𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 ! ( ᴀᴘ )

               LYRIC STARTERS      ↬      @traumaturgic                     505     ——————     ARCTIC MONKEYS.

❛❛    𝙼𝚈 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶, 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃?    ❜❜

❝ TRUTH BE TOLD,  sweetheart, I don't know. But I definitely didn't expect to be his new favorite target. ❞

My threads with @kiingstech​ can easily be found on my blog and reviewed if anyone wants to view and/or judge the content I’ll be speaking about in this post. I’m not going to excuse myself. What I did was wrong, immoral, and should not / cannot be tolerated.

I want to stress that Kriss / @kiingstech​ and I had discussed the relationship between Hamish and Stephen every step of the way. At no point did I force and/or coerce him into the events of the roleplays which they were involved in. Kriss can attest that I always asked if the things we were writing were okay, too much, too graphic, and knew that he could say no. I can provide screenshots of these exact conversations if anyone finds it necessary.

We both knew that at any point in time, we could stop what we were roleplaying. Boundaries WERE discussed, frequently and in detail. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that I’m the adult, and I should have put my foot down before it got to that point.

We weren’t aiming to write smut. What we were going for was emotional connection related to closeness. But that’s not an excuse either. I honest to god thought that our ‘fade to blacks’ were okay. I did think that we were within the boundaries of what would be considered appropriate to speak about/roleplay/develop, and it wasn’t until the anon I got today that I realized that yes, what we were doing was borderline smut. No, we’ve never outright smutted. There has been no point at and will never be a point at which I will consent to be that graphic with any minor, not just Kriss. I toed the line, and I crossed it, and that was wrong of me.

This is a mistake that I regret immensely, because not only does it affect Kriss, it affects my entire dash. It created discomfort, discourse, and most of all, was morally wrong. I should have kept the age range more in mind instead of getting wrapped up in what we were writing, because regardless of consent on either side, what I did was illegal and should have been taken into serious consideration. In the future, I plan to take extra measures in order to correct this behavior, such as limiting my blog to 18+  and keeping my threads PG-13.

I would like to ask that Kriss not be bothered about this following the release of this post. Again, there was consent on both sides (and yes, I know that doesn’t matter), and Kriss had the capability to say no at any time. Please don’t bother him about his own behavior and/or consent.

I fully recognize that this is a problem, and that I need to take steps to improve this in any way I can. For now, my blog remains dash only while I revamp my rules, relationships, and etc. Again, in the future, I plan on being a better person and making sure that what i’m doing is morally right, healthy, and okay for both parties to do.

I apologize to all of you for this content. For having something morally wrong on your dash whether you enjoyed reading it or not, for putting you in the position of it being displayed in the first place, for your discomfort if you happened to come across it and realize it for what it was. I  apologize to the people who look up to me as a blog, as a roleplayer, and as a person, because I know I let you down. I  apologize to Kriss for having to deal with this in the first place. 

Feel free to make your own informed decisions to unfollow me, softblock me, hardblock me, report me, etc. I fully understand that what I did was wrong and I will face the consequences. The only thing I ask is that you don’t bother Kriss about this, because it’s not his responsibility to deal with. It’s mine.

Cute. Is it too early or too late to say already that he absolutely adores Stephen? That, for as iron-fisted and harsh he may seem, he truly is a gentleman underneath it all ( which is surprising, considering he is not only American but also regularly works around people conditioned into being gentleman spies ). “Thank you, dear,” he says, because he has a bit more manners than most people he’s met.

There’s something different about being here. Hamish has seen and been to many high end, fancy, downright stunning restaurants, tailored specifically for royalty or some other upperclass snob; that’s the thing about working for a gentleman-spy agency. Most missions were of the posh caliber, if not the origin of the agents, so Hamish was regularly inundated every now and then of the many intricate marble patterns or what have you. But this is different, because he’s not here to plant a tracker or diffuse a bomb. He’s here on a fancy date night.

“Good any date material,” he says, both in reference to Stephen and the night itself. Stephen is downright stunning in that suit, and the restaurant of choice is just as fantastic; there are very few things here that may indicate a bad night anytime soon. And, sure, he was inexperienced with romance- thirty years is a long time without it, and that’s not counting the rest of his life before then- but he’s also an expert analyst. 

He sits, readjusts in his seat once or twice, is unsure where to put his hands because he is very suddenly aware that he doesn’t know what to do with them. So then he leans back some, takes a better look at Stephen, and smiles. “Hell of a place you picked out. Evar been here before?” He then looks to their surroundings- the design absolutely floors him- and readjusts his glasses. “It’s… a great first impression. For the rest of our dates.”

HE'S GLAD OF IT. Because he knows they work for a spy agency that works, frequently, in establishments such as these. He knows he's been to fancy restaurants and that he's used to all the pomp and circumstance. But he'd been hoping that, on some level, being brought here on a date rather than a mission would make things different.

Stephen reaches for the bottle in the middle of the table and lets the wine pour itself out, unwilling to do it with his own hands lest he spill the liquid all over the table. The wine glasses are filled with a deep fruity red, and once he places the bottle side, they're briefly interrupted by the waiter, who politely hands them their menus.

❝ Hmm? No. Tony and I had discussed restaurants at some point, just because we wanted to compare tastes. I did walk in here once, just to check out whether it was worth all the hyping he kept doing over it, but I've never brought someone here. It'sss not my 'regular date spot', or anything, if that's what's on your mind. ❞   Stephen regards Hamish with some amusement, his eyes soft and golden-green in the candlelight.

Hamish brings his knees up to better accommodate Stephen, bringing his own hand up to look at both sets of rings next to one another. Some part of himself still can’t believe it- Hamish Strange, Hamish Strange!- but he’s not about to wake up anytime soon and he’d prefer to keep it that way. “Aye, you were right about that arse. Can’t really catch a proper break evar, can we?” It’s the nature of their jobs, after all, but he’d at least hoped his wedding day would’ve been a bit more serene and peaceful.

“You’d expect for evil tae rest on a wedding day, hm?” He chuckles, leaning to kiss Stephen on the cheek, then runs a thumb along the rings on Stephen’s fingers. It really had been a hectic day; not only was planning it on the shoulders of Eggsy and Wong ( of all people, and the two opposite ends ) but there’s the added chaos of an open bar for the likes of the Avengers and their many childlike agents. “Do you regret any of it? If you could change a thing, would you have?”

STEPHEN TWINES THEIR FINGERS TOGETHER just to feel the rings brush against each other; just to feel the way that metal rests against metal, warm thanks to the temperature of their bodies. He chuckles. Catch a break? Them? No, never. And he well knows it; doesn't want to admit that he pretty much knew somebody would have crashed their party, because he wanted to keep up the belief that yes, they would absolutely have a nice and peaceful wedding.

“You think so?” Hamish is rarely- if ever- given a compliment. Stephen has already made it a priority in many parts of their intertwined lives now ( to compliment his work, to compliment his looks, the way he talks, everything about himself really ), which has Hamish blushing at the attention. “Wait, wait,” he says, squirming out of Stephen’s arms and taking a step back, the look on his face most associated with a measuring tape draped over his shoulders and a safety pin in his mouth.

He looks at Stephen, inspects him, watches how ever movement seems to make it shine in its own, special, intricate manner. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing this one,” he says, bringing a hand up to adjust Stephen’s tie just slightly ( if not for the close contact, then certainly to straighten it out just a bit ). A hand wipes an invisible crease from the suit, only to admire it further, and Hamish smiles. Soft and gentle, a little of disbelief.

“If this is you on our first date, I can’t wait to see what the second one is,” he muses, crossing his arms, adjusting his glasses. And he’s somewhat giddy at the prospect, at the idea that this isn’t their last, that this is only the beginning. This is one doorway opening to a plethora of many other dates ( whether that be a fancy one such as this or something a bit more ice-cream-by-the-beach-esque ).

Hamish straightens himself out for a final time, readjusts his bowtie for good measure, and sticks out his elbow for Stephen to hold ( this feels generally gentlemanly, right? ) and smiles again. He’s not entirely sure what to do– he’s never been on a date a single day in his life. But he’s sure, whatever he ends up doing, it won’t change much of what he already knows. “Right. All sorted?”

❝ YES. YOU'RE A VISION, SWEETHEART. ❞    And he's not afraid to say it, either, with his gaze so full of adoration as he takes in the entirety of his outfit. He's never seen Hamish look quite this composed for something other than his pilot duties, and it's making his heart rate skyrocket. He wants to touch him, hold him, kiss him, but Hamish squirms away and he can't help but laugh a little bit.

❝ You haven't. Do you like it? I was saving it for something like this. ❞   What he means, of course, is that he'd hoped to impress Hamish with it one day, at some point during his pining and hoping that they'd somehow get the chance to be together like this. Now that they were here, he finds himself somewhat self-conscious about the way he looks. Was it enough to impress Hamish, or would he simply write it off as another one of the many suits that the agents wore?

Stephen chuckles and opens up a portal, leading them to the front door of a restaurant proudly named Del Posto. Hamish isn't the only one who gets to be a gentleman tonight -- Stephen reaches to open the door for him and gesture inside, smiling to himself and winking. Suck it, Harry Hart. But he's not about to let thoughts of him ruin this special night.

“I haven’t seen them in a while,” he says, snuggling comfortably, a complete and utter lie. Because he always takes a glance at them, sneaks a peek whenever he can. Sometimes he’ll see it when they’re training, on full display in front of candidates. Sometimes he’ll see it on the news, hands of magick spectacularly working to keep New York- and, by extension, the world- safe from whatever the hell decided to whisk Stephen away. Sometimes he’ll stare at it at night, when Stephen is fast asleep, watch it glow that tacky fluorescent colour against his chest. He loves it, he loves seeing it.

“How long have we been husbands?” He needn’t ask, Hamish counts each day they’re together, takes a look at the rings sitting on his finger and counts ( one, two, three, four ) how many days it’s been since he’s had them on. How many days it’s been since he’d had to treat the new scar on his shoulder, how many days it’s been since he’s properly been introduced to some of Stephen’s other coworkers, how many days it’s been since saying I do, of course I do, why wouldn’t I say I do? as he fiddles with his ring and brings up a shield. “Feels like forever already.”

❝ EVERY DAY IS ITS OWN LITTLE FOREVER WITH YOU, ❞    he laughs, bringing his hand up between them to admire the rings. He loves and treasures each of them dearly; flashes them anywhere he can because he's just that damn proud to be Hamish Strange's ( Strange's! ) husband. His thumb twiddles the two of them back and forth, his expression affectionate. ❝ But, legally, I've only been able to call you Hamish Strange for a month now. We'll just have to make more a habit of it. ❞  

@traumaturgic· ♡

He rarely gets moments like these. Or, at least, used to. Hamish has grown accustomed to having a presence in his life and, at this point, he really isn’t sure if he can live without it. From across the couch, he pokes his head out from his book ( again, L’etranger, with all its many post-it notes sticking out ) and smiles. 

“Hey,” he says, out of the blue. It’s hard to believe that he can say this, even now, with that childlike grin. It’s been a month now, since he’s been able to, but he’s still just as shocked at the answer every time. “You’re my husband, right?” He likes to say it; the words sound so natural, the sounds so right. 

STEPHEN HASN'T STOPPED fiddling with the rings on his finger since, well, since they'd stepped out of the -- ruined, decrepit -- chapel. Their wedding certainly had been something to remember, and yet the only moments which he can recall with clarity are their saying I do and sharing that kiss in the middle of a smoking, torn-down building. They were finally, blessedly married.

Hamish is no good doing anything with a thought of something else in his mind. He aimlessly tinkers, aimlessly fiddles with wiring and data output, but he’s ultimately thinking about tonight, tonight, tonight with Stephen. Because he’d known him for so long ( or, at least, feels like it ) and wants to know more. He’s worried in the irrational sense that he’d ruin this too soon during the date, that Stephen would realise something and not want him anymore. But he knows, somewhere, that this date is more out of courtesy than anything else. Stephen loved him, all of him, and he’s made it clear in the past few days.

“Who do you take me for? Of course I’m wearing something nice, we’re on a date,” he calls from his kitchenette, sliding back the combination of the lock to hide the passcode and leaving it to clutch tight to the upper cabinets. “I don’t have much, though,” and he thinks it’s rather odd considering he’s ( also ) Kingsman’s tailor sometimes. Hamish makes a point to pop his head out of his bedroom when he gets in. “Do me a favour and close your eyes until I open them, aurite?” And he points at Stephen, just to get the message across.

Hamish only has three suits. One of which, actually, stays tucked away on the jet so that he may only wear it when he takes the jet out. It’s unfortunate, considering it’s one of his more comfortable suits, but he makes do with something else. It’s simple, a black tux overtop a regular white button up and nothing much more than a black bowtie. And he gives himself a cursory glance in the reflection of his computer monitor- considering his only mirror is in the bathroom- and steps out.

“Okay, okay– hold on,” he says, now reaching for Stephen’s hands and bringing them over his eyes. “Open them,” he instructs, and then slowly brings Stephen’s hands down. He brandishes a smile, a little shy, some parts amused. He’d never had to wear this, except for once or twice, for some sort of mission that had required him to quartermaster in close range. But now he got to use it for something a bit more slower paced, gets to use it for reasons outside of protecting himself. He steps back, raising his arms, and gives himself a little twirl. “How do I look?”

❝ ALRIGHT, ❞   he agrees, bemused. He should have expected, of course, that Hamish would want to surprise him in some way. After all, the man dressed in sweaters almost ninety-nine percent of the time. And while he certainly didn't expect him to go on a fancy Italian dinner date in one, he really wouldn't have been surprised, either. So he settles with his hip cocked against the arm of the couch and waits.

And while he does, he allows his clothes to change. From his typical grey suit blooms another by lieu of his own hand -- a dark, shimmering midnight tone that perfectly accentuates and pops out his eye color, coupled with a white shirt and a softly-patterned black tie. It is one of his -- fortunately -- many bespoke suits, but he's never shown it to Hamish before; he wanted to save it for something special; something worth the light glimmer that the suit exudes.

❝ Honey, ❞   he laughs, but complies as his hands are placed over his eyes. He's kept them dutifully closed, but obliges his lover anyway, because he absolutely wants to make him happy. When he lowers his hands and opens his eyes, however, his breath immediately gets taken away, and he has to blink several times and open and close his mouth before he can form any words.

The cool air is both a blessing and a curse; Hamish has cooled down sooner than expected, but is equally cold and therefore puts his arms around Stephen as he leans against him, back to his chest, somewhat of a cuddle yet a smidgen more awkward in his chair. Hamish appreciates it all the same, humming, still a bit out of it ( his face still red, his legs still finding their strength, because Stephen had been so dead-set on giving Hamish all he ever needed or wanted and it truly paid off ). 

“Not like I was planning on it, dear,” he chastises, though it’s very clearly fond and amused, and- yes- a little bit surprised in himself. He though thirty years would’ve turned him into a prude of sorts; he hasn’t had many- if any- of the more creative endeavours that may have usually cropped up in a workplace such as Kingsman ( and he didn’t entirely blame Harry; the whole point of those nights were to not think about work after all ).

“Mmm… you’re right, though. We should do it again.” Hamish smiles against his lips, pulling away so that he may nuzzle his nose in Stephen’s neck, one hand coming up now to trace along his chest in aimless lines, and shapes, and other various things. “It wasn’t too weird on you, aye? The lab?” He’d been a repressed ‘kinky bastard’ for thirty years; Hamish surely doubts Stephen’s enjoyment, despite his actions not even a minute earlier suggesting otherwise.

All he’s ever had to experience before Stephen had been half-hearted and for the sake of forgetting ( for a period between one to two hours at best, because you can never forget something like Kingsman ). He wants to do more of this with Stephen, in the lab and in many other places he’s fantasised in the past, but he’s unsure what Stephen likes because, for thirty years, he’s only ever had one option.

IT MOST CERTAINLY WAS NOT TOO WEIRD IN THE LAB, And Stephen expresses that enthusiastically -- because really, nowhere is too weird for him, and he'd like Hamish to feel free to explore wherever he likes. The admittance leaves him giddy for their entire workday. Because, both the events and the talk after were signs of their growing emotional connection, and he couldn't help but to be thankful that their relationship was already moving at such a smooth pace.

The workday passes quickly enough for his taste ( though it slogs somewhat in the middle, and he keeps glancing at the clock. ) and soon enough he calls a halt to their tinkering, moving from his chair to wrap his arms around Hamish's shoulders and place a kiss to the top of his head. Oh but he loves being able to do this now -- to share so freely his affections and to have the privilege to hold Hamish so close. So similar… but so different, all at once.

❝ Time for you to get changed, huh? ❞   He whispers into his ear. Stephen will need to change too, of course, but he can literally change with the wave of a hand, and he's never been bothered by changing at Hamish's house before in the first place. Stephen is simply excited for their dinner, and the expression on his lover's face that he might see when they get there.