, it’s easy to treat her as one of their own on mornings like this — quiet summer days when she’s stripped of silica and scale, descended from her weatherworn perch. Devoid of the coarse matter of rock and metal twisted into hungry, flame-spitting fangs, and instead merely a soft-spoken spirit in a youthful skin. When the great grandfathers and mothers and their grandfathers and grandmothers look at her and see dark, almost-human eyes and loosely-bound hair in a bun above her shoulders.  

And when Beatrice walks Lilith out and across the rocky way that leads home, it’s easy for them to wave the two of them off. After all, Lilith is just a young woman with black waves she tucks carefully behind her ears and a handsome, slanting jaw that could almost pass as being real; as being pressed and molded with muscle and mandible and a fragile, mycelial network of vasculature and nerves. Not another delicate illusion that would slip and shatter at the first sign of danger, revealing in a flash the grotesque ugliness within.

There hasn’t been an attack in a while. When there hasn’t been an attack in a while Beatrice thinks the family tends to forget where exactly they hold court.

(Here, cradled close enough within these hills to walk back to where home once was. Children’s handprints on the threshold, coal scribbles on the floor. Walls still perfused with the fragrance and vapor of hot homemade stew.)

This is a graveyard. This is a necropolis, a city of the dead. It slithers amongst the roots of the living but does not make a home of it. In its palm lies the fragile in-between, the sickly sweet intersection where the living and the after-dead mingle like the meeting of two clouds. Within its grounds the family is wont to forget the ruthlessness that’s sometimes needed to keep it in balance.

Once they depart, Beatrice and Lilith’s guises fall away. Invisible to a still-beating heart, two terrible chimeras gouge skid-marks through the dirt to get to the Villaumbrosia citadel before its guests arrive at ten-thirty. Miraculously, only twice during the entire trip does Lilith half-heartedly threaten to snap Beatrice’s tail off. 

They make it there just in time. Beatrice watches as Lilith sweeps her way up the manicured moss columns and melds, in a quick thrash, with the magnificent dark-gray creature of stone that lunges out from the south turret. Frozen like this: mouth curled in a snarl and sharp wings flung out – in mockery, in bombast, in warning; Lilith at her most vindictive and most frightening, the elaborate Villaumbrosia insignia branded hot and painful down her side.

Beatrice knows it hurts, of course. Perhaps less so like this but certainly in the flesh, where it is always red and raw like the day it was carved down Lilith’s ribs in the workshop. Preserved unchanging in the meat as it is preserved forever in the rock. Lilith winces, when she thinks the others aren’t looking, but Beatrice knows. Camila might say something – probably does say something, but Beatrice doesn’t. She understands too well, and after all, what can they do?

After all, this is their work. This is life: whatever is asked of them. For Lilith today, it is to be a showpiece for guests at a bloated, overwrought tea ceremony. Broadly, it is watchman, and protector, and advocate. And at times like these, when there is a stir in the tangled ecosystem of bloodlines and their guardian-creatures, Beatrice is called upon to be an ambassador. 

So, the day after the storm, Beatrice leaves her perch to seek out the Silvas. She glides down from the still-slippery stone, and lands softly on the wet earth, scale meeting fur meeting soil and humid air. 

In her hands – her metaphorical hands – she clasps fistfuls of string that stretch, infinitely thin, to every corner of her tombhouse. She flexes each one and puts it between her teeth as she steps over the threshold and into the trees, testing their elasticity and tensile strength. If there is to be a twang, however minute, she must feel it. There is only one of her at home.

As she approaches the Silva tombhouse the air around her shifts and seems to solidify into a medium both probing and warning. Beatrice stills, allowing the woods to see her and course through her calmness. They know her, of course, and she waits for them to pass on the message to the newest guardian, still incredibly sensitive to the prickle of unfamiliar movement and sound. 

Presently, physically, the world exhales. 

Beatrice cautiously continues forward, until the treeline peels away to reveal the Silva tombhouse.

Tombhouse, as it goes, is a misnomer – a tombhouse is a complex rather than a single shell. It is no single cell for a coffin, but a collection of connected mausoleums and courtyards and passageways and corners and gates, lifted high and tunneled low. And as befitting a clan of esteemed craftsmen, the Silva tombhouse is a harmonious set spiraling outwards in organic whorls. Its walls are scraped clean and brushed beige, curled and leafed and folded in at the edges. Delicate and pretty in its strength in a way Beatrice’s own plain, stoic little set of residences could never be.

At the top of the central mausoleum, bounded by a parapet, rests a flat platform. On that ledge sits the new grotesque. 

Ink-black stone peeks curiously down at Beatrice. 

Immediately it is clear that she is like nothing Beatrice has ever seen before. Yes, as is tradition she is joined and jawed together piecemeal from various symbolic beasts, but this composition and style is unique. 

She’s simultaneously entirely unlike both the typical statues produced by-the-dozen in the workshops, and the specially commissioned sculptures like Beatrice herself. This guardian is a patchwork of shapes and textures Beatrice has only ever seen in the watercolor sketches of her tombhouse’s own library as belonging to exotic creatures from faraway places. Still other elements escape her recognition and description, and everything meshes deftly at smooth, near-invisible seams. 

Perhaps this isn’t surprising in a Salvius guardian – Jillian’s own commission too, it’s rumored. No less should be expected from someone the alchemists and scientists alike shy away from. Jillian Salvius considers herself a traveler, and a collector, and a dabbler, and Beatrice hears that the spokes of her gates are gnarled and carved in strange patterns from foreign lands.

The guardian shifts and cocks her head curiously, and Beatrice pulls herself together sharply.

“Hi,” the creature says. “You must be the neighbor from the east.”

Beatrice snaps back into polite, exceedingly proper posture. She nods, dipping forward in a movement resembling a bow. It makes the high-perched creature giggle, gauzy like air.

“Good morning,” she replies. “My name is Beatrice, and you’re right. How did you know?”

The guardian doesn’t answer. She separates from her stone in a miasma of color, swoops down noisily, and lands, a little clumsily, on a lower ledge. “Two heads, huh?” she says, thoughtfully. “Kinda perfect for the scholars.”

It’s not said judgmentally; more so with a further curious slant of her head, observational and light. Beatrice feels strange and semisolid all over.

She doesn’t correct the new guardian; tell her that no, she hadn’t actually been crafted or blessed for this bloodline, only gifted to them just one generation ago. And gifted rather carelessly, at that; an obligatory token presented upon the death of the benefactor’s tutor.

Before that her two heads were designed not as a tribute to wisdom or a paean to collaboration, but in order to stare proudly over an excessive estate, stretching out in opposite directions over land too vast for merely one head to behold. An arrogant symbol of not just physical, but political reach. She was a status symbol for powerful people – two-faced might be a better descriptor. 

Beatrice has always considered this with some bitterness, but today, she oddly feels no urge to self-flagellate. She feels, suspiciously, nothing at all; a fuzzy blank.

Instead, in response to the guardian, Beatrice blinks. Both of her heads do. They crane and incline together, like long-necked birds bending to convene. She feels sharp ears on each one twitch and flutter.

The creature laughs again. She descends further to the porch, then approaches Beatrice slowly. “I’m Ava,” she introduces herself, finally. Shyly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Ava,” Beatrice repeats, careful and hushed. She parses it over and traces it as though threading a needle – how the strange, simple symmetry of the word, the hypnotic up-down-up of A-V-A,  doesn't begin to encompass the entity approaching her. On cue, Ava does a funny, shuddery motion that cascades down her whole form. 

Beatrice, leaning her heads over old tomes like water jugs tipped over a parched tongue, dreams of fantastical things, from places that often sound even more surreal. And yet before her now stands the most peculiar thing alive yet, that defies everything she’s known and seen. 

Yes, clearer now before her eyes, Ava is a patchwork of impossible parts. 

Up close Beatrice can see she’s also a riverbed of illusory things. Small divots seem to scoop themselves out, sink deep, and then ripple back up into the surface of her body. Bubbling, and collapsing, and reforming, like springs of molten mother-of-pearl. Each little cavity shimmers like roughened gemstones: a gasping, dark blue, like well water under the sun; or a moody green like the light-starved undershade in a storm; or a thawing amber that Beatrice cannot even describe except that it looks like the smell of hot bread with a sweet cream core, tempting and steaming.

“Beatrice,” Ava echoes, her eyes gleaming and dark. They bubble expressively and endlessly deep. Gazing at Beatrice, straight, still and pondering. Searching. 

Silence stretches until it doesn’t. 

Something snaps – a bird on a twig above –  and Ava shakes herself awake. “Where’s my manners!” she exclaims suddenly. “Come on,” she swishes around gamely. Beatrice, bewildered, sneezes. 

She’s learning quickly that when Ava laughs, the dense tassel-like feathers on the back rise in delighted reflex and splay apart. 

The two of them slip between trees into a little glade, buoyed by her relentless charm and a thrumming current of something else, in the undertow.

Once upon a time, this was a courtyard, although now that the Silva tombhouse has unfurled in the opposite direction it’s been allowed to tastefully overgrow into its former self, mossy and scruffy. Old pieces of wall and pillars still cordon off one side; Beatrice resists the temptation to bound about and explore, and instead parks herself primly at a corner, not fidgeting.

Ava has no such compunctions. She wriggles herself into a comfortable position on a large boulder. Her weapon of a tail dangles down and bats at the ground idly, uprooting chunks of grass. 

“How are you finding it here?” Beatrice asks, trying very hard to be normal. 

“Honestly? I don’t know yet,” Ava grins, “and you’re the first one of us I’ve met here.” 

She pauses, cocks her head to one side so strikingly. The gesture almost looks human. “You know, my new folks think very highly of you,” She looks appraisingly over Beatrice with an indecipherable expression.

Beatrice feels quite hot. “Mine are curious about you.”

There is a shift in the air as Ava straightens abruptly. Her tail stills. “What will you tell them?”

Beatrice bites her tongues, undecided. She’d meant to think of it later, to phrase and rephrase and turn the words over and over in her mouth on the way back to get them right. It takes a while, usually, to distill her thoughts precisely into words that balance both insinuation and tone, and half the time it ends up all too stilted and formal anyway. How people seem to be able to do that, off the cuff – it’s confusing. Far easier, Beatrice thinks, to sit quietly beside and let such people do the talking.

Especially now that this seems, somehow, to be important to Ava. And especially now that she finds she doesn’t quite have any of the words.

If Beatrice had hands she would wring them. She thinks, distantly, of what someone else wiser than her might say. “They’ll agree with me that you’re certainly unique,” she starts, and it’s like Shannon’s talking through her, stately and gentle. Bold, like Mary. 

She adds, in an abrupt impulse that’s, alarmingly, all Beatrice, “I do think you’ll fit in well here.”

“Oh,” Ava seems surprised. Her tail, heretofore curled tightly on the boulder, relaxes and turns a loose arc in the air, hacking at the grass. “Thanks,” she looks at Beatrice, and inhales sharply, although not unkindly. 

Pauses. Sheepishly, she adds, “I’ve heard some people, uh, calling me devilish and other things, you see. But you know, it’s fine. Whatever.”

Beatrice grimaces involuntarily, then schools her expression back into an empathetic nod. It’s not unexpected. There’s bound to be a procession of curious gawkers and onlookers filing through to try and catch a glimpse of something hailing from the elusive Salviuses. Beartice knows the type: traditional, gossipy and busybodies.

They’ll take one look up the roof and gasp in disbelief or disgust, probably. Sneer up at the twisted, unnatural proportions, if they’re brave. Ava runs too close to the precipice of their diluted tolerance.

“The Silvas are good people. They’ll stand by you.” Beatrice isn’t sure if it helps, but it’s true. The households here are the little silver lining of this part of town, otherwise ragged and out of the way and a little discordant in its hues.

Ava exhales gently. Beatrice thinks there’s a small smile there. “I know.”

“It doesn’t make it easier.”

“Yeah. I know,” repeats Ava, her eyes shining, and it’s almost like she really does. 

Beatrice understands. They did it to her, too, after all.

The people who commissioned her had made a puppet of her. They had demanded a departure from classical references and therefore affixed to her frame things like startling, swiveling joints and odd angles.  Two heads, of course, among other modifications – all in an arrogant, ambitious drive to defy tradition and create a visionary symbol of fear and envy.  Instead, the lay beholder glanced upon the warped anatomy and thought it blasphemy. And so, Beatrice rapidly became that to her own family too: acrid to the eyes, rotted in the soul, a disembowelment. Failure. An embarrassment. 

The whispers billowed large like cotton sheets drying in the fields, caught and blown out in the wind.

It was a matter of time. Beatrice imagines the tiny family offspring being taught their true oral history in a sugary sick little chant, clapping their chubby hands cheerfully and squealing every grim word, 

Then the old teacher died / and it was a great relief / The family rushed to ready / a token of public grief

Her, of course. Her, and not any of the cruder, more sedate, stone guardians that studded the estate. The small ones who, on a good day, sat patiently and circulated air and respired noisily, and who were not capable of thought or pain. The family had a lot of them lining their walls, not much more than large decorative lumps of dough programmed to trap, waylay, or bite at intruders. 

Instead, they parted ways with the looming, ghastly and elaborate figure that guarded one of their main wings, and painted it as a great outpouring of sadness. Beatrice knew better.

The whole event was swift; almost planned in advance. She’d barely had time to send an urgent warning to Lilith before she was gone – a failed experiment in pomposity that took an unforeseen and regrettable turn into the profane. 

In a matter of days she was transplanted from lush green gardens into dry hills bathed in reedy, half-obscured sunsets. The kind of neighborhood her old family would call avant-garde or ‘forward-thinking’, although with a scoff that betrayed what they really thought.

And at night, looking down to sleeping homes, Beatrice would hear in the nothingness the same whispers splashing down the stone like rain, all over again.

Mindlessly, now, she has the sudden urge to reach out and feel. Fluttering cells or hardened stone, it doesn’t matter. She wants to transmute a hand of tender human pulp and skin, and run fragile fingers softly over the strangest braided foldery and flattening of membrane, bumps and spindles until they catch, pierce and bleed. 

And she so badly wants to tell Ava: I think you’re nightmarish and very beautiful. You would hold an army off this humble hill. like holding out a pathetic little bundle of flowers– but she doesn’t. It’s too long and too much; I’m here. is too short, and both are too naked. She’s not that kind of creature. She’s carved from solid rock and even when she sheds it it still feels like its weight chains her to the earth.

Her voices remain even and steady, somehow. 

“I –This isn’t the customary welcome and introductory visit,” Beatrice confesses, in lieu of it all.

“Oh. It’s not?”

Beatrice shakes her heads. “There’ll need to be a more official one.” 

The overlapping layers of spines along Ava’s limbs rise and then flatten, quickly.  “So I’ll get to see you again soon?” 

Feeling warm, or moist, or something like a pillar of pressurized foam, Beatrice clears her throats. “I suppose so. Yes.”

[melonchanverse]

Hiii sweetpea! I'm sending asks! Also, I hope you're doing well. 🩷 I couldn't just pick one character, so here are a few!

Ichiro: 🧡, 🔥, 🌇 and 🐦‍🔥

Kaguya: 🧡, 🍊, 🐅 and 🍁

Beloved Nadeko: 🎃, 🐹, ✴️ and 🎇

hi!! and thank you nimo this ask was crazy 💀💀💀💀💀 i’m doing much better now!! hope you are okay too!! @einsatzzz tag you for nadeko mention

anyway LONG ASS ANSWER

if you wanna leave an ask - 🌇

🧡 (orange heart) - Is your oc honest? Why or why not? Are there only specific people they’re honest to?

yes, ichiro values honesty highly. he always tries to be honest, but in the mafia world, absolute honesty isn't always feasible. sometimes he unknowingly engages in dishonest practices for the greater good, but it doesn't sit well with him either. despite this, he still strives to be as sincere as possible. he wouldn't allow someone to be consistently kept in the dark.

🔥 (fire) - What drives your character in life? Is it a belief? A person? A goal? Whatever it is, what do they want from it and what are they willing to do to get it?

for ichiro, his burning ambition and drive come from a deep-seated sense of loyalty to his family. his primary goal is to ensure the well-being and safety of everyone he holds dear, especially his siblings. he’s willing to go to great lengths to protect them and safeguard their happiness, even if it means taking on seemingly impossible tasks. although loyalty to his family serves as the primary force propelling him forward, he also possesses a natural talent for leadership

🌇 (sunset) - What does it take for your character to trust someone? Do they have to prove themselves? Or does your character not trust anyone no matter what? What made them this way?

ichiro is quite a cautious person and doesn’t easily trust someone without sufficient proof. he doesn’t outright distrust everyone, but he does require time and tangible evidence before he’ll fully trust someone. this guarded nature is due to his experiences and the harsh realities of the mafia world. he’s seen deceit and betrayal, and it’s made him wary of others’ intentions. he needs to see some level of authenticity and consistency in someone’s actions before he’s willing to open up and trust them

🐦‍🔥 (phoenix) - What has your oc had to overcome to get to where they are now? Were the challenges emotional or physical? Would you say they had to go through a “rebirth”? How did they change, if at all?

ichiro's life, marked by his early immersion in the mafia, has been a series of challenges. he had to overcome emotional and physical obstacles from a young age, each one testing his resilience and character. these trials have indeed been akin to a “rebirth” for him. each hurdle has changed him, instilling a deep sense of responsibility, fortitude, and adaptability. he picked himself up bit by bit, staying strong for the ones he loves, as the mafia lifestyle demanded sacrifices and perseverance

🧡 (orange heart) - Is your oc honest? Why or why not? Are there only specific people they’re honest to?

kaguya is an interesting case when it comes to honesty. she values candor and doesn't beat around the bush, but her honesty can feel blunt and even a bit harsh at times. she tends to be brutally truthful with everyone, which often lands her in hot water. while she may hold back on certain things for nadeko's sake, she typically doesn't find the need to filter her words. so, you could say she's honest to a fault.

🍊(orange) - Is your oc more selfish or selfless? Are they willing to sacrifice themselves or their goals for others? Why are they this way?

kaguya has a unique blend of selflessness and selfishness. while she appears aloof and self-centered, she harbors a deep sense of loyalty and would sacrifice a great deal for those she cares about. for Nadeko, she is willing to put her own wants and needs aside to protect her. but her selflessness is born from a deeper motivation; she doesn't do it out of sheer altruism, but rather as a means to fulfill her own desires and needs.

🐅 (tiger) - What makes your character angry? Are they angry often? Does it take a lot to make them upset or are they quick to anger?

kaguya's temper is like a simmering volcano; it may not erupt constantly, but when it does, watch out. she’s not one to get easily angered, and she often maintains a stoic facade. however, if you cross certain boundaries or threaten what she holds dear, you'll quickly ignite her fiery wrath. it’s not so much that she's quick to anger, but more that when she does get angry, it's an intense and formidable force to reckon with.

🍁 (maple leaf) - What brings your character joy? Do they find happiness in the small things? Does it take a lot to cheer them up?

despite her exterior, kaguya does find joy in small moments. she may not display it outwardly, but the simple comfort of a quiet night, a satisfying conversation, or even a good meal can bring a subtle joy to her otherwise stoic demeanor. when it comes to being cheered up, it’s a bit more complex; she values genuine connection and understanding, and it takes something more than just a simple gesture or an empty platitude to genuinely lift her spirits.

🎃 (jack-o’-lantern) - What is your character’s greatest fear? Is it something primal like the dark or something specific like killer clowns? Did they gain this fear after a bad experience? Whatever it is, why are they scared of it?

nadeko's greatest fear is not something tangible or immediate like the dark or killer clowns, but rather a fear rooted in the depths of her soul. born and raised in a world where she is expected to uphold an image of perfection, her biggest dread is the loss of her identity. the fear that deep down, she isn't truly herself but a mere amalgamation of expectations and roles assigned to her. this fear stemmed not from a singular experience but from a lifetime of being trapped in a golden cage, constantly pressured to conform to others' definitions of who she should be.

🐹 (hamster) - How does your oc feel about animals? Have they ever had a pet? What made them feel this way towards animals?

nadeko has a soft spot for animals, particularly small and cute ones. she never had a pet growing up, her busy schedule and strict upbringing didn't allow for it. yet, she always felt a sense of comfort in the presence of animals.

✴️ (eight-pointed star) - Is there anyone your oc admires or looks up to? What qualities of this person does your oc admire? Do they want to be like this person one day?

nadeko doesn't have someone she consciously admires or strives to be like. her behavior towards her younger brother, Itsuki, can occasionally mirror the manner of their older brother, Ichiro, without her realizing it. perhaps there's a subtle influence from ichiro in how she interacts with her siblings, and it seeps into her actions without her fully recognizing its origin.

🎇 (sparkler) - If your oc had the chance to start their life over again, what would they change, if anything? How would this change them and the people around them? Would their lives be better or worse? Would they change anything in the first place?

if nadeko had the chance to start her life over again, she'd want to change the expectations and constraints that defined her existence. she'd yearn to break free from the chains of perfection and find her true self. this change would set her on a different path, creating a life free from societal norms and her own internal struggles. while it might cause pain for some, it would also bring a genuine sense of freedom and authenticity, affecting both her and those around her. the question remains, would she actually change anything in the first place?

[pumpkinrootbeer]

okay this is completely petty but im mildly irritated at seeing people get this wrong

No, that person didn't post hate in your liveblog.

The tags and search function on Tumblr are very similar, but ultimately very different. Let's use the Avs lb as an example here, because I'm in there a lot. (I also went and changed my dashboard theme so my screenshots wouldn't be annoying. I did that for you. My sacrifices are akin to Jesus. In a way. If you think about it.)

So you want to look at the blorboposting during a hockey game and you go into the Tumblr search bar. You'll notice right off the bat that #avs lb and avs lb are two different things.

That's what the search looks like ^ also lettucemakar cameo hi girl (gender neutral)

Tumblr search is just a wide sweap of the entire website grabbing key words, which is why you will see sometimes completely unrelated posts in searches.

This is what the tag looks like, pretty noticably different. Only things that have been tagged #avs lb are going to show up once you clicked this tag or put the hashtag into the search, in which case it will still look like this. This is a really good way to filter out unwanted post. Especially posts that might accidentally upset you! I only go directly into the tag because I'm a sensitive little bitch.

People might say "burn the avs franchise to the ground" while watching a game and they'll tag it with their respective liveblog like. Oilers lb or whatever I have no idea what your guy's tag is. Tumblr search function doing its thing where it just grabs any post that has the words "avs" and "lb" in the post, even if they're not consecutive, will then put that into the search feed of anyone looking for avs lb.

This isn't anyone's fault, no one wants to see posts hating on their team but that also isn't an excuse to send nasty messages to our hypothetical op here, who probably was just trying to make a silly post. And I have seen people get sent nasty anons for what is an honest misunderstanding of tumblrs search function. So what are the solutions?

You can censor the team names of any team you're not posting about, which is the polite thing to do. A period, slash, or asterisk will break up the key word and keep it from being swept up in Tumblr's search. You can also use the state/province or the city in place of the team, like Edmonton instead of Oilers or Colorado instead of Avs.

But, not everyone is going to do that either because they just don't want to or because they don't think about it. I personally think censoring team names looks silly and I don't like doing it, which is why I will default to using the state or city name in any post where I'm being a disgusting little hater. But some people aren't going to do that either! So what do you do then?

You've got three options, first make sure you've clicked into the tag to automatically filter out any post not tagged. Second, block the liveblog for every team but your own. Kind of a scorched earth method, but it works! Third, block anyone you see being a hater on your team!

Ultimately you can't except strangers to curate your online expirence for you, even when them taking a small step would be the polite thing to do. So, use the features you do have, like the block button! Block people baby!! It's beautiful and I love doing it. Also make sure you're in the tag and not the search if you really really don't want to see any of those kind of posts.

[ultraviolet-ink]

What do you think about asoryuu?

Oh boy, this one's going to be a bit loaded, so here's a bit of a preemptive apology for a ramble/word vomit/rant on my end. Suffice to say ASRY is a NoTP for me. When I was first getting into DGS all the way back in 2019/20, I was a bit ambivalent towards the ship. I had only watched a playthrough of the first game, and I had the feeling that Kazuma was going to come back, but the ship didn't really scream to me at that point, and it kind of befuddled me to see how it was so popular (and a bit of a tangent, I think people only really ship the 1-1 dynamic, but that's a convo for another day). If you even look at the header of my blog, it is no secret that I ship Ryuususa, and it is my OTP. When I had watched the fifth case on the playthrough, I was sold on that ship, and the last moments really sealed the deal for me-- there's something really compelling about the goodbye scene between Susato and Ryuunosuke at the docks, and the localization legitimately made me cry (happy tears of course!) Being a little naive, I started to post about it and I got... a LOT of harassment calling me a lot of names/accusing me of being okay with a lot of really horrible things (intrusive thoughts WHOOOOOOP). The harassment was so bad that I only recently opened up to my therapist about what had happened, and I was pulling away from servers/people I thought I was friends with/wouldn't treat me horribly. I found a lot of solace with people who were also violently harassed pre-localization (shout out to the Baroryuu community, you all were really kind to me, and I am proud to also be a Baroryuu lover <3), when I say it was drama filled pre localization, I mean it. I can even point out when my harassment started to March of 2021 when someone on twitter said not to read my dgs fics since I was a proshipper (I hadn't even called myself that at this point, and honestly I don't really use that title [idk how else to describe it lol], but I do follow that philosophy and call myself anti-harassment), and since I hadn't had a twt at that time, they linked to my ao3, and since I put my tumblr on my fics, I got a LOT of disturbing anons. Even when I made my server, I used to have a link that anyone could click on (word of the day is naive lmaooo), and I got a lot of creeps coming in trying to surveil the server and make sure their friends weren't in it (one person was even trying to get access to the nsfw section which was FUN). After reading this, you're probably thinking "what does this have to do with ASRY?". A lot of the major bullies in fandom HEAVILY shipped ASRY, and would harass people who shipped other ships (Baroryuu and Asobaro shippers were racist, Homuryuu shippers were okay with incest because of that stupid "greatest family in the world" line, etc.). All in all, it came with a lot of entitlement and anger that other peopled DARED not to ship that ship. Those sorts of people really tainted the ship for me. As for the ship itself, I can definitely see why people love it a lot (especially 1-1), but I really didn't like Kazuma in 2-4/5. I found him to be really particularly awful and obtuse (which, makes perfect sense in the story! Who wouldn't be in his position?). I was also mad that he only said ONE (1!!!) thing to Susato when he got his memories back (despite HER recognizing him and getting the ball rolling), and it was basically "Thanks for helping out my friend, bye!" (#justiceforsusato lol). Even at the end of the game, I still was mad at Kazuma and didn't really like him. It's only due to my friends (namely @leafyemeralds and her VERY GOOD TAKES in our convos) that I eventually started to warm up to him. Now he's my personal punching bag to Atone(tm) XD I suppose TL;DR I'm not a big Kazuma fan, harassment made me really dislike the ship, so I don't ship it (also, can ASRY shippers tag their stuff? this is more of a problem on twitter, but it happens on tumblr. Filters can only work if they're there =3=)

[stormblessed95]

How to search some specific genre fics on ao3 ? Like do we put the genre on Google or should put that on ao3 and we'll get? I mean idk exactly what are the things we should use to describe or find specific genre fics on ao3, idk how it works sorry, so if you can just tell me how to search that wil be helpful..

I'm okay with doing a quick little AO3 tags lesson! I'm on mobile for now though, so that's what you are getting.

So idk if there are better ways, but I normally start with the fandom (unless you are searching more specifically off the bat, but I like browsing and seeing what catches my eye.) So for this example, let's say the MDZS fandom is what we are searching in as that's the fandom sandbox that has been the subject of my hyper fixation for a while now! So either find while already in AO3 or just type "x fandom AO3" into Google too, that would work just fine lol. Than once in the fandom tag, click "filters"

Once in filters, you'll see a bunch of options, the ones you probably want to use first for "genre" type stuff is the relationships, other tags and sort by. Those are the ones I use most anyway

Under relationships click the pairing you want to read about (if you are searching under BTS, you'd click "Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin" if you want Jikook fics) and then you could also type in under other tags which type of story you are looking for. And then I always sort by kudos to get the highest rated fics at the top....

So let's do wangxian as my pairing....

Then I can figure out what type of vibe of story I might want.... Like if I wanted an AU, it would give suggestions as I type too....

Or a fix it....

Or time travel....

Plus the additional tags gives some of the most popular tags in the fandom we are under currently that get used.... You can check off any of those....

You can also check the other filters to narrow things down further, like if you want completed fics only. The type of relationship (m/m, m/f, f/f, etc), the rating (explicit to general), you can also check off if you want to exclude anything. So if you really don't want to read about a certain tag or relationship, exclude it and any fics with that in it won't show up in your search.

So if I just said I want a Wangxian fic that's in a modern university setting... I can put that into the filters, sort by kudos.... And it'll just give me pages of fics I can scroll through till I find a description/summary that appeals to me lol

(and in case anyone was wondering, the first two fics are hilarious and adorable and I plan to read ride a socialist now lol)

If this was NOT helpful, tell me and I'll try to do better. Lmao or if you need help finding something specific let me know and I'll do my best!

Thanks for asking!