Can we have a drabble about Tamlin dying his hair black pls
Yes, of course! I thought this was a cute opportunity to continue this baby Tamlin series. I've also posted it on AO3 too!
from the beginning
baby tamlin dyes his hair black
A delicate balance must be maintained between the two Courts. Rhysand cannot spend all his time in Spring, it goes against everything he was working towards and planning. Whenever he tries to leave, a pang of guilt pierces his chest and it worsens when he has to face those big, teary green eyes staring up at him. Rhysand is the only living person he remembers and to abandon a child—
He remembers what it was like to be alone in the moments where his mother was needed elsewhere. She rarely wanted to leave him, but his father took pleasure in driving a wedge between them. His father always came first, and he was his mother’s mate. His mind wanders towards Feyre and her name scrawled at the top of the parchment. All he needs is a bit more time. Azriel, Mor and Cassian will understand.
The doors to the emissary study burst open.
“Where’s Tamlin?!”
Rhysand blinks at the panting redhead. “I thought he was with you.”
“No, I told you that I had a meeting with the Summer emissary. The nursemaids were supposed to bring him to you when he had his morning bath.”
“You have told me sweet fuck all, Vanserra. Do not turn this on me.”
Lucien rolls his eyes and turns on his heels. “You better help me look, your lordship. ”
It’s Rhysand’s turn to roll his eyes. He’s a big believer in working smarter not harder, something Lucien may not be familiar with. He closes his eyes, letting the tendrils of his mind reach out to everyone in the manor and looking for thoughts of the little blonde lordling. He’s careful not to rummage around too deeply or jostle people out of their consciousness. Hints are all he’s asking for. He gets more than just a hint, recognizing Tamlin’s childish inner monologue, singing to himself one of his mother’s bath songs.
Lucien, he’s in the laundry room.
He moves quickly, meeting Lucien on the ground floor and descending the steps. From what he understands, the washing is done only a handful of times a week, excluding the current day, which means that Tamlin can hide away here and play on his own until someone passes by. Both of them peer into the room, light filtering from the high windows carved in the stone.
“Tamlin?” Lucien calls.
“Tam-Tam, it’s me, your favourite person,” Rhysand hums, louder than the emissary which earns him a glare.
“‘Am here!” Tamlin chirps from the back of the large room.
Sheets hang to dry and large basins rest in the centre of the room with stools beside them. They’ve been emptied and will be refilled during the next washing day. Both faeries follow the sound of Tamlin’s humming to a small room where clothes are repaired and fabrics are re-dyed. Black stains the walls, the floor, the front of Tamlin’s shirt and his hair.
“Tamlin!?” Lucien chokes out, his voice cracking from shock.
“Hi,” Tamlin beams, waving his dyed hand at his friends.
Rhysand is covering his face, trying his very best not to laugh because it’s cute. He can’t imagine himself being the disciplinary parent; that’s what Lucien is for, anyway. His muffled amusement earns him a smack on the shoulder and he mouths ‘ what ’ at Lucien. He doesn’t see anything wrong with the scene before him.
“Hi, Tam,” Lucien says calmly, kneeling in front of him. “What’s all this?”
“Squink!”
“Yes, I’m aware that’s squid ink, but what are you doing?”
“Um,” Tamlin looks to Rhysand, then back to Lucien. He’s not sure if he’s in trouble, but Lucien doesn’t sound mad. He chews on his lip, then answers with a smile. “We match!”
Oh, Rhysand cannot contain himself anymore. He bursts out laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. He has not laughed like this in a long, long time. It feels good.
hi dee!!!! I’m a big fan of your hcs🥺💖 could i ask for jin dating hcs🥺✨
Hello pumpkin!!! Omg thank you so much, it means a lot to me😭💖 Jin is amazing, he is so sweet! Enjoy the hcs! ✨
✨Jin Soichiro dating headcanons ✨
Jin is literally the perfect boyfriend.
He is very affectionate and caring.
Just being with him looks like a fairy tale.
Jin always comes to pick you up from your house so you can walk to school together.
He always waits for you as well so he can walk you home.
If he has practice after school he will ask you to stay as well and watch him play since your presence makes him more confident.
If you cant stay he will call you when he returns home and ask you if you missed him.
Yeah, this boy is smoother than you think.
Always holds your hand. Makes him feel secure.
Wants you cheer for him during his matches. It helps him play even better.
Jin doesn't get jealous, he is very calm.
If someone flirts with you he will just ask them to stop because you're together.
If they don't listen to him Kiyota will interfere and then things will take a different turn.
His closet is all yours, you can wear whatever you like even if his clothes are pretty big on you.
Takes you on lovely little dates.
Jin loves hugs so you can't really escape that. Enjoy having his long arms wrapped around you.
Whenever you are moody he will stay with you and read for you some of his favorite books. It always makes you feel better because his voice helps you calm down.
Jin is a pretty cinnamon roll that wants to give you his love. Please accept it!
I'd love to see Hank in like a metal head outfit. Black Metalband shirt, black pants, maybe ripped, studded belt, maybe studded leather bracelets, combat boots, maybe leather jacket. Still grey hair and not aged down.
This blog believes in Aging Metalhead Hank Supremacy!
Whenever Catherine burst into his office, Count Orlo struggled to withhold a sigh. It would stand to reason that, for the first time in memory, his personal life was too busy. Between the woman he had met, and the whole damn coup, his work had begun to suffer.
He was desperate to catch up, working horrific overtime even as his mind spun with excitement, thinking about the Russia to come. The woman he could be with, once all this bloodshed and plotting was over. You could stand by his side, wake in his bed. Perhaps his workload could be lightened, and he could live peacefully, knowing he had years of comfort and love ahead with you.
As soon as this coup was over, you could be together without judgement or fear.
That felt miles away, and Orlo cursed as fresh ink smudged across his sleeve, ruining both the garment and the page. Fuck.
Catherine was mumbling about pox and variolation and her usual plots which would get the pair of them into horrific amounts of trouble. It took all of his self-discipline and learnt politeness not to snap at her, and force his ears to hear her words.
She was quite worked up, hands on hips as she demanded his attention. He caught only her last words, but they were enough to make his stomach drop.
“The entire servants’ quarters will be burned if we fail to act, Orlo.”
“A pox outbreak?”
A faint ‘have you even been listening to me’ was drowned out by the blood rushing in Orlo’s ears, his heart beating faster.
You had said nothing, but been mysteriously absent for the last day. He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of you in the corridor, that usual daily pang of guilt washing over him as you walked with your head down, a serf unable to protest as your muscles ached and your soul was trampled by hours of hard work.
“How many are gone already?” He snapped, suddenly fixing the young Empress with a glare which made her shrink back.
“Serfs? I have no idea. But it is horrific, and my boy Vlad is to be burned with the rest of them, he is trapped in a cupboard as we speak – ”
The Count paid no mind to the rest of Catherine’s words, her indignation rising as he rose to his feet, pulling on his jacket and walking away from her.
“Variolation is the future! It can save those who are not already infected, and will be a great advancement for our nation!”
“I am sure of that, Empress. But if you will excuse me…”
He didn’t even offer an excuse, already jogging towards the servants’ quarters, heels clicking on the marble floor as he searched for the nearest concealed access point to the underbelly of the palace. A disguised door, known only to those unfortunate enough to pass between the two worlds of nobility and serfdom, finally made itself known to him as a servant exited it.
Orlo did not hesitate to wrench the door open, hearing the clack of Catherine’s shoes and the airy shouts of her voice. She must think him totally irrational, he was sure. Explanation could wait.
“For Christ’s sakes, Orlo! You will get sick!”
Catherine grabbed for him, but her attempts to follow him were quickly stumped by the rough stone staircase which led to the quarters beneath the palace. The outbreak was enough to stop her following him across the threshold, even as she hissed to him to not be so ridiculous.
She had no idea. None of them did, his friends, contemporaries, enemies. The had not told a soul that his heart resided below the finery and the cleanliness of the palace. These shined corridors and ornately decorated rooms held no allure for him if they were not attended by you.
Orlo felt thoroughly out of his depth under the retreating glares of the serfs beneath the palace, and had a sudden flare of concern for his own safety. He pushed the sensation down, striding in a guessed direction, eyes flying wildly from sleeping body to exhausted serf. There was the occasional body, or a barely-living person too sick to hold themselves upright. Stretcher-bearers stood aside to let him pass, and Orlo felt himself almost sick with relief that the covered corpse looked nothing like you.
He was giving up hope, preparing to search the horrific encampment outside of the palace for you, when Orlo stopped in his tracks.
The sight of your sleeping form, on a barren cot without a single sheet for comfort, made his heart sink. The slight rise and fall of your chest was barely comfort, as sheer panic overtook Orlo. He grabbed at your wrist, shaking you awake with his free had, determined you could never return to this place.
“You are coming with me.”
Confused expressions watched him, some faces morphing to anger or bemusement as Orlo pulled you from your bed. Was there not an ounce of privacy here? Their gawking was enough to make him irrationally furious at your peers, glaring at a woman washing sheets mere feet from your drowsy head.
“Orlo?”
At the sound of your voice his grip softened. His shortlived relief – that you were still seemingly fine – was quickly burst by the coughs and groans of a sick serf just a few rooms away.
“Please, come to my rooms. I need to get you out of here.”
You acquiesced groggily, bowing your head against the judgement of your peers, and in subjugation to Orlo. You hated for him to see you here, to realise just how different your lives were. Never once had he made you feel inferior, until now.
“Quickly,” he muttered.
He was rushing to leave the servants’ quarters, and you could not blame him, his finery standing out against the muddied floors and the soot-blackened wooden walls which did little to distinguish one person’s space from another’s. You would not spend time here either, if you had somewhere nicer to be.
“You could have sent for me,” you muttered, following him with as much subservience in your body language as if you were obeying any other member of nobility.
“It was not fast enough. There is a pox outbreak!”
“I am well aware,” you mumbled, hoping no one but him would hear your defiance.
Finally above the ground floor, in the bright corridor, he spun on his heel to look at you.
“I have been blind. My God, what kind of man am I?”
You glanced around nervously, hoping no one would see him speaking to a serf as he was now.
With the intent of hearing your reply.
“Of course, you knew. Oh love, you should have said. I would never have let you suffer down there…”
You caught yourself huffing at him in frustration, at his ignorance, at his ridiculous grasp on reality. You really hoped no one else of status heard that, as Orlo glanced at you with concern.
“It is always some level of hell and panic down there. This is merely another of Dante’s circles.”
“I missed you.”
The words spilled from his mouth like an expression of his very soul, unfiltered by his brain. Like a plea.
“As soon as I heard about the outbreak, I feared the worst, and it has been days since we have caught up…” Orlo rambled.
You cut him off.
“I am okay.”
You reached for his hands, and suddenly Orlo seemed to remember where you were. Some random corner of the palace, where a guard, a Lord or Lady, Emperor or Empress, could sweep around the corner at any moment. You dropped his hands to spare him the decision.
“My rooms…” he mumbled.
You nodded, and he set off.
Following him was second nature, and you did so gladly, halving the normal journey time by keeping stride with his frantic pace. Once inside his chambers you could breathe a small sigh of relief, but not as extreme as his relief, the slump of his shoulders and the roughness of his shaky exhale. With a small smile to you, he walked to his desk. He carefully recapped the inkpot he had left unattended on his papers, straightened the chair which was askew, left in a rush. His glasses were slipping down his nose, so he pulled them off, folding them to sit atop his stack of books.
You watched, amused, as he put everything back as it ought to be. Then he captured your hands and guided you to the chaise. He occupied the seat before you, pulling you onto his lap. The softness of his body beside your own was always a welcome relief, like a craving sated, and you wrapped your arms around him in a sideways approximation of a hug.
“I am so glad to be able to hold you,” he confessed. “I feared the worst. Pox is vicious.”
You nodded.
“There are others down there –”
A stern look cut you off, his glasses absent and unable to obstruct the emotion in his deep brown eyes.
“I am not in love with anyone else down there.”
You felt just the smallest pang of regret for your tone. He took no delight in their suffering. Not like others in this palace did.
“I will help Catherine with variolation, persuade Archie, do whatever it takes. But I cannot know you are down there, at risk.” Orlo sighed, dramatic and somehow sincere all at once. “In risking yourself you risk my heart. I could not bear the thought… that you might be out in that forest, burned like garbage…”
There was a choke in his voice. Just as you imagined tears might begin to grace his cheeks, his hands tight around your torso, the doors to his room banged open. The angle of your seat concealed you for a moment, but you pushed at his chest frantically to separate yourself from the Count, desperate to conceal your secret. Orlo held on tight, arms clamping you into a hug against him even as you wanted to yell at him to release you.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
Your heart sank at the Empress’ voice, sing-song as she called the Count’s name, her skirt preceding her slightly as the rounded the corner to find him.
“Oh!”
Something akin to childish glee presented itself on Catherine’s face, as she watched Orlo cradle you to him. Her awe was similar to someone beholding a great scientific miracle. Perhaps this was a better spectacle: hopeless Orlo entirely smitten with a woman who loved him back.
“I was about to demand an explanation for your rather impressive sprint to the servants’ quarters, but I believe I have found it.”
You let Orlo introduce you, shocked as Catherine greeted you like a friend. She did not touch you, but granted you a small nod of her head, confounding you to your very core.
“A friend of Orlo’s is a friend of mine. Although perhaps friend is not the right word.”
You missed the look Orlo exchanged with her, his head over your shoulder from where you sat upon his lap, but the raise of Catherine’s eyebrows suggested to you the glare he shot to the Empress.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she continued civilly. “The clothes might be infected. Allow me to fetch you something else to wear.”
As she swept from the room, calling for her servant, Orlo loosened his grip on you.
“That was the Empress!” You hissed, horrified at his indiscretion.
“It was.”
“She knows!”
His quiet confidence was frustrating, and only when he captured one of your hands between both of his, did you begin to calm. And suspect his motives for suddenly uprooting you, on a random afternoon.
“She does.”
“Orlo… what are you doing?”
“I can’t have you live down there. So far from me. Slaving away, serving others, at risk…”
You stayed silent, unable to choose careful enough words to reply, wringing more from him.
“My bed is big enough for two,” he smiled. “And it is far more comfortable than the one downstairs. If you can tolerate the company.”
With a nod, you captured his lips, feeling his body shifting to pull you closer as he groaned his gratitude into your mouth.
You pulled back, looking into his eyes, delighting in the smile on his face.
“I am so glad you said yes,” he mumbled, and you rolled your eyes, capturing his chin with your hand to kiss him again.
A polite cough broke you apart.
In his doorway stood Catherine, eyes sparkling with mischief, and long-suffering Marial.
“My old finery should suit you nicely, until Orlo coughs up to buy you something proper,” she declared.
