#but it's the way we react to these thoughts that matters

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

some general thoughts, or what NOT to do in a crisis*:

we can all acknowledge that the last 24 hours have been a clusterfuck in many ways, and i think we can all agree that everything that happened today should have been handled differently.

first and foremost, we can acknowledge the pain that daniela caracas has and is experiencing. it's not easy being a person of colour in spain, let alone a black woman and a female footballer at that. there is already coded language in how we speak about black players in our league and any type of harassment or abuse towards her is wrong. daniela felt violated and that deserves recognition. period.

we can acknowledge that mapi acted physically in a manner that was wrong. i'm not going to sit here and argue with internet lip readers as to what was or was not said. but whether the touching was incidental or not, the fact was that it happened. period.

we can acknowledge that there are right wing elements who are using this incident to further their own agenda. they are spinning narratives and putting out messaging to further their own agendas. that's wrong. period.

we can acknowledge that mapi is a person who may face criminal liability and thus her statement was directed under legal advisement. but we can also acknowledge that tone and messaging matters. you can protect your legal rights but still put out a statement that doesn't feed into anger or defensiveness.

we can acknowledge that our favourite players are human and will fuck up in life. but that doesn't mean we shouldn't call them out or demand that they learn and grow from their mistakes.

we can acknowledge that barça waited too long to put out any sort of statement. the club should have turned off its scheduled social media because those posts came off as flippant and oblivious. my personal feelings are that the club should have put out a separate statement first, and not relied on a statement through the player involved in the incident. again, you can put out a statement of concern without waiving any legal rights.

we can acknowledge that this team is at a crossroads and that no matter how frustrated you are in a match, your players need to be disciplined enough not to loss their cool or react in such a manner. and we can acknowledge that there needs to be concrete steps at the club level to address this behaviour collectively as a unit and not to hide it away.

and finally, we can acknowledge that the club has let many of us down today, and we should demand that it do better. period. more to come. 🙏

*i'm writing this from the perspective of someone who works in legal and compliance and deals with investigations all the time. i understand the potential legal ramifications here, but there are much better ways to have handled the situation.

[kawhh]

you’ve done quinn but can we have jack baby trapping too? that would make my brain go 😵‍💫😵‍💫

I have an awful lot of baby trapping Jack thoughts. I'll admit.

Warnings: at this point there's a bit of non-con in everything I write. Manipulation. Forcing you to get pregnant. Jack off the rails again because apparently that's just a problem with me.

I don't think he'd try and even hide it. He'd just force it on you. He's just so desperate to bind you to him. It can't happen soon enough for him. It doesn't matter if you've just started dating. A few weeks in? Perfect.

He's not fully reckless though. For those weeks he'll focus on fucking you slowly, playing passive, making you believe he's innocent. He'll even swallow his ego and let you take control. Whining under you, going as far as fake crying when he cums - anything he can possibly do to make you think he's not a threat.

He uses condoms every single time. He's not rough. Missionary is his only move. He fakes little shakes in his hands when he touches you, acting hesitant. Like he doesn't actually want to just manhandle your tits until you scream.

You've started closing your eyes around him when you fuck. Fully relaxed, trusting him. You aren't checking that he's wearing a condom now. You aren't hesitant.. you trust him.

Perfect.

There's a gap in both of your schedules coming up. It's the perfect time for him to end the act. He'll have plenty of alone time with you to make you his.

He'll eat you out. Get you relaxed. Slowly fuck into you.. just until he's ready to cum.

Using the advantage of being on top of you - as soon as your eyes close, he's pulling out before you can even react. Off the bed, dragging you down off the bed by your ankles. He needs your ass off the bed for this. The way your eyes snap open, the way the confusion sets in. His little fucking naive girl.

He's jackhammering into you. You can't escape, can't get any grip on the bed. Any attempt to move will just give him more leverage, give him a better angle.

"Hey angel.. looking for this?"

The almost psychopathic grin on his face when he holds the condom up, making you realise how fucked you actually are. He's just laughing. The pain of him slamming into your cervix. Him reaching a hand up to slap your face.

"Better get used to this sweetheart, we aren't going anywhere until it fucking takes."

[saphronethaleph]

Schedule Slip

“They are late,” Count Dooku said.

“I know,” Palpatine replied, perhaps a touch snippily.

“You said this plan was perfect,” Dooku added, a touch impertinently.

“You must have got the timing wrong,” Palpatine countered.

Dooku shook his head, and Palpatine scowled.

“I followed the plan exactly as described,” the aristocratic Sith informed his Master, with grace and care. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to exploit the patrol window, would I?”

He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not as if the plan requires that the Jedi turn up at an exact moment. It’s just annoying to wait this long.”

Even that carefully measured courtsey was a barb in its own right, and Palpatine tried not to react.

At least, not too strongly.

“Are you going to be able to tell when they arrive?” he asked. “Because if you can tell when they arrive, I would quite appreciate getting out of the wrist clamps. I can get back in them with a bit of warning.”

“I would have thought you would know that,” Dooku chuckled. “But – yes. No matter how they get aboard, I will be alerted.”

The Invisible Hand trembled slightly, as part of the onging space battle impinged on it, and Palpatine unsnapped his wrist clamps before rubbing his temples.

“It’s not as enjoyable as it should be,” he complained. “I know both of these fleets are dancing to my tune, but it’s not as enjoyable as it should be. Skywalker should be here by now.”

“My master would say you should have patience,” Dooku said.

“I know what that old gremlin would say,” Palpatine muttered. “He doesn’t know what patience is. We’ve been waiting far too long for this.”

Dooku glanced at him. “We?”

“The Sith,” Palpatine said, rolling his eyes. “Of course. It’s been a thousand years.”

“You have had the good luck of being the Master during the time that the plan is coming to fruition,” Dooku said. “We can rule the galaxy together.”

“Of course,” Palpatine agreed, well aware that Dooku was planning to kill him and replace him.

Probably with Skywalker, unless it was Kenobi he thought he could turn. Or maybe that apprentice that he thought Palpatine didn’t know about.

Of course, Palpatine was planning to kill Dooku and replace him with Skywalker, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be annoyed.

Then the ship trembled, much more violently, and Dooku clutched at the nearest railing for support before springing up and looking out the window.

There was a Republic cruiser firing a heavy broadside into the Invisible Hand, blaster bolts shaking the whole ship as the shields overloaded and shorted out, and alarms began to wail even in the Wizard’s Tower.

“I assume that isn’t a good thing,” Palpatine muttered.

“Of course it’s not,” Dooku replied, shortly. “While you have been doing politics and rubbing your hands together, I have been running a fleet and doing politics.”

He checked a datapad, then slipped it back into his robes. “We should hurry. There aren’t any escape pods on this level.”

“Why not?” Palpatine asked, fists clenched.

He really wished he had a lightsaber with him, but it wouldn’t have fit his cover.

“Because why would I need escape pods in a propoganda tower?” Dooku replied, striding for the door. “Unless you want to stay behind?”

Palpatine had been following, and the barb just gave him another spike of anger.

Maybe he could contrive some way to leave Dooku on the ship?

...no, tempting as it was. They could still go with the plan Dooku had been told was the plan, with Dooku’s capture and then undermining the Jedi from the inside.

By the time the two Sith had reached the main body of the ship, neither’s mood had improved.

“What about this one?” Palpatine demanded.

“Jettisoned,” Dooku replied. “The red telltale.”

They went past another escape pod airlock, and that one was jettisoned as well.

“So where are the escape pods that haven’t been used?” Palpatine demanded.

“That’s why we’re heading for the bridge,” Dooku countered, clenching his fist, and the door slammed open. “You realize we’ll have to wipe the computers to get rid of our conversations?”

“I am well aware,” Palpatine replied. “Unless-”

He got a look at the view outside the window, and tried not to let his voice stutter, because what he could see in front of him was a planet.

“-we can contrive to destroy the ship entirely,” he said, without a tremor in his voice – something he was quite proud of.

Dooku hurried to the command console, typing on it, then slammed his fist into the side of the computer.

“What?” Palpatine demanded.

“All escape pods have been jettisoned,” Dooku replied. “By order of General Grievous.”

“What?” Palpatine repeated, for the second time in less than ten seconds. “Why?”

“Well,” Dooku began. “If I were to hazard a guess, it would be because he doesn’t like us very much.”

“But he should-” Palpatine bit the words off. “He should know not to endanger us, we are his political leaders!”

“Hmm,” Dooku frowned, already hunting through the conmand console menus to find some way to try to slow the ship down.

A lot of the display was the stern red of not working, mate, and Palpatine’s hands clenched into claws.

“I suppose if you told him you were Sidious, then he must be making a bid for leadership,” Dooku added, in that sort of way that suggested he was focusing on the things he could understand.

“If I told him?” Palpatine said. “It was your job to tell him. I don’t make calls to Grievous very often, and when I do I’m hardly going to say that I’m Palpatine, am I? You’re the one who’s alone in rooms with him.”

“I rather thought it was your business,” Dooku replied, loftily. “Your calls were already secured. I was in installations that could be monitored easily.”

He stroked his chin with one hand, while the other found the engine controls and shifted them to stop – which meant that at least they were no longer driving towards Coruscant.

It might even buy them another couple of seconds.

“I believe I understand, now,” Dooku said. “Grievous has always hated me for that shuttle crash that I set up. I suspect he has decided to get back at me in a way that can’t be blamed on anyone – the ship is shot down in flames. It cannot be blamed on him.”

Palpatine’s eye twitched.

“This wouldn’t be happening if-” he said, then bit it back.

The ground was now visible through the clouds, and it was getting closer quite quickly.

“Can you stop this with the Force?” Dooku asked.

Palpatine looked at Dooku with venom in his eyes.

“I’m not Skywalker,” he said.

The altitude was rapidly decreasing, and it looked as though the Asogian Extraterrestrial Endowment Fund Landing Strip was shortly going to become the Sheev Palpatine Memorial Crater.

“You know, Dooku?” he said. “I’ve always hated you, and I was going to have Skywalker chop your head off.”

Dooku had just enough time to look at him with a somewhat hurt expression before the planet arrived.

Mace Windu winced.

“Ouch,” he said, leaning against the wall, as a clone strike team went tromping past to repel boarders.

“One of your war injuries?” Agen Kolar asked, sympathetically,

“No,” Windu replied. “I just… I think a shatterpoint just took itself out.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Anakin murmured, a few hours later, as he and Obi-Wan went through the Chancellor’s office and packed up Palpatine’s effects.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed. “I didn’t much agree with the man on some things, but… I have to admit, it’s a shame he died.”

“I feel responsible,” Anakin added, his voice bitter. “I feel like… we should have been there sooner. We could have done something. I could have landed that ship.”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Perhaps. I know I feel like that every day when I think about Qui-Gon.”

Anakin frowned, then nodded.

“How do you deal with it?” he asked.

“The best I can,” Obi-Wan answered.

Anakin nodded again, then opened Palpatine’s drawer.

“...uh,” he said. “Obi-Wan? There’s a lightsaber in here.”

He picked it up, and Obi-Wan looked it over.

“I don’t recognize the design,” he admitted. “But there’s a lot of Jedi. Where did that one come from, then?”

“I don’t know,” Anakin replied, then turned it on, and the sight of the red blade startled him so badly he dropped it.

“...well,” Obi-Wan said, as they both stared at the shining red blade – which was only half hidden by the corner of the desk it had sliced off. “That’s… odd.”

He shrugged. “At least it didn’t cut through the floor?”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

I think of mc being very protective of her friends being a orphan and all. someone says the gaunts are all dark wizards? they are in the hospital wing for two weeks under strange circumstances. someone starts a nasty rumor about why Anne really left hogwarts? The worst tripping hex gets everyone who repeats the rumor. someone insults sebastian, you better pray that mc didn't hear about it she's coming for you

The Things We Do for Family | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

oh I loooooved this concept!!!! THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, ANON. I really hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!! :')

Words: ~5,200

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Humor, Protective MC

There are things that Hogwarts students simply know—unchallenged truths, whispered warnings passed down from year to year.

The Forbidden Forest is dangerous. Peeves is a menace. The best snacks at Honeydukes sell out by Saturday afternoon. Don’t trust the staircases to take you where you actually want to go. Never accept Garreth Weasley’s offer to ‘test something out’.

And, under no circumstances, should anyone fuck with your friends.

It isn’t official, of course. There’s no school decree, no printed rule in the Hogwarts handbook, it's not carved into the walls. It’s just… understood.

It’s not like you’re some fearsome monster or anything.

You’re a model student, by all accounts. Brilliant. Sharp. Precise. A skilled duelist, a quick thinker, someone who turns in their assignments on time, answers when called on, and doesn’t cause disruptions in class.

You don’t start fights. You don’t pick pointless arguments. You don’t openly break the rules—not in ways that can be proven.

You play the part well.

Because that’s what you had to do.

You grew up alone. No parents. No siblings. No one to step in when things got hard, no one to defend you when the world was cruel. When you were small, scared, and helpless.

So you learned.

You learned that no one was coming to save you. You learned that fairness was a lie, that justice only existed when you carved it out with your own hands. You learned that people could be awful for no reason other than that they could get away with it.

But now? Now, you have a family. Not by blood, but by choice.

And when someone speaks against them? Bad things happen.

The Ominis Incident

It started, as most things did, with a careless remark.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw—smart but not particularly bright—thought it would be amusing to make a joke at Ominis Gaunt’s expense. A cruel one. Something about how the Gaunts were all inbred lunatics, how it was only a matter of time before Ominis ended up just like the rest of his family.

The words reached your ears in the library, drifting from a table not far from where you sat.

"You know I hear they torture Muggles for fun—it’s practically a family tradition. Gaunts don’t have hobbies, just a long history of inbreeding and Crucio."

Laughter followed, a few snickers from their table, hushed but not nearly enough. Not nearly enough to keep you from hearing.

Your quill stilled mid-word, ink pooling in place. Across from you, Ominis sat straight-backed, his expression unreadable, but you saw the way his fingers tightened around the book he was holding, knuckles whitening from the force of it.

He wouldn’t say anything.

Ominis had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. Of carefully controlled expressions, of blank politeness that masked far too much. He never reacted to comments like these.

But just because he wouldn’t didn’t mean you wouldn’t.

You exhaled slowly, carefully. Then, without a sound, you closed your book and stood.

Not a word. Not a glare in their direction. Just a smooth, effortless departure, as if you had suddenly decided the library was boring and somewhere else required your attention.

The Ravenclaws barely noticed.

But they would. They absolutely would. Because Potions class was a very dangerous place. Especially for people who talked too much.

The next day, you walked to Potions without a care in the world.

Sebastian and Ominis flanked you, deep in conversation about some essay Sharp had assigned, with Sebastian whining dramatically about how unfairly long it was, while Ominis countered that perhaps he should have started it earlier than the night before it was due.

You weren’t really listening, because you already knew what was coming.

And sure enough—just as you reached the dungeon corridor—

BOOM.

The floor trembled slightly beneath your feet. A deep, echoing explosion, the unmistakable sound of a cauldron detonating mid-brew, followed almost immediately by the frantic shouting of students.

Gasps. Choking coughs. Someone let out a screech of absolute horror.

Sebastian and Ominis startled.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he looked toward the dungeon doors. “What the hell—”

Ominis twitched beside you, tilting his head, as if straining to listen.

You? Didn’t even blink. You just kept walking, calmly, like nothing was amiss, like you hadn’t been expecting it for the last twenty-four hours.

Sebastian noticed. His gaze sharpened, flicking to you with a knowing squint. “That was—”

He hesitated. Then narrowed his eyes further.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I know that face.”

You raised a brow. “What face?”

“That’s your I-did-something-but-you’ll-never-prove-it face.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian scoffed and Ominis rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Uh-huh.”

Then the dungeon doors burst open.

A thick cloud of green smoke billowed out, sending students stumbling and coughing into the corridor. And in the center of it all, a group of very, very green Ravenclaws.

They clawed at their own skin, staring down at their hands in absolute horror. Their faces were the exact shade of an overripe toadstool, splotchy and uneven, and every time they opened their mouths, their tongues flopped out two inches too long.

Hysteria ensued.

Students gasped, some shrieked, others tried not to laugh. Professor Sharp stormed out after them, looking beyond exhausted, already massaging his temples.

“I told you,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “not to add the peppermint extract.”

“WE DIDN’T!” One Ravenclaw wailed, voice garbled from their too-long tongue. “I—I don’t know what happened! We did everything right!”

Sharp did not look convinced.

Sebastian looked at you, long and slow, a glint of admiration dawning in his eyes.

“Did you—”

“I did nothing.” You walked past him, as if the entire debacle were none of your concern. “I was with you all day, wasn’t I?”

Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but��”

“No proof, no crime.” You gave him a cheerful smile before stepping into the classroom.

Sebastian grinned. “Oh, I love you.”

It was offhanded, thoughtless, a casual jest, but it sent a sharp, pleasant warmth down your spine.

You didn’t react, though. Just smirked, settling into your seat. Because the message had been sent.

And Ominis Gaunt would never hear a word against his name again.

The Anne Incident

Rumors at Hogwarts were a force of nature.

They swirled through the halls, slipping between whispered conversations and behind cupped hands, growing more twisted with each retelling.

Some were harmless—who was dating who, which professor had it out for which student, the occasional Did you hear Peeves stole all the ink from the Ravenclaws again? But some? Some were cruel.

And this one... this one was about Anne Sallow.

It started at breakfast, when you overheard a group of Slytherin sixth-years in the Great Hall. You weren’t eavesdropping—not intentionally—but you had a habit of noticing things, of hearing too much when you weren’t meant to.

"Did you hear about Sallow’s sister?"

"Yeah, I heard she went mad."

"Lost it completely. The curse must’ve rotted her brain."

"That’s why she left, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, I heard she tried to hex someone in her sleep—"

Your fork warped in your grasp. A slow, controlled bend beneath your fingers, the metal bending in your grip.

Across from you, Sebastian had gone still.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Didn’t give them the satisfaction.

But you saw the way his jaw clenched. The way his hand curled into a fist against the table. The way his entire body had gone taut, locked in place by sheer force of will.

He wouldn’t do anything.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he wasn’t capable of it—because he was.

Sebastian Sallow could be ruthless. You knew that better than anyone. You’d seen it firsthand, the sharp edges of his temper, the way his rage burned hot and all-consuming, leaving nothing but wreckage in its wake. You’d seen what happened when he felt cornered, when he thought he was out of options.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. Because you and Ominis had dragged him back from the brink. Because you had looked him in the eye, years ago, when the dust had settled and the worst of it was over, and told him:

"You still have a future. Don’t throw it away."

Against all odds, he had listened. And now, this was his last year at Hogwarts and he was going to be an Auror. He was going to start over. Prove that he wasn’t just some reckless, violent delinquent one step away from Azkaban.

So no—he wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t take the bait. Wouldn't defend Anne, no matter how badly he wanted to. Wouldn’t let himself be dragged down into the same pit he’d barely crawled out of.

Sebastian was playing the long game.

But you? You weren’t.

Your revenge on Anne's behalf started small. Almost imperceptible.

The first Slytherin—the one who had started the conversation in the first place—was walking to class when it happened.

A single misstep.

His foot caught on something—thin air, perhaps—and he staggered forward, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to right himself. It didn’t work. His books went flying, parchment scattered across the stone corridor, and a bottle of ink tumbled from his bag, shattering upon impact and staining his robes in an ugly, irreversible mess of black.

A small accident. An unfortunate case of bad luck.

No one thought anything of it—until the second one fell.

In the exact same spot.

And then the third. And the fourth.

By the time lunch rolled around, all four of them had tripped at least half a dozen times each.

It wasn’t just limited to the corridor, either. They stumbled on staircases, barely catching themselves before they could go tumbling down. They walked straight into walls as if the castle itself had turned against them. One even managed to trip over absolutely nothing in the middle of the Great Hall and landed face-first into his own soup.

The snickers started soon after. The sideways glances. The poorly hidden laughter from classmates who found their sudden clumsiness far too entertaining.

It wasn’t enough to be suspicious.

Not yet.

Not until the moving staircase.

The ringleader of the group had spent too much time lingering in the courtyard after lunch, chatting up a group of girls who barely tolerated his presence. He realized too late that he was running behind and bolted toward Charms, racing up the moving staircases with zero grace and even less caution.

And then his foot caught.

There was nothing there. No loose stone or shift in the staircase, nothing at all to explain why he suddenly lost his footing.

But he did.

He stumbled backward, arms flailing wildly, fingers grasping at empty air as the momentum carried him too far—

And he plummeted.

Three flights.

A blur of robes and limbs, a crash of bone against stone, and then a sickening thud as he landed in a groaning, crumpled heap at the bottom.

A hush fell over the corridor.

Then—

Shrieking.

His friends rushed down to him, voices panicked, eyes wide with horrified realization as they took in his bruised, trembling form.

A girl ran to fetch Madam Blainey.

By the time she arrived, he was whimpering, clutching his arm like it might’ve snapped.

Hospital Wing. Immediate bed rest.

No one could explain what happened. No professor could find a cause. Some students claimed the stairs had shifted unexpectedly. Others swore that they saw nothing—no trick step, no loose stones, just an unseen force pulling him down.

It didn’t matter.

The moment he was carried off, you finally allowed yourself to smile.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just the smallest, most satisfied twitch of your lips.

Sebastian caught it. Because of course he did. He had been standing beside you the whole time. Silent. Still. Watching from the moment that asshole Slytherin stumbled earlier that morning to the moment he was carted off for medical attention.

And now? Now, he just exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head as his mouth curved into something unreadable.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, voice low.

You hummed, tilting your head in faux curiosity. “Am I?”

Sebastian turned fully then, facing you. His gaze searched your face, for guilt perhaps. For remorse. For something that might suggest you hadn’t meant for it to happen.

But there was nothing.

No trace of hesitation. No flicker of shame.

You were calm, collected, an completely unapologetic. Because nobody talked about Anne Sallow like that without consequence.

Sebastian blinked. Then, to your absolute delight, he grinned. Wide. Slow. A sharp, wicked thing.

“Yeah. You're very dangerous” he said, almost in awe.

Your stomach twisted. You ignored it. Instead, you just shrugged, voice as casual as ever.

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

Sebastian’s grin deepened.

The Poppy Incident

Poppy Sweeting was one of the best people you knew.

Kind-hearted, patient, and too good for the world, really. She spent more time in the company of magical creatures than she did with most people, and honestly? You couldn't blame her.

Because people could be cruel.

You first heard it one afternoon in the courtyard. A group of girls whispering amongst themselves, giggling behind their hands. You hadn’t been paying much attention—until you heard her name.

"Honestly, she’s weird."

"I know, right? It’s like she’d rather date a bloody Hippogriff than an actual person."

"Wouldn’t be surprised if she actually has."

Laughter, sharp and mocking. Like Poppy Sweeting was a joke. Like she was less than because she chose kindness over cruelty, creatures over people who didn’t deserve her time in the first place.

You turned your head and watched as one girl—a Hufflepuff, ironically—rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exaggerated exasperation.

"Beast-lover," she muttered, nose wrinkled like the word itself was distasteful. "It's unnatural, really. No wonder she doesn't have any friends outside of her precious Mooncalves."

Something cold and sharp settled in your chest.

You had no doubt Poppy had heard it. She was standing just a few paces away near the fountain, hands clenched tight at her sides.

She didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything. She just exhaled, slow and quiet, like she was forcing herself to let it go.

You wouldn’t.

The next morning, that very same Hufflepuff woke up covered in fur.

Not all over, just her face.

A thick, fluffy coat of golden-brown fuzz, soft as a Puffskein, sprouting in wild patches across her forehead, cheeks, and chin.

According to Poppy, the screams started immediately, and the entire girls dormitory had woken up to it.

The girl, who turned out to be a fifth-year, had flown into a hysterical panic, shrieking as she bolted for a mirror, hands frantically scrubbing at her face like she could rub the fur away.

She couldn’t.

It was a very specific hex. One that lasted exactly one week.

Professor Ronen was baffled.

Madam Blainey was thoroughly fascinated.

And Professor Howin, bless her, had cooed over her like she was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen. You had a front row seat to the entire thing during Beasts class.

“This is truly fascinating,” she’d said, holding the girl’s chin and turning her face slightly toward the light. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen transfiguration manifest quite like this! And so soft—feels just like a Kneazle’s coat, doesn’t it?”

The best part? It wasn’t harmful. It wasn’t painful. Just… humiliating.

You considered it a job well done.

When Howin had dismissed you for lunch, Poppy pulled you aside. She didn't say anything at first. Just stared.

You blinked at her, tilting your head. “Everything alright?”

Poppy squinted. Narrowed her eyes slightly. Huffed.

"You did that, didn’t you?"

You blinked again.

Because Poppy—sweet, gentle, pacifist Poppy—did not accuse people of things. Which meant she was completely certain.

You just smiled, giving her your most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Poppy just sighed, shaking her head. But then—just for a moment—she smiled.

Small. Subtle. Grateful.

Like she knew exactly what you’d done. Like she knew there was no use arguing, no point in telling you not to go to such lengths for her.

And then, without a word, she reached out and squeezed your hand.

The Natsai Incident

You had never liked Callum Thorne.

Seventh-year. Gryffindor. Arrogant. Loud-mouthed. The kind of person who had never been told no in his life and walked through Hogwarts like the world owed him something.

You’d tolerated him for years, mostly because you hadn’t needed to interact with him much. But this? This was different.

You were starting the day with Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Hecat had yet to arrive, leaving the class unsupervised and giving Thorne the perfect opportunity to make a scene.

Natty was speaking with Poppy near the front of the room, voice calm as she explained something about the Ministry’s policies on magical creatures in Africa compared to Britain. She wasn’t being loud, wasn’t even arguing, just explaining.

That’s when Thorne scoffed.

“Merlin’s sake, Onai, give it a rest,” he sneered from the back of the room, tossing his quill onto his desk with an exaggerated huff. “Do you ever get tired of standing on that bloody soapbox of yours?”

The room went still.

Natty turned, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable, regarding him with that same poised, unshaken calm that made her such a force to be reckoned with.

“I was simply having a discussion,” she said smoothly. “No one is forcing you to listen, Thorne.”

“Right,” he drawled. “Except you never shut up about it. Always talking about ‘justice’ and ‘change’ like you think you’re going to fix the whole bloody world.” He smirked. “News flash, Onai—no one cares.”

A few of his friends chuckled.

Your fingernails dug into your palm.

Natty didn’t react—not outwardly, anyway. She just exhaled, slow and measured, and turned back to Poppy like his words had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

You? You were already plotting his downfall, and luckily, Callum Thorne was a creature of habit.

He always stayed out after curfew to flirt with whatever unfortunate girl he had chosen that week, and he always went up to the Astronomy Tower afterwards with his friends to play cards and drink whatever contraband alcohol they’d smuggled into the castle.

Which made him the perfect target.

That night, as the seventh-year tidied up the cards, stretching and yawning, likely already thinking about his warm bed waiting for him—

His legs froze in place. Not a Full Body-Bind. No, this was different.

A soft, subtle hex. A slow, creeping sensation, his feet adhering to the stone beneath him, then his calves, then his thighs.

By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late.

He tried to step forward—failed. Tried to yank himself free—failed.

And then—with agonizing slowness—his entire body began to lift off the ground. No warning. No control.

He drifted upward, weightless, helpless, arms flailing as the stone ceiling came closer and closer—

And then, with a soft thump, he was stuck. Face-down, body pressed flat against the Astronomy Tower ceiling.

His screaming started immediately.

Loud. Panicked. A complete meltdown.

His friends, who had started their walk down the tower came bolting back up the stairs at the sound of his shouting.

“What the—?” one of them started, eyes wide as they gawked at the ceiling.

“Thorne?” another asked, dumbfounded.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back laughter as you hid beneath your disillusionment charm.

“GET ME DOWN!” Thorne bellowed, arms and legs flailing uselessly against the stone. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?”

His friends stared, uselessly waving their wands, muttering counterspells that only resulted in Thorne spinning in slow circles, howling in distress.

When they realized they were utterly helpless, panic completely set in.

“What do we do?” one of them asked, looking between the others with wild eyes. “Should we get a professor?”

Thorne snarled. “NO! DO NOT—”

But it was too late. Because at that very moment, the Astronomy Tower door swung open once again, and a very tired, very unimpressed Professor Shah stepped inside.

There was a long, painful beat of silence.

Shah took in the scene.

The stack of contraband firewhiskey bottles on the table. The panicked seventh-years, wands still drawn, looking entirely too guilty. And Callum Thorne, still face-down, circling against the ceiling, hissing every curse word known to wizardkind.

She sighed, long and slow, as if she had simply had enough of this entire generation of students. Then, with an effortless flick of her wand, she cast a single spell.

And gravity returned. All at once. Thorne plummeted like a sack of bricks.

The landing was spectacular. A glorious, sprawling heap, limbs tangled, robes askew, one shoe missing entirely. His friends didn’t even try to catch him.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“Hospital Wing,” Shah said simply, rubbing her temples. “Now.”

Thorne was half-carried, half-dragged down the tower steps, groaning the entire way.

And you?

You slept soundly that night.

By morning, half the school had heard the story.

"Did you hear about Thorne? Got stuck to the Astronomy Tower ceiling last night."

"He was crying by the time they got him down."

"Serves him right—bloke’s a complete asshole."

And you? You sat perfectly composed at breakfast, casually stirring your tea, listening as his friends panicked about who could have done it.

Sebastian, of course, knew.

He sat beside you, arms folded, lips pressed together, shaking with the effort not to laugh.

Finally, he exhaled, tilting his head toward you.

“You are actually unhinged,” he murmured, utterly delighted.

You simply sipped your tea. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Across the hall, Natty smiled.

Soft. Knowing.

The Sebastian Incident

You had been careful.

For years, you had woven your revenge into the shadows, never once leaving a trace of your involvement in the strange misfortunes that befell those who dared to insult your friends. You were precise, patient, undetectable.

But everyone has a breaking point. And yours? Yours was Sebastian Sallow.

It happened in the Great Hall when Scorpius Malfoy decided to idiotically open his big fucking mouth.

You hadn’t been paying attention to him at first. Why would you? People like Malfoy had never mattered to you. He was just another spoiled pureblood, another self-important waste of a surname who thought his words carried weight simply because he could afford to say them.

But then his voice cut through the din, and he said Sebastian’s name.

"No family name worth a damn, no money, no influence. Honestly, I don’t even know why the professors still put up with Sallow. And he’s an orphan, isn’t he?"

One of his friends nodded, grinning like this was some kind of joke. Like Sebastian Sallow’s entire life was nothing more than a punchline.

Malfoy snorted. "So he's got dead parents, a dead uncle, and a crippled sister who’ll probably never set foot in the wizarding world again. Wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up rotting in the same gutter he came from."

The words landed like a curse.

Sebastian had been mid-conversation with you, fork in hand, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he teased you about something inconsequential—some throwaway joke that would have normally earned him an eye roll and a shove.

But now? Now, he wasn’t moving. Not speaking. Not breathing. Just silent.

Rigid.

Like the weight of those words had turned him into stone.

And something inside you snapped.

It was almost funny, in retrospect, how much effort you had spent perfecting the art of subtlety.

Every step you had taken over the years had been measured, every spell carefully woven into the fabric of coincidence, every act of vengeance so meticulously placed that no one had ever been able to definitively trace it back to you. You had built a flawless reputation, balancing on the razor’s edge between brilliance and menace, justice and mystery.

But now? Now, as you rose from your seat, you weren’t careful at all.

You didn’t move like a shadow, didn’t cloak yourself in misdirection or the comfort of silence. No. This time, you wanted them to see you.

And the moment you stood, the Great Hall stilled.

Students stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped moving altogether. The clatter of plates and goblets faded into a thick, suffocating silence, as if even the walls of Hogwarts itself were holding their breath.

Your voice came out low. Cold.

"Say that one more time, Malfoy."

Scorpius turned lazily, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just spat on Sebastian’s entire existence for no other reason than because he could.

And he smirked. Merlin, he smirked. Like you were some insignificant thing, an insect buzzing too close to his ear.

“Oh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “Touched a nerve, have I? Which part got to you, I wonder? The fact that Sallow’s got no family? Or the part where I pointed out that he’s got no future either?”

You took a step forward. You could hear Ominis hissing at you to stop, to think about what you were doing before you got yourself deep into shit, gut you couldn't. Not when it came to your friends.

Not when it came to Sebastian.

Especially when he still hadn't moved. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t so much as breathed.

Your hand tightened around your wand, the weight of it comforting, grounding, an extension of the fury curling in your chest.

"You should tread carefully, Scorpius," you murmured, your voice smooth, edged with something lethal. "I know you think you're clever—that you can say whatever you like without consequence, just because you were born into the right family."

Your head tilted slightly, gaze sharp, cutting straight through him.

"But you should know something about me by now."

Malfoy’s smirk faltered just slightly. And then, before he could open his mouth again—

You flicked your wand.

Hard. Fast.

Malfoy's goblet exploded.

A concussive blast of magic sent shards flying, the remnants of his beverage splattering across his pristine uniform like spilled blood. A jagged edge of glass sliced across his hand, thin but deep, and he flinched, eyes snapping down to it with genuine shock.

"If you're going to run your mouth about my friends," you said coolly, watching him clutch his bleeding hand, "then you should be prepared to suffer for it."

Your next spell came before he could react. Before anyone could stop you.

A sharp twist of your wrist, and his mouth was gone.

Not silenced. Not muffled. Just… gone. Smooth, unbroken skin where lips should be, like his voice had simply been erased from existence.

The realization hit him immediately.

His hands shot to his face, clawing at his skin, a muffled scream—horrified, panicked—rising in his throat. He lurched backward, knocking into one of his friends, fingers digging at face like he could carve his lips back into place.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

You needed something that would etch itself into the bones of this castle, into the minds of every single person watching in stunned silence. Something that told the whole goddamn school that if they so much as breathed wrong about Sebastian again, you would ruin them.

A simple hex would be too merciful. A standard jinx—something temporary, something easily countered—wouldn’t send the right message.

No, you needed something else. Something only you could undo.

Your wand rose, fingers tightening around the handle.

A familiar thrumming sensation curled through your bones, crackling at your fingertips, humming beneath your skin like a storm about to break. Ancient magic—the power that had followed you since the day you first stepped foot in Hogwarts, the magic that had made you different. You had never used it publicly. Never allowed yourself to tap into it in a room full of hundreds of witnesses.

Until now.

Malfoy’s body lurched.

Not by his own will, but by yours, by the ancient, crackling force curling through your veins.

The entire room gasped as he was wrenched upward, his robes twisting violently around him as though an invisible hand had grabbed him by the throat and hauled him into the sky.

He thrashed, or tried to, but the moment he moved, the spell struck.

A jolt of electricity tore through his body.

Not enough to kill. Not enough to cause permanent harm, but enough to make him scream. Or at least, he would have screamed—if he still had a mouth.

Instead, a choked, garbled sound tore from his throat, half agony, half suffocated panic, his limbs seizing as the current snapped down his spine, through his arms and legs.

And you let them watch, let the entire Great Hall bear witness as he hung there, suspended like some grotesque marionette.

And the moment he tried to move again, tried to scratch at where his mouth should be or flail his limbs, another arc of lightning danced across his body, snapping against his skin like a promise that any attempt to fight this would only make it worse.

And he knew. They all knew. He wasn’t getting down until you allowed it. But your arm didn’t waver, you held your wand high, like an executioner delivering final judgment.

Because this? This was a declaration. A statement. A message carved into the very bones of Hogwarts itself.

You do not speak against Sebastian Sallow.

You wondered if he realized that you would have done this a thousand times over. That you would have burned the entire goddamn world for him if he asked.

But before you could do anything more—before you could decide how far you were willing to take this—

A thunderous voice shattered the moment.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!"

The spell snapped. Malfoy dropped. His body crashed onto the table below, sending plates and goblets scattering, silverware clattering to the stone floor. He lay there, twitching, gasping, pathetically small as the last of the magic flickered out of his limbs.

And then—

"You."

Phineas Nigellus Black’s voice was pure ice.

You turned to face him—not a shred of regret, not a flicker of guilt in your expression.

But the Headmaster was raging. His hands were clenched at his sides, his teeth bared in fury.

The entire room was still. Waiting. Holding its breath.

"My office." His voice was low, lethal, like the words themselves were a curse. "Now."

A sharp inhale from someone at the Ravenclaw table. A hushed whisper from a terrified first-year.

No detention. No points docked. Just a direct order from the highest authority in the school.

But it was worth it, because now they knew. Every single person in this room knew.

And as you turned on your heel, heart still pounding with the remnants of power buzzing in your veins—

You caught Sebastian’s eyes one last time.

Still watching, still frozen in place, yet looking at you like you were the most devastating, impossible, extraordinary thing he had ever seen.

And then? The slightest smirk. The most faint, devastatingly admiring grin.

Like he had never, ever wanted anyone more.

[scrapmetaldoe]

large rocket headcannon dump because he means a lot to me (very largely mcu based)

He listens to music as much as possible. If you find him working on something or just reading a book he is listening to music.

He loves making things and giving them to people.

As much as he says he’s against it he loves getting pet, but he was against it for a while because it makes him feel vulnerable.

He is a hater at heart and he holds so many grudges against people that have wronged him, no matter how small.

He is more of a tea person and has made his own tea before.

Rocket cannot cook at all, he almost burnt down his apartment in knowhere one time trying to make a grilled cheese. However he loves food and loves being made food too.

He adores being called pet names.

He is not the best at normal reassurance but reassures in his own way. Like he will not give you words of reassurance and instead will say “What if instead of being sad we go blow shit up will that help?” (and it does)

His handwriting is awful and he is no longer allowed to write things for the guardians because nobody else can read it.

He has minor hearing loss from the amount of loud noises he’s around. From gunfire, explosions, and just listening to music too loud.

He is a certified yapper and will talk on and on about his interests.

(this ones self indulgent hehe) He loves loves loves collecting flowers and giving them away to the people that they remind him of.

His tail wags when he’s happy and he Hates it.

He’s very blunt about things and will just call people out when they’re being stupid.

He very much likes physical closeness and after a certain point of being around people doesn’t leave their side.

As said by @/raccoonfallsharder raccoons are very tactile (right here) and after crying over that i thought about how he’d react to your hand, and how eventually holding it would become a second nature to him, being able to recognize it was you only from touch and nothing else.

He likes to stick out his tongue in a mocking way but it doesn’t look mocking it just looks cute.

Groot when he was a sapling used to do up his fur and he “complained” about it but he actually really enjoyed it.

He did research on what build-a-bears were after tony called him one and he was Not happy to say the least.

(Last one) Him and yondu talked about embarrassing moments of quills. So every now and again rocket brings one up to quill and quill is shocked by how he knows that.

i have more but i’m tired, thank you all <33

[incorrect-rangers-quotes]

okay i got 20 tags in on a reblog of this before i thought i might as well bite the bullet and just write normal hahah. there are so many angles to look from here that i want to find and think about this later :)

someone in the tags said "he's calm when he wants to be" and i think that's pretty well-phrased. i personally would put it like this - halt is very level-headed when it comes to things like danger and combat and strategy, because when you do as much Danger and Combat and Strategy as rangers do, it's either you develop that, or you & the lads Get Deaded. i think that's mostly what's being referred to when he's described as calm and in control. he's a great presence to have when you're going into fight or flight because in terms of personal danger he hasn't panicked once in his life (exaggeration) and gets actively mad when someone's worried about him (not an exaggeration) LMAO. an anger outburst will rarely win you a fight.

op alluded to it already, but, you can also certainly have different amounts of patience when it comes to different things. halt especially, i think, is more prone to answering violence with violence no matter if it's proportionate or not than, i dunno, will? older crowley? pauline? diplomats are a far more emotionally adept authority i feel like. LOL. either way, yeah, sure, he can be patient, even in situations where he might deck someone otherwise, but i think to sympathize and thus be patient with you he's got to understand/relate to you. and obviously he's more likely to do that if he actively gives a shit about you, which he doesn't for most, so. Violent Tendencies.

i'll be honest my kneejerk reaction to the post was to joke about the fact that There Be Men Like That Sometimes, but really you can think about it that way! some of these things - corporal punishment, reacting to disrespect with violence, etc etc - aren't necessarily "i'm mad and not thinking about what i'm doing", they're just his normal responses that aren't always expressed angrily at all. it's just what he - read, people - do. it's what isn't necessarily universally accepted, but it is accepted by him and arguably the people around him.

to add; how much do you reckon there can be violence without anger? i don't think some of these were him running out of patience necessarily, or getting angry with Homicidal Flavour. i think halt is absolutely capable of looking at a situation, assessing it with a fairly neutral line of thought, and deciding that violence should be the answer. it's not a reaction, it's a response, if that makes sense. of course that doesn't mean he doesn't get angry, i'm sure he does plenty, but i feel like little of it is Uncontrolled violence. it's what he sees as Deserved violence, and let's admit there's seldom any punishment in it for him. iirc even his arguably Biggest L - the whole banishment thing, which was also exactly what he wanted out of the situation mind - wasn't over the threat of violence which was very much there, it was over calling duncan a daft wee piss cunt or whatever and it's illegal to be mean to the king. tragic.

and of course you, reading, can see the violence as uncalled for, or you can see the times he uses it as him being cruel. if that's your interpretation, then there's really not much going against it. i mean, it's my interpretation too, lmao. i think halt is a largely a hard and unpleasant man. it's just that we're seeing him from the perspectives of the people that mostly like him, so we get to see all the moments when he's patient, or kind, or loyal too. which makes for an overall rather nice character, if you're willing to get your hands a little dirty.

and, you know, childrens' literature and all. our faves can do a little prisoner slavery i guess. why not.

I've been thinking about this for a long time, but it's so fucking funny to me how Halt is the guy that everyone is like "yeah he can stay calm, he's always in control and has great patience when it comes to certain things, he's has great control over his emotions" but at the same time that guy has has bet up more than one teenage apprentice in the span of two books, thrown two guys out a window in the span of one book, made Will sleep outside in the cold, not even in the ground but in a fucking tree for singing a song and having a bit of whimsy in his life, threw a guy off his horse by putting his bowstring around his neck, knocking him out (and then wanted to punch him again when he woke up) for being a bit of a dick, and at one point in The Emporer of Nihon-Ja, Will was sure Halt was gonna deck a dude or something along those lines for knocking his hood back off his face. And thats just the stuff actually in the books, there's probably way more we don't know about.

I'm trying to think of any more shit he's done now.

It's just funny how he can apparently be the most calm and in control man but also get super easily pissed off and ready to kill in an instant at the same time.

[amesul]

You should do diana and ready is her younger girlfriend and ready is being a brat so diana punishes her by spanking her and ready is dripping onto Diana's thigh

sorry for the delay baby, this was rushed a lot so i hope you enjoy this bc i didnt proofread. ˚⊹♡

“oh fuck you!” you shout, irritation consuming you as diana ate the last piece of cake, knowing how much you wanted it, even though it wasn’t for you.

she was immediately startled by ur sudden outburst.

sure, you had ur moments, but to get angry over a slice of cake? she knew you were stubborn, and she also knew that you weren’t on ur cycle.

“nena, calm down.” she uttered, but you didn’t listen, instead — you even rolled your eyes as a mumbled “bitch” flew out of ur mouth.

she quickly heard you and nodded her head in a maniac way, processing every single crumb of movement from you and the grating scoff you had no shame in avowing.

you urself didn’t know why you were acting so childish for a piece of cake, and being so oblivious of how diana was gonna react.

oh right. because in a blur, ur whole body was sitting on her lap, not caring an ounce about the half bitten cake, and shit — you didn’t know how u got naked under her tight grip on ur neck.

you nearly gasped, wondering how and what just occurred so swiftly to get you needy and apologetic.

“say that again, please.“ diana mumbled, a cold trail of dark matter right behind her tone as she flicked her tongue against her lips.

she wanted you to say it. just so she could make sure you never call her that again after.

you were still trying to process, but the little agony in you won.

“bitch!”

now you didn’t mean to nearly shout, but all the pent up tension was getting to you and it surely wasn’t the time to do that, only because diana had crawled her hands to ur ass.

she chuckled, lowering her head from how funny it was for her.

you were being a brat.

not only to her but certainly triggering her calm state.

u started to get fret, thinking about how dumb and foolish you have been acting, and now you knew you were gonna get ur consequences because when diana gets tense with you, you end up saying sorry.

hands running over both of ur cheeks, her light touch raising hairs and goosebumps, only exciting you for what could be possibly be coming.

"you can count, right?" she asked, voice laced with sarcasm.

"yeah," u replied, your heart beginning to race a little faster when you felt the familiar fuzzy black handcuffs click around ur wrists. you started to regret being the bitch in this situation.

"well don't just mourn now, count to fucking ten if you're so smart."

with a nod you began, easily going through the numbers you’d learned in primary school just to have diana chuckle at you. "that was great, surprisingly. good job. now, lets see if you can count while your ass is burning, shall we? what number should we go to sweets?"

"fifteen," you answered quickly, barely giving it any thought and just choosing a number u hoped she'd be satisfied with.

"good choice," she agreed, bringing a quick hand down on ur bare bottom, the loud slap filling the room, and most likely slipping under the crack of the doorway and spilling out into the neighborhood.

"one!" you yelped, surprised at the stinging rising on ur right cheek. the second came down on ur left, a bit harder than the first. "two." another on the right. "th-three." the left. "ah! f-four." right. "five!" right again. "s-i-ix."

"your voice is cracking," she pointed out, hands cupping ur red, burning bum and thumbs digging into the rounds of your flesh. "can't handle it?"

"i- i apologize," you said through gritted teeth, growling out a "se-ven," when she brought her hand down again, this one being the worst of all.

tears formed in ur eyes but u forced them away, breathing heavily into the blankets around yourself.

she ignored ur apology, watching your teared face focused on trying to let the pain be itself.

ur counts were getting louder and louder, her slaps rougher and rougher, and by the time you were at twelve u were almost screaming them out, hissing and gasping and feeling incredibly embarrassed at not only how much you were enjoying this and how horny you had become, but how loud you actually got.

anybody could hear the couple, and diana made it known that that's what she wanted.

"tch," she began, cradling ur ass in her palms and occasionally brushing her fingertips over your lower back. "you know very well i don’t tolerate ur bratty behavior, little girl. s’, i suggest you scream these lasts few, yeah?”

"but dia-“

"do you wanna go to twenty?" she warned. "twenty-five?"

“n-no."

"then scream," she growled, drawing her arm back and slapping you with a quick swing of her hand. u cried out the number thirteen, breathing heavily with half your face buried in her neck, hot breath warming her nape around. the next two were the same, harsh slaps to ur bum, counted out by the distressed sound of ur voice, the fifteenth one hurting the most but at the same time feeling so fucking good in the worst way possible.

once diana was done she left her lips trailing up from ur stomach before brushing over ur neck and connecting with your mouth in a quick, sloppy kiss.

"you didn’t get wet did ya?" she mumbled more to herself than to you, reaching under u and slipping her index finger inside ur throbbing pussy, easily slipping in at how wet you were.

"mh’ y-yea," you confirmed, whimpering as two fingers pinched ur spongy clit, feeling it wobble at the contact.

"want me to do somethin’ about it?"

"please."

"and what is that?" her fingers playing around ur soft, dripping, and who could forget — soaked entrance.

"i want your strap."

"how so, love?"

"god, fuck me like this. fuck me from behind i don't care. i need to feel you in me, please dee."

diana paused for a moment before letting a laugh slip her lips. "begging so soon?" she smirked, shaking her head as she licked her lips subtly, “no.” she deadpanned, “this cute pussy doesn’t deserve my attention, not after your ugly behavior.”

“but-“

“but nothing, i’ll leave you the rest of the slice, but for now you don’t get anything.”

an. yall know i love cliffhangers

[heaven-s-black-box]

Scaredy Cat- Jing Yuan & more x gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: February 11th, 2025

Description: Can I request some dialogue heavy scenarios where the HSR men, Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Boothill, Sunday, Jiaoqiu, and Moze are in a relationship with a Neko reader and how they react when the reader jumps up like an actual scared cat when they're spooked.

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. Basically exclusively dialogue so they're kind of short

Word count: Jing Yuan- 134, Blade- 143, Dan Heng- 122, Boothill- 99, Sunday- 104, Jiaoqiu- 94, Moze- 118

Back to directory

Jing Yuan

“Ah!” Y/n yelps as strong hands settle on their waist from behind. The spoon they were stirring dinner with clatters into the pot as their hand grazes the rim. “Ow- Jing Yu- stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry.” He runs one hand up their arm to take their injured hand and lead them away from the stove.

“Turn off the stove, I don’t want to burn dinner just because you’re a clingy fool. And you’re still laughing, this isn’t funny I burnt myself.”

“But your tail is so fluffy right now, I haven’t seen it this puffed up since all that static electricity from my cold.”

“Do you wanna get bit? Because you’re working your way up to it really fast,” Y/n challenged half heartedly.

“I’m sorry.”

“I can see you biting your lip.”

Blade

“Blade!” Y/n shrieked from across the base. The stelleron hunter slowly got up from the table where he’d been cleaning his weapon and made his way down the hall. “Blade, hurry up! It’s- ah!”

“What is it?” He entered the workshop to find Y/n crouched on their workbench and watching the floor intently. “Got tired of being short?”

“There, there! Kill it!”

Blade sighs, walking over to the skittering bug and crushing it under his boot. “There, it’s dead. Anything else?”

“Help me down?”

“You can get down yourself. Hmph, I see the bug gave you quite the shock.”

“Shut up… I dropped a screw and when I went to pick it up that thing was right there. You can let go of me now.”

“Give me a moment and I’ll come sit with you in case there are any more.”

Dan Heng

Y/n whips their head around, “What the-”

“Hm? Is something the matter?” Dan Heng asks, not looking up from what he’s doing. He’s sat in his chair while Y/n sits on the small steps. When he receives no response, he turns around. “Why is your tail all puffed up, did you shock yourself?”

“No… your tail, it hit mine and I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh, sorry. I can…” he trailed off as he searched for a word, “hide it if you want?”

“No! No, it just startled me. Actually, can I wrap mine around it? Since I can’t really sit beside you right now.”

“Always, and if you want, you can always sit on my lap.”

“My, my, so forward.”

Boothill

“Hey kit-”

“AH!” Y/n screamed, slamming their head into their latest invention. “Ow-”

“Holy forkeroni you good kitty cat?”

“Ow, I’m fine… what the hell do you want?”

Boothill snickered, entering the workshop and dropping himself onto a stool. He held out his arm. “You’re pretty darn puffy for being fine. Not that you aren’t fine, you always look fine, I just mean-”

“Can it, cowboy, I know what you mean. You feeling okay?”

“Peachy.” Boothill hummed, reaching his free hand out to smooth their staticky fur.

“Got quite a few exposed wires for someone who’s peachy.”

“Touche.”

Sunday

“Ah!”

“What?!” Sunday asked, voice full of concern as he ran into the lounge car.

“Nothing, it was just a ball of hair getting blown around… thought it was a weird, big, bug,” Y/n huffed. Sunday hesitantly wrapped an arm around their waist and pulled them into his side. “What were you doing?”

“Hm?”

“Your feathers, they’re all puffed u-oops, sorry, forgot they were sensitive.”

“I-it’s fine. If you want you can smooth them out if…” his voice trailed into a mumble, “I can smooth out your tail.”

“Can I preen your wings while I’m at it?”

“If you’re alright with bathing together.”

Jiaoqiu

A loud clatter echoed through the large kitchen as Jiaoqiu knocked over a precariously stacked pile of pots and pans. “Oops, sorry,” he chuckled, turning to check on Y/n.

“Ow, ow- oh, wipe that smug look off your face.”

“But you’re doing such a funny dance.”

“I stubbed my toe because of you!”

“You’ve also gone all frizzy because of me, I feel like I should make it up to you somehow.”

“Right, because you’re so sorry.”

“Terribly so.”

“Gonna hide a humidifier in your office, see how you like a frizzy tail.”

Moze

“I am going to stick a bell on you!” Y/n huffed as Moze once again silently settled at their side, startling them when they turned.

“Sorry, but I don't think your fluffy tail takes away from your outfit. You always look good, frizzy tail or not.”

“Thank you, but it’s not just about the frizzy tail. You make my heart pound enough as it is, thank you very much. It doesn’t need a jump start.”

“Is that why you can never hear me coming?” He asked, and leaned his head on their shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“Your heart drowns out the sound of mine.”

“Moze…”

“Oh, I can hear your heart now.”

“Aeons,” Y/n sighed.

[itsaceokay]

There have been times when I've heard about a new identity or label and my thoughts weren't as supportive as they should be. I'd catch myself wondering whether they're actually real in that 'kids these days' type of way.

And then I'd think: remember when that was you, remember when nobody believed you, when they said it was all in your head that it wasn't real that you'd grow out of it, remember when you were so alone and invisible and hurting every single day, remember when people thought they knew you better than you knew yourself, when you were dismissed and denied and wondered why you were such a freak and whether there really was something wrong with you?

Remember that?

Sometimes different can seem strange, it can be hard to understand even for those of us who have shared similar experiences. But ultimately we're all people who feel like we don't quite belong and it would be a terrible thing to become like the people who made us feel so alone.

[sugurusladyknightt]

what i'm thinking of right now is what if someone tried hitting on you out while out on a date with your love.

satoru would've stepped away to grab the ice cream that had you waiting in a line for what you thought would feel like forever. it was fun though, the two of you pausing your initial conversation about the days plans in favour of people watching and listening in on the very scandalous conversations of those who stood with you in line. your eyes meeting in shock or surprise every so often, doing your best to disguise your laughs and gasps with charades of idle conversation and your own scandalous conversations referencing drama that, mind you doesn't really exist in your lives at the moment.

while he was a way your getting hit on by some creep. it didn't come off that way initially, but man was this getting uncomfortable fast. can this guy not take a hint? he's asking for your number once again and your refusing once again politely at first, and more stern as the advances keep coming. your not used to people that won't listen when you speak. since when did back off mean come closer? since when did i'm not interested become im just playing coy. since when did im taken, leave me alone translate to my relationship isn't real or isn't important to me and id throw it away for someone who doesn't understand basic boundaries and uses those suffocating, nauseating colognes?

drawing closer and closer to you. face far too close to yours, breathe stank too. yuck. he's gaining confidence now,convinced the 'boyfriend' you were talking about was an excuse you'd made up. your just nervous is all. playing hard to get.

panic starts to set into your bones. he's leaning back, all cocky now.

come on doll face, this 'boyfriend' of yours doesn't have to know. quit playing so high and mighty i know you want me.

you think you might throw up. when an ice cream cone hits him right in the centre of his face. comically sliding down his face. and satoru enters the scene. sun creating a halo around his fluffy white hair, your ho is glowing. signature classes sat pretty low on his nose his skin a little flushed from the heat (hence the ice cream) he's holding two more cones in his hands, walking towards you and and the offender, mock sympathy in his voice. as he expresses apologies that to just might seem sincere if your that stupid if you tried hard enough. grabbing the cone of his face to meet his eyes.

satoru has a incredibly towering stature, and while this wasn't news to you, it's quite impressive to see its advantages in real time.

peaking down at the face behind the sweet creamy mess, satoru recoils. "ew." his tone dripping with absolute disgust. turning around to make his "bleghh" face as he presses the now ice cream less cone into the man's hair. like a sad party hat above his head an sticks on of the other two, being careful to use the flavour he knows you like least, straight back into his face. massaging it around to cover as much of the monstrosity as possible before nodding proudly for his work. a pat on the make, and he's turing on his heel towards you with that blinding smile on his face.

dramatically, satoru drapes his hands over you shoulders, and leans his weight it, a pout on his strawberry glosses lips. "babyyyyy, the sight will haunt my night mares, scary people out there" he tuts standing straight with a satirical furrow between his brows. he should have been a theatre kid with all these dramatics. though you were greatful, and relived. he makes life feel so easy. it's contagious.

he looks down at you through his sunglasses small smile playing on his lips, face no longer contorted by an expression of discomfort or disgust.

satoru hands you the last cone. after all the two he got for him have served greater purpose than satisfying his sweet tooth. strong arm loosely hangs from you shoulder as you walk off leaving behind the cheap excuse of a man now covered in creamy deliciousness far too good him. your laughing at something satoru said as he glances back to see yhe newest addition to his hit list muttering to himself as he try's to get the ice cream of his over gelled greasy hair, fake designer top and horribly ugly face. satoru thinks he should just keep it as it was. ice cream was a far more pleasant sight. he looks back down at you eating away at your cone, there's a little caught at the corner of you lips.

smirking he leans down to lick it off, taking advantage of the angle of your head above his to make his eyes wide and pretty for you the same way he would when he was licking something else. your flustered, mouth open, paused mid sentence and your eyes wider than his now. wide eyes portraying his faux innocence drop to a sultry lidded gaze leaning in to kiss away another but in the other side. your fingers going up to feel if there's anything there on instinct.

he stands up quick, back to his regular self, pinching your check acting as if nothing had just transpired. like the subtle innuendo was felt only by you. "are you blushing?? god baby your such a pervert. is that all i am to you???"

and he's back to the dramatics. rolling your eyes your shrug him of and continue. he stays, watching you, his beloved walk ahead, he feels himself let out the dreamy exhale of a lovesick fool, he'll be the first to admit that for you, he is nothing else.

a quick jog is all it takes to catch up to you. arm coming back around your shoulder he leans in like he weighs the same as the feather. burying himself close to you. you smelt sweeter than ice cream. his hair tickles your neck, and your his face.

"baby"

a hmm is all he gets in reply, to busy lapping away at your cone to pay attention to the kind sexy clown you call you boyfriend. he got your favourite flavour after all.

extravagant gestures weren't something satoru shied away from, as we have gotten to see up close today. he was loud and carefree but he was yours. and you his. walking side by side, his arm around your shoulders, head resting close to you. he can feel your pulse (his posture must've looked horribly uncomfortableto someone watching from outside the two of you). it's peaceful like this. despite the bustling crowds and busy chatter around you, you shared a feeling of peace in that moment. body held close to the one you loved, despite the heat your far from bothered by the proximity. he smells so good.

then it hits him. no sweet treat :( the gravity of the situation makes it self clear to him, but his salvation, as always, is being held delicately in your hands.

"you wouldn't mind sharing with your brave, fearless, super funny, super hot, saviour knight now would do you baby"

[recitedemise]

It doesn't need to be said (I am preaching to the choir), but after seeing a very bad faith interpretation of Gale nearly half a year after release, I am going to say it again regardless!

Gale is a victim, not a perpetrator. In his relationship with Mystra, he was preyed on and hurt, not Mystra. Yes, Mystra told Gale not to seek out the missing part of Weave that is a part of her, but Gale had no idea it was Karsite in nature and was not aware he was looking for something that was actively corrupt and dangerous until Act 3. Mystra did not inform him right out the gate. Gale may have went to seek it out despite her disapproval and erred and doomed himself for it, but Gale was also aiming solely to apologize for...wanting to be her equal. And I am saying it one more time: it is NOT Gale's fault for wanting to be on the same footing with his lover. No one wants to feel like they're looking UP at their lover, beneath them and not worthy of them. Gale was groomed. Gale was preyed on and eyed by Mystra since he was a young boy. He was her pupil, she, his mentor, and later, he became her lover. Of course Gale wants to feel equal to her. Of course Gale wants to be more. How could he not want to be more, to live up to his goddess that gave him an OUNCE of her attention? Lord forbid.

Gale is not some manipulator. How the idea that he, a mere mortal, could manipulate Mystra, a goddess, is truly beyond me—a goddess who told him to literally die to earn her forgiveness. While he may have had a more haughty personality in EA and was originally supposed to have tried to usurp Mystra in CONCEPT, a lot and a considerable lot has changed upon release. Gale is remarkably human. He is remarkably honest. He is so bare, so forward, and is practically the FIRST person to reveal to you everything you need to know about him among the party if you prove yourself trustworthy, which, let's be real, is a low bar (you save a child and he's impressed. Like. Truly. The bar is THAT low). Gale is arrogant, sure, but is also remarkably modest with his desires and has befuddlingly low self confidence and self worth. He does not try to manipulate Mystra or the player into anything. He's a dying man who honestly just wants to be told he's worthy of everything as just Gale DEKARIOS, not just as Gale of Waterdeep. He's ambitious because he has lived his whole life with the impression he's only worth something if he makes himself out to be something. There is no manipulation here, just a deeply wanting man who looks at 'the world is better FOR you' like it's worth more than all the riches in the world.

Gale may have his hang ups because he is well and truly traumatized, but that's because he's absolutely the victim in his situation. I get it. He's older. He's a grown man and Mystra talked so 'calmly' and didn't physically hurt him (even though she did turn a blind eye when Gale, you know, was afflicted with and living with a bomb in his chest), but that doesn't make Mystra any less the perpetrator of his traumas.

[vlindervin7]

don't look gay don't look arab don't look muslim, basically i spend my time clarifying my identity to people i meet

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 64

Chapter; Highlights

Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.

At the disaster they'd narrowly avoided, at the deaths she'd witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.

Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.

All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.

A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.

She'd been asked to inspect the queen when she'd been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn't been able to stop her hands from shaking as she'd hovered them over Aelin's unconscious body.

There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself.

Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.

Who held the might of a god within her veins.

Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he'd waved her off, claiming he'd come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.

So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.

—

To Lorcan, whose injuries ... Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene's had been so depleted.

The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn't so much as stir while they worked on him.

That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.

Yes, she needed to rest.

But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.

Everyone halted-then rushed to the windows. Yrene's smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.

To where the rest of the khagan's army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.

Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.

From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.

Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin.

…

Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.

Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.

If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.

Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.

"You are one lucky bastard."

Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys's drawl.

Fenrys's smirk was a slash of white.

"You've been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you."

A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.

Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. "Elide." Her name was a rasp on his tongue.

The last he remembered, they'd ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius's unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.

"Helping with the healing in the Great Hall," Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.

Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.

"Well, since you're not dead," Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.

Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn't know.

The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then.

He didn't care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.

Elide.

Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.

Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers. They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.

Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him. She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him ...

Tired. She looked spent, yet her chin remained unbowed.

Lorcan had no words. He'd given her everything on the back of that horse anyway.

But Elide asked, "How do you feel?" Aching. Exhausted. Yet finding her sitting at his bedside... "Alive," he said, and meant it.

Her face remained unreadable, even as her eyes dipped to his body. The blanket had slid down enough to reveal most of his torso, though it still hid the scarred-over wound in his abdomen. Yet he'd never felt so keenly naked.

It was an effort to keep his breathing steady beneath her sharp-eyed gaze. "Yrene said you would have died, if they hadn't gotten to you when they did."

"I would have died," he said, voice like gravel, "if you hadn't braved hell to find me." Her gaze lifted to his. "I made you a promise."

"So you said."

Was that a hint of color stealing across her pale cheeks? But she didn't balk. "You said some interesting things, too."

Lorcan tried to sit up, but his body gave a burst of pain in protest.

Elide explained, "Yrene warned that though the wounds are healed, some soreness will linger."

Lorcan gritted his teeth around the sharp stab in his back, his stomach. He managed to get onto his elbows, and deemed that progress enough. "It's been a while since I was so gravely injured. I'd forgotten what an inconvenience it is."

A faint smile tugged on her mouth.

His heart halted. The first smile she had given him in months and months. Since that day on the ship, when he'd touched her hand as they'd swayed in their hammocks.

Her smile faded, but the color on her cheeks lingered. "Did you mean it? What you said." He held her stare. Let some inner wall within him come crumbling down. Only for her. For this sharp-eyed, cunning little liar who had slipped through every defense and ironclad rule he'd ever made for himself. He let her see that in his face. Let her see all of it, as no one had ever done before. "Yes."

Her mouth tightened, but not in displeasure.

So Lorcan said softly, "I meant every word." His heart thundered, so wildly it was a wonder she couldn't hear it. "And I will until the day I fade into the Afterworld."

Lorcan didn't breathe as Elide gently reached out her hand. And interlaced their fingers. "I love you," she whispered.

He was glad he was lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. Even now, he was half inclined to bow before her, the true owner of his ancient, wicked heart.

"I have loved you," she went on, "from the moment you came to fight for me against Vernon and the ilken." The light in her eyes stole his breath. "And when I heard you were somewhere on that battlefield, the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell you that. It was the only thing that mattered."

Once, he might have scoffed. Declared that far bigger things mattered, in this war especially. And yet the hand grasping his ... He'd never known anything more precious.

Lorcan ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "I am sorry, Elide. For all of it."

"I know," she said softly, and no regret or hurt dimmed her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shone there. The face of the mighty lady she was growing into, and had already become, and who would rule Perranth with wisdom in one hand and compassion in the other.

They stared at each other for minutes. For a blessed eternity.

Then Elide untangled their hands and rose. "I should return to help Yrene."

Lorcan caught her hand again. "Stay."

She arched a dark brow. "I'm only going to the Great Hall."

Lorcan caressed his thumb over the back of her hand once more. "Stay," he breathed.

For a heartbeat, he thought she'd say no, and was prepared to be fine with it, to accept these last few minutes as more of a gift than he'd deserved.

"Say it," she whispered, fingers stilling in his hair. Lorcan opened his eyes, finding her gaze. "I love you."

"Yrene said you might always have this," she said, her hand mercifully falling away.

"Then it will be the scar I treasure most."

Fenrys would laugh until he cried to hear him speak this way, but Lorcan didn't care. To hell with the rest of them.

Another one of those small smiles curved her lips, and Lorcan's hands tightened in the sheets with the effort it took not to taste that smile, to worship it with his own mouth.

But this new, fragile thing humming between them ... He would not risk it for all the world.

Elide, thank the gods, had no such worries.

None at all, it seemed, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and ran her thumb along it. Every breath was an effort of control.

Lorcan held absolutely still as she brought her mouth to his. Brushed her lips across his own.

She pulled back. "Rest, Lorcan. I'll be here again when you wake."

Anything she asked, he'd give her.

Anything at all.

Too shaken by that soft, beautiful kiss to bother with words, he lay back down.

But until then, he wanted her here. Sleeping at his side, where he might watch over her. As she had watched over him.

Elide seemed to read that on his face, and her cheeks reddened further. "Later, then," she breathed, limping to the door.

Lorcan sent a flicker of his power to wrap around her ankle. The limp vanished.

A hand on the knob, she gave him a small, grateful nod. "I missed that."

He heard the unspoken words as she disappeared into the busy hall.

I missed you.

Lorcan allowed himself a rare smile.

[gregmarriage]

might be tmi/dark, but kinda have come to the realisation that a lot of my problems, and why i’m like this™️, is because i genuinely thought i’d be dead before now. either bc i have been dealing with major chronic depression, since i was a kid, and the fucked up ideations that come with that. or from having severe medical issues in my early twenties. basically, i just thought i was gonna die, and i’m not and it’s weird to deal with

[fexicoded]

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