#just some more nonsense. they were really on one

[shadowmaat]

Stuff like this is one area where you can trust bureaucracy. Companies and organizations are extremely explicit about stuff like this. So here's a few things I picked up on in this one:

First, and most obviously, a GUEST account?? Really?? You're claiming to know more about AO3's inner workings than I do and you don't even have a fucking account?!

If AO3 implemented a massive policy change, they'd announce it. A banner on the site and possibly an email as well.

If you in particular were in any kind of trouble with AO3, they'd email you about it. They're very good at explaining things and giving you time to correct stuff yourself. They won't delete stuff willy-nilly and they sure as hell won't ban you without warning.

Hell, it's even right there in the spam: "Moderators are expected to remove [violating content] and impose a month-long ban if authors don't comply." In order to comply, authors will need to be notified. Officially. Not by some rando "guest."

"Deprecated" fandoms? Deprecated?? If you're trying to use big words in your scaremongering, at least use them correctly. Another word for "deprecate" is "belittle," which makes no sense in this context. Another use of deprecate means "withdraw official support," which is equally nonsensical. AO3 is about preservation; they aren't going to abandon fandoms, not even if they're obscure or contentious. That would be working against one of their core purposes.

AO3 isn't hurting for space, especially not after their recent fundraiser. They have enough servers that "conserving space" isn't a concern, and even if it was, they'd just explain that to us and ask for additional funds.

I'm sure there are more red flags, but those are the ones I noticed.

Anyway! TL;DR: If you are ever in violation of a policy on AO3, they will email you directly first.

If there are any exceptions to that, it relates directly to anyone trying to scam users, or to the trolls who post photos of extreme gore/graphic sex to unsuspecting users.

"Deprecated." FFS.

Wow, now there's a bot going around on Ao3 telling people that the "moderators" will delete works from "deprecated" fandoms and impose bans.

Fearmongering bullshit, but it's fearmongering bullshit that seems to be taking advantage of the recent spotlight series in order to trick authors into deleting their fics.

Just. Why.

What the hell does anyone get out of making these bots.

[kittsuneriyu]

For a while I really wanted to make my own designs for a "role swap" AU.

The idea is that characters change roles, not in between, they change sides but still have their own unique quirks to hunt or survive.

007n7 basically goes insane after losing both Noli and c00lkidd, turning back into his old hacker persona, he decides to make his sorrow into everyone's problem. 007n7's actions are way more destructive and reckless, with nothing else to lose, why should he fear getting hurt or punished? This mentality is what pushes him further into keep living to make hell break lose.

Elliot is still a worker on Builder Brother's Pizza's, the best as always. But sometimes you never felt like making some jerk pay for his actions? That's Elliot's mindset, using his freetime to hunt down anyone that dared to mistreat him or other employees. Having a twisted kind of satisfaction on making "justice" with his own hands. Of course, he would never let it affect the Pizzaria's service.

Chance is a thrill seeker, to achive it he always took the most risky choices. It lead him into involving himself with some shady people. Now working as some hitman, Chance uses this title to coerce his targets into gambling with him in change of their mercy. But somehow Chance always wins either way.

The rest of the survivors aren't as elaborated as those three.

Noob is just some generic killer, the kind that looks like an average person but later shows themselves as some maniac.

Guest 1337 as stated on the drawing works like Fliqpy, genuinely feeling guilty for hurting someone, his flight or fight reaction really blinds him when something triggers him.

Two Time achived a very high connection with the spawn after a bunch of sacrifice's. One life in change of a extra one, this allows them to insta-heal a deadly injury an keep going, of course it doesn't comes without consequences. Each scar and rebirth disfigure's Two Time's form further and further.

Builderman alongside Telamon started an iron fist moderation, punishing and banning anyone that broke rules or defied their ideals.

Builderman didn't changed much design wise, glasses to only focus on their ideals, headsets to not hear their pleas or opinions and a hardhat to protection of course.

Telamon never gave up on his hatred, some still spilled over his creation but most of it still with him.

Dusekkar never agreed with this nonsense, and the two Admins didn't took it lightly, now Duse doesn't mind that much, afterall he doesn't have a thinkng mind at all anymore.

Taph would do anything for builderman, so they hopped along with the two Admin's, Taph happened to mess up a few times but now that they got the message they're not going to fail Builderman anymore.

And of course we have our survivors.

"Poor kidd there's something about us people never really liked." Not sure about what happened to c00lkidd for him to disappear. Up to you I guess.

1x a vessel for the admin's experiment, nothing but that. And when falling purposeless they felt anger, a powerful need for revenge. 1x and 2x never happened to become sepparated entities.

John Doe a mere moderator, only wanting to ensure that robloxia's problems were solved, too good for his own sake. This was his ruin.

Noli since the start aspired that one day he would reach out the starts, but now that he has them in hands theres no one left to share their glimmer with.

Guest 666 was just some rebel, a trouble maker as people say. Unable to properly speak without an account, but also unnable to be properly punished. Not sure how his relation with Noob could go.

Azure was, alongside his partner, one out of the most faithful ones of their cult. This feat led him and Two Time into a huge sacrificial rabbit hole. After being killed Azure turned his back to anything related to spawn or cults in general.

[pankowcrumbs]

Pissed off X Bucky Barnes

MasterList

Marvel MasterList

Bucky POV-

The chair creaked beneath me, the ropes around my wrists digging in tight. Blood had dried on my cheek, crusted along a split lip. My head pounded, and there was a metallic taste in my mouth that wasn't just blood it was rage.

They'd caught me off guard. Sloppy. I'd been walking back from the damn bakery a baguette in one hand and my phone in the other, texting Y/N about whether she wanted red or white with dinner. I never saw them coming.

Now I was in some rusted-out warehouse that stank of oil and mould. My captor a man with slicked-back hair and a scar running across his jaw like a lightning bolt paced in front of me with a swagger that grated on every last nerve.

"James Barnes," he drawled, tapping the butt of his pistol against his palm. "The Winter Soldier himself. Never thought you'd be this easy."

I let out a dry chuckle, ignoring the way my ribs ached. "You're not the first to think that. Most of them are dead now."

He grinned like he thought I was bluffing. Poor bastard.

"Here's how this is going to go," he said. "You're going to tell me the access codes to the Stark safehouse files. Or I start removing fingers."

I leaned back as best I could, giving him a slow once-over. "Yeah, see... that's where you cocked up."

His smirk faltered.

"You think I'm the dangerous one," I said calmly, eyes locked on his. "But you just pissed off my wife."

He snorted. "And what? She's going to call the police?"

"Worse," I said, letting a ghost of a smirk curl my lip. "She's a sniper."

The guy chuckled. "You're bluffing."

I shrugged as much as the ropes allowed. "Not many people cross Y/N and live to tell the tale. But go on, keep waving that gun. Maybe she'll make it quick."

He laughed again, louder this time, turning away from me.

And that's when the bullet ripped through the window.

The glass shattered with a high-pitched whine, and the man dropped like a puppet with cut strings, blood blooming across his chest. I didn't flinch. I just exhaled.

The silence that followed was deafening. My eyes flicked to the broken window, a neat, clean hole left in its wake.

A minute later, boots crunched over broken glass.

And there she was.

Y/N stepped through the warehouse entrance like a damn movie star rifle slung across her back, holstered sidearm at her hip, hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way that made my heart stutter even now. Eyes sharp. Confident. Lethal.

"Took you long enough," I said, grinning through the pain.

She gave me a once-over, lips quirking. "You look like shit."

"Still prettier than the guy you just shot."

"Debatable." She crouched beside me, pulling a knife from her boot and slicing through the ropes in one smooth motion. "You good to walk or do I need to carry your dramatic arse?"

"I'll manage," I muttered, rubbing my wrists. "Though, if you're offering a piggyback..."

She rolled her eyes but helped me to my feet anyway, one arm steady around my waist.

"You let them catch you with a baguette in your hand?" she asked, raising a brow.

"I was trying to surprise you with dinner."

"Next time surprise me by not getting kidnapped."

Despite everything, I laughed.

We moved quickly through the warehouse, her eyes scanning for more threats. I'd seen her in action before, but something about knowing she came for me stirred something deep in my chest.

Once we were outside and the cool night air hit my face, I paused. "You really shot him through a window?"

She smirked. "Two hundred metres. Crosswind."

"Marry me."

"We already did, genius."

I grinned, limping toward the SUV she'd clearly boosted. "Still. Would again."

She opened the door for me. "Next time someone nabs you, can you try not to flirt with the kidnapper?"

"Jealous?"

"No," she said, pulling the door shut once I was inside. "Just bored of cleaning blood off my boots."

As she climbed into the driver seat, I watched her profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. Strong. Unshakable. Mine.

I reached over and took her hand. "Thanks for coming for me."

She squeezed it. "Always, Buck. Always."

And as we drove off into the night, leaving the mess behind, I knew one thing for certain:

No one in their right mind would ever dare come between me and Y/N Barnes.

Not if they wanted to live.

[marauroon]

I’m in desperate—I mean desperate—need of a Sirius x Reader soulmate AU series written by you. Because oh my God, the idea is just so sweet!

To think that, despite everything—even in the darkest moments of his life—since he was just a little boy, the thought of his one true person waiting for him somewhere out there has been what pushed him through it all. Especially knowing that his parents weren’t soulmates, Sirius has always been absolutely certain that he has to end up with his soulmate. It’s that… or nothing for him so when he starts his Hogwarts journey he’s already on a mission.

── .✦ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 9.8k angst masterlist.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, antagonistic relationship between lily and james, peter gets some love, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective, part one of a series

They say the mark fades the moment your soulmate touches you.

A simple, skin-deep magic with depth beyond comprehension. One moment, you carry a patch of ink—some obscure splotch, a fingerprint, a handprint, a streak. The next, it’s gone. Just... gone. The skin is smooth and unblemished where once magic lingered.

The mark doesn’t tell you who, only where—where on your body your soulmate will first touch you. And once they do, once your souls collide in that first, fated contact, the mark disappears. Like you’re whole again. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you were missing.

No one really remembers a time before their mark. It's always been there—like birthmarks only fate-born. A quiet promise that someday, somewhere, someone will reach for you and the world will shift.

Some people search for their whole lives. Others stumble into it by accident—brushing hands in a corridor, bumping shoulders in a crowd, one drunken kiss on a dare that changes everything. And then there are those who never find it at all.

Or worse—those who refuse to.

Sirius had spent his entire childhood watching the mark on his mother’s right hand.

It was a violent thing. An ink-black smear that twisted over the bones of her knuckles and bled toward her wrist like a bruise. It was always stark against her pale skin—more visible when her voice rose, when her wand lifted, when Regulus flinched and Sirius refused to cower.

Walburga Black was a woman of ancient lineage and granite values. The House of Black didn’t marry for love. They married for blood. For power. For family name. Soulmates were a fairytale whispered by Halfbloods and Muggleborns, a sentimental excuse for weakness.

And so the smear on her hand never faded.

“She should’ve found him,” Sirius had once whispered to Regulus, who was eight and still soft in the face. “Her soulmate,”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “She doesn’t believe in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius muttered. “She still has one.”

That was what made it worse, really. That somewhere in the world, the one person who might’ve made her less like herself was walking around unaware. That she’d never tried. That none of them did.

He had a mark, too. A broad, dark patch on the front of his shoulder, curling slightly round to the outside of his arm. It looked more like a smudge than anything. Not delicate, not shaped like fingers or palms. Just… mess. Like someone had leaned against him with soot on their hands.

His mother had tried to scrub it off, once.

“It’s barbaric,” she’d hissed, dragging a cloth over his skin with vinegar and spells. “Sentimental nonsense.”

It hadn’t worked. The skin there had stayed marked, warm, stubborn with fate.

And Sirius had made a promise to himself that day. He would find the person who belonged to that mark. He would.

Because he was not going to turn into his mother.

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled like dust and pumpkin, and Sirius was trying very hard not to look as excited as he felt.

He had left. He had left that house, that woman, that family. He was on the train to a castle full of magic and secrets, and he was going to make friends and break rules and maybe even find the person with soot-stained fingers who would touch his arm and make the mark vanish.

He had only just dumped his trunk into the nearest half-empty compartment when a gangly, bespectacled boy stuck his head in and grinned.

“Oi—this seat taken?”

Sirius shrugged. “It is now.”

James Potter flopped down beside him without asking again, closely followed by two other boys: a round-faced, cheerful one who introduced himself as Peter, and a quiet, bookish one with scars hidden behind long sleeves who offered only a nod and the name Remus.

They were only halfway into the journey when the topic—inevitably—arose.

“Soulmarks,” Sirius said, dropping the word into the conversation like a dare.

The carriage fell into a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but loaded — the way quiet feels just before lightning hits. James perked up first, eyes narrowing with interest, then grinned.

“Oh, we’re doing that already, are we?” he said, spinning slightly on the bench so he was facing the rest of them properly. “Right then. Let’s see the lot of yours. Starting with you, Mr Mysterious.”

He pointed at Sirius with an impish grin. Peter gave a small, nervous laugh, and Remus — who had been quietly reading the front page of a Daily Prophet someone had left behind — lowered it slowly.

Sirius hesitated for a second, not because he was shy, but because his mark had always felt like something far too personal to show off, especially under the weight of the Black name. But here, with these boys, he felt the kind of safety he didn’t yet have the words for.

With a shrug, he tugged up the sleeve of his jumper and peeled it back past his bicep. Across the curve of his shoulder — wrapping from the edge of his chest to just past the blade of his back — was a dark smear, like someone had dragged a piece of charcoal across his skin and tried to rub it off before it dried. It was heavy-looking, almost like soot or ash, thick and indelible. Not a handprint. Not a brush of fingers. Just... contact. Weight. Pressure.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered, leaning forward. “Did your soulmate fall on you?”

Sirius laughed — an unexpected, genuine sound. “Haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they shoulder-barged me. Maybe they crashed into me mid-duel. Maybe it’s a hug. Who knows? Could’ve been anything.”

James hummed, clearly intrigued. “I mean... I suppose you’d know immediately, yeah? The second it happened.”

“Mark fades when it happens,” Sirius replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “Gone. Just like that. You’re ‘whole’ or whatever it is.”

“Romantic, that,” Peter said. “In a weird, sort of terrifying way.”

“Don’t even have to ask about yours,” Sirius said, nodding at James.

James didn’t hesitate. He swept his unruly hair back from his face and tilted his head to the side, revealing the left side of his face — and more importantly, the soft, unmistakable shape of a milky white handprint cradling his cheek. It looked like someone had cupped his face gently, thumb grazing his cheek. It was... tender. Oddly intimate.

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, look at you,” Sirius drawled. “That’s not a soulmark. That’s the prelude to a snog.”

James grinned unabashedly. “Reckon it is, yeah. Imagine, though— first time I meet them, they’re gonna touch my face like I’m some kind of Greek tragedy,”

“Probably to make out with me,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the entire group groaned.

“Godric help them,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Peter looked slightly self-conscious now that the attention was drifting his way, but when Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed and turned slightly, pointing at the side of his nose. A small brown splotch marked the bridge, barely the size of a Knut.

“That’s it?” Sirius said.

Peter flushed. “Yes? I don’t know what it means either,”

James leaned in with mock seriousness, licking his thumb and making a show of reaching over. “Sure it’s not just dirt, Peter? Let me—”

Peter yelped and batted his hand away, laughing. “Get off, you tosser!”

Even Remus snorted.

Sirius eyed him then. “What about you, then? Don’t think you’re getting out of this,”

Remus looked suddenly awkward—more awkward than Sirius had ever seen him—and shook his head. “I haven’t got one.”

James looked genuinely surprised. “You... haven’t?”

Remus shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever found,” Not that he’d ever made the effort to check.

“Bollocks,” Sirius said, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Everyone’s got one. It's the whole point, isn’t it?”

James nodded eagerly. “Yeah— we’ll find it. Take your shirt off,”

Peter choked on his own spit.

“Hold your horses, woah—” Remus muttered, clearly flustered.

“Come on, just let us look!” James said. “We’ll be quick about it.”

After several minutes of grumbling and reluctant sighs, Remus finally rolled his eyes and let them have a look—within reason. They checked his forearms, shoulders, collarbones, back, even his calves. Nothing.

“I told you—” Remus started, but Sirius, now unrelenting in his curiosity, stepped closer and squinted at the hairline near Remus’ right temple.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low with interest.

He reached out—gently, and with an uncharacteristic kind of caution—and swept a lock of Remus’ hair back.

There, just along the edge of his hairline, half-hidden by curls, was a thin, chocolate brown mark. Like a thumbprint, just brushing the edge of his temple.

The room went quiet.

“Found it!” Sirius said, triumphantly.

Remus blinked, although, surprisingly, didn’t look all that relieved. “Alright,”

“Told you,” James said smugly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “Everyone’s got one.”

Remus said nothing, but Sirius caught the way his fingers brushed the edge of his fringe, as if somehow wanting to feel it—to acknowledge it now that it was real.

They were quiet for a few minutes after that. Just sitting with it.

And Sirius found himself thinking, strangely, about his mother again—the way her own soulmark had never faded. How it had sat like an accusation across the back of her hand, inky and unmoving, every time she raised it. He’d seen it when she tugged harshly on Regulus’ hair. When she yanked Sirius by the collar. Always there. A reminder of what she could have had.

She had told him once, sneering, “Soulmates are for commoners. Fairytales. Blood comes first. Blood is eternal.”

And Sirius had known, even then, that he wanted something else. Something more.

These boys—these three ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant boys—might not have known it, but they were the first promise he’d ever been given that he might not end up like her. That the mark on his arm meant something real. That someone out there might touch him one day, and the mark would vanish, and the emptiness he’d carried since childhood might finally ease.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to spend years hoping for that moment.

And dreading it in equal measure.

—

You’ll never forget the first time James Potter laid eyes on Lily Evans.

It’s early in your first year—just a few days in—and you’re walking with her and Mary down one of the endless, winding corridors of Hogwarts, heading to Charms. Lily’s still got that Muggle-born wonder gleaming in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it behind a proper sense of logic and practicality. She’s talking about the theory behind wand movement, hands gesturing enthusiastically, when it happens.

James Potter, all wild hair and taller-than-he-should-be confidence, rounds the corner with his entourage, Sirius, Remus, and Peter flanking him like a self-appointed court. He spots her, freezes mid-step, and goes oddly quiet.

You notice. You always notice when boys look at Lily. But this one feels different.

Then, James grins. “That’s her,” he says, loud enough for all of the corridor to hear. “That’s my soulmate.”

Lily stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

He strides up, not missing a beat. “Your hand, it matches my face,”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s the most common soul mark in the world.”

“Just humour me,”

She rolls her eyes—but shows him anyway. A dark mark covering her palm like she’d dipped it in black paint, visible for a fraction of a second before she tucks it behind her again like it’s private. Sacred.

James, however, looks like he’s been handed a prophecy.

“See,” he says, tapping the side of his own face, just under the curve of his left cheekbone. “Perfect fit. You held my face. Or you will. That’s what the universe wants,”

“Or you’re delusional,” she says sweetly. “Ever thought of that?”

You laugh. So does Mary. But James—he just smiles, full of charm and stupid certainty.

From that moment on, James is relentless.

He doesn’t declare it once and then let it lie. No—he tells everyone who’ll listen. Tells Peter, tells Sirius, tells Remus (who already knows but still rolls his eyes every time). Tells older students. Tells a professor, once, though you think he was joking that time.

At first, it’s annoying. Then it becomes unbearable.

Because the Marauders, they don’t just say they believe in soulmates. They act like it means they’re entitled to you.

You and Lily and Marlene and Dorcas and Mary had started off giving them the benefit of the doubt. They seemed harmless enough: loud, yes, but not cruel. But then James began following Lily everywhere— always appearing outside your common room, in the corridors between classes, in the library. And Sirius and the others followed along too, trailing after you girls like a bad smell.

They’d show up outside Potions just to “bump into” you. Or drop casual comments in the Great Hall about how Remus got the highest score on the Defence essay, as if anyone asked. Or make loud boasts about Quidditch tactics, like they were auditioning for a future career in bragging.

You never understood what they wanted. It was clear enough that James was obsessed with Lily, but what about the rest of them?

Remus always seemed more amused than anything, like he was watching a tragic play unfold, one he knew the ending to but couldn’t stop. Peter was just... there. Laughing too hard at every joke James made, like he thought that was the price of staying in the group.

And Sirius— Sirius was different.

He didn’t really flirt. Didn’t boast as much. He mostly watched. With those storm-grey eyes that felt like they were always seeing more than they should. He’d smirk sometimes, or throw in a sarcastic comment, but he was quieter than you expected. There was something behind it, like he wasn’t entirely present. Like his mind was elsewhere, chasing shadows.

You noticed that too. How he’d go still when someone mentioned soulmarks in passing. How he looked at couples in the corridors—the ones laughing with linked hands, whose marks had already faded—with a kind of distant longing that felt too raw for someone so young.

It was almost sad, in a kind of pathetic way.

But none of that excused their behaviour.

The truth was: you didn’t like them. Not really. None of you did.

They were loud and reckless and juvenile. They’d hex Slytherins in the corridor and act like they were defending the moral high ground. They’d shout across classrooms, make up chants, prank students for fun. Once they transfigured all the cauldrons in Potions into frogs, and Professor Slughorn found it hilarious. You didn’t.

You didn’t like being followed. You didn’t like the way they laughed when you were trying to work, or how James seemed to think Lily owed him something just because he’d decided the universe wanted them together.

You’d tried confronting them, all of you.

“I’m not interested,” Lily had told James flat-out one day outside Charms. “No matter what your cheek tells you.”

“But you will be,” he’d replied, infuriatingly smug. “Eventually,”

You’d wanted to hex him on her behalf.

The worst part was how consistent they were. They just didn’t get bored. Most boys would move on after the first rejection—bruised ego, muttered grumbling. But not James Potter. He treated it like a game he was determined to win. Like every protest was just another obstacle the fates had set up to test his resolve.

It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

And the more it went on, the more it began to change the dynamic between the two groups. The Marauders kept orbiting around you, even when it was obvious they weren’t welcome. Even Remus, who you thought might’ve had some basic common sense, proved to be just as bad.

You started changing your routes to class. Started choosing study corners furthest away from their usual haunts. You stopped walking the long way to Herbology because they’d wait for you by the greenhouse and pretend it was coincidence. But no matter what you did, they always found you.

It wasn’t even that they were mean. That might have been easier. They were just... there. Always.

And when they weren’t there, you caught yourself noticing.

It was a strange thing, realising how used you’d grown to their presence. How you’d memorised their stupid voices. How, occasionally, when Sirius didn’t say something clever and cutting in class, you’d feel the absence of it.

You don’t notice it at first—not really. Sirius Black is a lot of things: loud, charming, irritating, surprisingly clever when he wants to be. But what he is most of all is consistent. A constant thorn in your side. An ever-present source of chaos orbiting James Potter’s ego.

So when he starts acting strangely, it takes a while to catch your attention. At first, you chalk it up to more Marauder nonsense. Another prank brewing. Another hare-brained scheme. But then the weeks pass, and the silence stretches, and you begin to realise something is off.

He starts dating. A lot.

It begins in fourth year, the way most ridiculous boy behaviour begins—with no explanation, no warning, no respect for peace. One week it’s Emilia Montague, who has hair like spun gold and a voice that drips honey. Then it’s Jules Macmillan, who calls him “Black” and slaps his arm when he makes her laugh. A week later, he’s holding hands with Evan Rosier’s cousin at the Quidditch pitch.

It becomes a bit of a game, watching the trail of would-be soulmates.

You and the girls make a tally chart in the margins of your notes—Sirius' Heartbreak Count, complete with doodles. Lily calls it “tragic.” Dorcas calls it “desperate.” You’re inclined to agree with both.

He doesn’t seem happy with any of them.

There’s always a flicker of disappointment in his eyes after each kiss. Each failed attempt at connection. Like he’s waiting for something to spark and it never does. You don’t know why it bothers you—maybe it’s just strange, seeing Sirius Black not get what he wants.

What you don’t know, what none of the girls know, is that Sirius is searching.

Frantically, recklessly, hopelessly.

He tries everything. Girls, boys, dates by the lake, snogging in empty classrooms, brushing against strangers in Hogsmeade with his sleeves rolled up, just in case. Every time someone new touches his soulmark—just barely brushing the dark smear on his shoulder—he closes his eyes, waiting for the heat, the light, the magic.

It never comes.

He acts like he doesn’t care. Laughs about it. Brags. But the truth is: it’s killing him. Slowly. Quietly.

Because every time someone skims over that mark and nothing happens, a tiny piece of him breaks off. And he’s terrified there won’t be anything left by the time he finds the right person—if he ever does.

And then Peter finds his soulmate.

It happens at the beginning of fifth year. Quietly, almost accidentally. A Ravenclaw girl named Sybill, who spills an entire bottle of ink across Peter’s lap in the library while reaching for a Divination book. Their hands collide. Her fingers press against the side of his nose to wipe off a splotch of ink—and just like that, the brown mark on Peter’s skin disappears.

The Marauders explode with excitement.

James shouts. Remus claps Peter on the back. Even Sirius manages a grin, saying something like, “About bloody time,” and ruffling his hair.

But it’s forced. All of it.

Later that night, Sirius doesn’t join the celebration in the common room. He doesn’t toast with Butterbeer or tease Peter about marrying her. He disappears without a word. No one sees him until morning.

Peter can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Not really. Not when he knows the truth.

Because they all know how much Sirius wants it. How much he needs it.

He’s never said it out loud, not fully, but they know. They’ve seen the way he looks at the mark on his arm. The way he flinches when someone mentions his family.

Sirius was born into a house that doesn’t believe in love.

That he used to stare at the stain on his own shoulder and imagine what kind of person would leave a mark like that. He’d lie awake at night thinking of how it would feel when the right hand met his skin and the darkness vanished. He promised himself he’d find them, whoever they were. That he wouldn’t settle for anything less than fate.

But now it’s fifth year, and everyone’s starting to find theirs.

Peter. A seventh-year Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuff girls from their year.

And Sirius still wakes up every morning with the same mark on his arm. Still hears the echo of his mother’s voice every time he thinks he might be falling for someone who isn’t right.

“You’re a Black. You don’t need love. You need a legacy.”

Remus tries to comfort him, in that quiet, practical way of his.

“Maybe they’re not here,” he says one night as the two of them sit on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. “Maybe they’re a Muggle. Someone you’ll meet after school,”

Sirius scoffs. “And what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m forty to stop being miserable?”

James, bless his heart, tries to be optimistic.

“Maybe they’re in a different year. Or got expelled. Maybe you’ve walked past them and just didn’t notice!”

“I would’ve noticed,” Sirius says. “I always notice.”

And that’s the problem, really.

He notices everything. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch. Every time someone’s hand drifts too close to his shoulder, his breath catches. And every time it’s a false alarm, it hurts just that little bit more.

He stops dating after a while.

Stops pretending it’s fun. Stops trying to turn every crush into a cosmic sign. He goes quiet instead. Withdraws into himself in a way that startles the rest of the Marauders.

You notice too.

At first, you’re suspicious. Sirius Black, not flirting? Not loitering around with James and causing chaos in the corridors? Clearly something’s afoot. You and the girls watch him warily, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever stupid, elaborate prank he’s been cooking up in the shadows.

But it never comes.

He just... stops.

He shows up to class. He does the work (mostly). He still laughs at James’ jokes and joins in on late-night games of Exploding Snap. But something about him feels dimmed. Like someone turned the brightness down and forgot to turn it back up again.

You catch him in the library once. Alone. Reading.

Not just pretending to read while scouting for mischief—actually reading. You don’t even realise it’s him at first, not until he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs, that heavy, exhausted kind of sigh you only let out when you’re tired of your own thoughts.

It’s strange, seeing him like that. Almost... human.

You don’t say anything. But you wonder.

You wonder what it would take to make a boy like Sirius Black lose his fire.

The others don’t know how to help.

James keeps trying to set him up at parties—“You’ve got to give Marlene a go, mate, you haven’t lived!”—but Sirius just shakes his head and makes excuses. Peter walks on eggshells around him now, too guilty to mention Sybill’s name. Even Remus has started watching Sirius like he’s waiting for him to fall apart.

And maybe he is.

Because Sirius is still staring at his soulmark every morning. Still pressing his fingers against the edge of it in the mirror, hoping for something to change. Still half-convinced that the universe has made some horrible mistake and left him behind.

And deep down, he’s terrified that one day he’ll stop believing entirely.

Terrified that he’ll become like his parents after all—loveless, cold, bound to someone he doesn’t care about out of duty or desperation. That he’ll wake up one day with a ring on his finger and still feel empty.

The Marauders try to reassure him, but there’s only so much comfort logic can offer when your heart is breaking.

“Maybe your soulmate’s just late,” Remus says.

Sirius smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

And the worst part is—he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve to.

—

It starts with one of James’ bright ideas—those three words guaranteed to end in absolute catastrophe.

You’d almost forgotten what they were like at full volume, the four of them together. Sirius has been quiet. James has been distracted by Quidditch. Peter’s been off somewhere playing the role of besotted boyfriend. Only Remus still walks with that same watchful calm, as though he’s just waiting for them all to detonate.

But now, spring has finally settled over the grounds, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to start acting like menaces again. Warm sun. Open skies. Exams far enough away to ignore. The perfect ingredients for trouble.

They pick a Saturday afternoon—when the courtyard is packed. Blankets spread across the grass, books open in sunbeams, students from all four houses lounging about, soaking up the rare spell of warm weather.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

You don’t even see the beginning of it. One moment you’re mid-conversation with Lily and Mary, trying to decipher the reading Professor Vector assigned, and the next you hear it—a low, slow rumble that can only mean one thing: a spell misfiring, or worse, succeeding exactly as planned.

A bang. A crack. A distant cackling.

Then—chaos.

Water explodes from the central fountain like a geyser. But it’s not just water. It’s pink. And sticky. And foaming. Thick bubbles rain down in hot, fizzy clumps that stain robes and cling to hair.

Someone screams. Then someone else. People scramble, books flying, cloaks drenched.

The spell races outwards, triggering a domino effect. More fountains erupt. Flowerbeds launch their contents skyward. A tree nearby begins to moo like a cow. First-years scatter. You spot one poor Slytherin girl get absolutely bodied by a rogue jet of foam, which sends her skidding across the wet stone with a shriek.

And you?

You’re drenched. Covered in what smells distinctly like cherry-flavoured soap and glitter. Your scrolls are ruined. Your hair sticks to your forehead. A glob of pink bubbles drips from your left eyebrow into your eye, and it stings.

Mary coughs violently. Dorcas is doubled over, wiping foam out of her mouth. Lily looks like she might start setting people on fire.

And just when you think it couldn’t get worse—someone bursts into tears.

A whole group of first-years huddle near the corridor entrance, some of them crying, others shaking and soaked through. One boy is trying to wring out his bag, which is frothing like a cauldron gone wrong.

That’s when you see them.

James, Sirius, Peter and Remus, standing at the top of the courtyard steps like the gods of mischief themselves, admiring their handiwork. James is laughing. Doubling over with it. Sirius grins behind his hand, not quite as loud but no less smug. Even Remus has a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though he looks slightly apologetic when his gaze lands on the crying first-years.

But James? He lives for this.

He catches sight of you all below and grins wider, leaning on the bannister like a conquering hero. “You’re welcome!” he shouts, arms wide, as though he’s done the school a bloody favour.

And that’s Lily’s last straw.

You don’t even get the chance to stop her. One second she’s storming forward, and the next she’s standing toe-to-toe with James Potter, fire in her eyes, her wet robes whipping around her ankles like war banners.

“You complete, arrogant, idiotic—”

James’ smirk falters.

“Oh come on, Evans, it was funny! Just a bit of spring chaos. We’re making memories!”

“Memories? You’re lucky you didn’t traumatise those poor first-years! Do you have any idea how many people you’ve covered in Merlin-knows-what? Or if someone sprains an ankle from slipping on your ridiculous glitter spell?!”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at his friends, then back at Lily. And tries again with a laugh.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

The slap echoes.

You swear the whole courtyard goes silent.

It’s not violent, exactly. But it’s loud. Sharp. Final. James recoils more from shock than pain, hand flying to his cheek where the skin is rapidly turning red. He stares at Lily, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen something completely impossible.

Lily doesn’t wait for a reaction. She turns on her heel and marches away, spine stiff with rage.

You and the girls scramble after her, slipping and squelching through the aftermath. Marlene grabs your wrist before you can get too far.

“Wait.”

“What? We have to catch Lily—”

“No, look,” she hisses, pulling you back a few steps. “James.”

You turn.

James is still standing in place, dazed, fingers grazing his cheek.

But that’s not what Marlene’s pointing at.

You follow her gaze to the spot just beneath his eye. The place you and everyone else at Hogwarts has seen marked for years. The pale, milky-white handprint that always curved over his cheek like a ghost of affection, a sign from the universe that someone, somewhere, would one day hold his face with love.

It’s gone.

Completely.

Not faded. Not lightened. Just—vanished.

Your heart stops. Marlene inhales sharply.

“Oh no.”

Your mouth goes dry. You glance past her, back at the boys.

James is still frozen, his hand touching the cheek Lily slapped. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, like he’s been thrown out of orbit. Sirius is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smile dying on his lips.

You feel a chill settle in your spine.

Because if Marlene’s right—if James’ soulmate mark has vanished—then that means...

“Bloody hell,” you breathe. “He was right.”

Marlene nods grimly. “We can’t let her find out like this.”

But it’s too late. Lily’s already disappeared into the castle, trailed by Dorcas and Mary, soaked and furious. And now you have to run after her. You have to get there before the realisation does.

You shove past Sirius’ shoulder as you go.

Deliberate. Sharp.

It’s not just anger. It’s disgust. You don’t even give him a word. Just that one hard nudge as you pass, an unspoken “You’ve crossed the line.”

He flinches.

Not because of the shove—Sirius Black isn’t afraid of a little contact—but because he feels it. The judgement. The disappointment. The thing he’s been trying to outrun since he realised he might not be better than the people who raised him.

You don’t look back.

You sprint through the castle corridors, foam drying on your skin, your clothes damp and clinging. The halls are still buzzing with the aftermath of the prank—students yelling, teachers trying to regain order, enchanted trees mooing somewhere in the distance.

You find Lily inside the girls’ bathroom, gripping the edge of a sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Her shoulders shake.

You slow to a walk.

Mary’s rubbing her back. Dorcas is pacing. No one knows what to say.

“She slapped him,” Dorcas says under her breath, half in awe.

“She bloody well should have,” you snap.

Lily looks up.

“Was it too far?” she asks. Her voice is fragile in a way you rarely hear. Like she’s trying to justify herself to the universe.

“No,” you say gently. “He deserved it.”

And it’s true.

You believe in soulmates. You believe in the magic of it—the wonder. But even magic doesn’t excuse cruelty. James Potter can be charming, and brave, and infuriatingly loyal, but today? Today he crossed a line. And you’re not going to let Lily think she was wrong for calling him out.

She nods, swiping a hand under her eyes.

“I just—I’m so tired of him thinking the world revolves around him. Like we’re all just extras in the James Potter show. And I know he thinks I’m his soulmate, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that. Especially not you lot.”

You hesitate.

You glance at Marlene. She gives you a grim little nod.

“Lil...” you start.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she says.

You flinch. “Lily—”

“Don’t,” she says again, firmer this time. “Don’t say it.”

You fall silent.

Because she knows. Of course she knows. The way James looked at her after the slap, like he’d just had something knocked out of him. The stark paleness of her palm.

She knows.

And you know what that means for her.

Lily Evans has spent the last five years being hunted by the boy who swears she’s destined for him. She’s spent every term, every class, every common room hour pushing back. Standing her ground. And now... the universe is laughing in her face.

She clutches the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

“No,” she says. “I won’t let it be true.”

Mary reaches for her. “Lily—”

“No. I don’t care if the mark’s gone. I don’t care if he’s supposed to be my other half. He’s selfish, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t listen. That isn’t what I want in a soulmate. That isn’t what I deserve.”

None of you argue.

Because she’s right.

James Potter may be her soulmate. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be.

—

The dormitory is quiet, in that awful way that happens when something big has happened—something wrong. James lies curled on his bed, the heavy velvet hangings pulled back for once, as if no one quite has the heart to close him off from the rest of them. His shirt is wrinkled, glasses abandoned on his dresser, and he hasn’t said anything in over an hour. Not since he’d stammered his way through the story, not since he showed them the now-unmarked skin of his cheek and murmured, “It’s gone.”

And it is. Gone.

There’s nothing left on his face. Not even a faint outline or shadow. Just smooth skin, still red from Lily’s slap. There’s no magic glow, no dramatic fanfare—just absence. That was the moment, and it’s over.

James stares at the ceiling as though he can find answers in the wooden beams above.

Remus sits nearby, his Transfiguration book forgotten in his lap, watching him with silent worry. Peter’s perched awkwardly at the edge of his own bed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his pyjama top. Sirius hasn’t even changed yet, which is strange in itself. He’s still in his robes, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost like he’s afraid if he sits down it’ll make the whole thing too real.

“She slapped me,” James says at last, his voice hollow.

No one replies. What could they possibly say?

“I thought—I always thought it would be different. Like... I thought she’d kiss me, maybe. Or—bloody hell, even hug me. I’ve imagined it so many times. My soulmate mark disappearing while she’s holding my face—like in the books, yeah? All romantic. She’d look at me and know.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But no. She slapped me. She hated me in that moment. That’s what the mark was all along. A physical reminder that my soulmate despises my existence.”

Sirius shifts his weight, looking down at the floor.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says gently. “She was angry. There’s a difference.”

James doesn’t answer. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shaky breath, but it comes out wrong—hitching, like he’s holding something back and failing.

“I was right,” he says, voice cracking. “All this time. Everyone told me I was wrong, that I was being delusional, but I was right. She’s my soulmate.”

“And now you’re miserable about it,” Peter mutters.

James lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. “Because she didn’t want to be. Not like that. She touched me for the first time because she was furious. That’s not... that’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

Sirius finally sits. Slowly. Quietly.

He wants to say something. But what? That he understands? That he’s sorry? He doesn’t know what comfort would even look like in a moment like this. He’s spent so long chasing the idea of soulmates, of finding someone who would make everything else make sense, and now that it’s actually happened to James—look at him.

He’s shattered.

Remus slides closer to James and places a hand on his shoulder. “Just because that was the first touch, doesn’t mean it’s the one that defines you both forever,”

James looks at him like he wants to believe that. Like he’s desperate to hold onto something, anything, but the shock is still too fresh.

“I need to lie down,” he mutters, and he does—curling onto his side, facing the wall, his breath uneven. The boys don’t speak after that. The air is heavy, like someone’s cast a silencing charm that chokes instead of quiets.

He cries. Quietly, at first. Then with broken little sounds he tries to smother with his pillow. Until eventually, there’s nothing left in him. He just wilts, tension draining out of his limbs, and within half an hour, he’s asleep—face still blotchy, fists still clenched.

They don’t close his bed curtains.

Remus takes the book off his lap and folds it closed with a sigh. “This is all... bloody grim,” he mutters.

Peter nods. “I didn’t think it would hurt when someone found their soulmate,”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “It shouldn’t,”

He stands slowly. Pulls his wand and begins to unfasten the enchanted buttons on his robes, too tired for anything else.

Peter looks up, and the moment Sirius pulls his shirt off, there’s a gasp.

Loud. Audible. Shocked.

Sirius freezes.

Remus sits bolt upright. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are wide. “It’s gone,” he says. “Sirius—your mark. It’s gone.”

Sirius turns to the mirror near his bed so fast it rattles.

And... it is.

The smear that had haunted his shoulder for his entire life—like ink spilled across parchment—is gone. Completely. Clean skin where for seventeen years there had been a swirling mess of fate.

His mouth goes dry.

“No—no, no, no—”

He twists, trying to see if maybe it’s an illusion, or if the mark’s somehow moved, but it hasn’t. It’s not there. Not anymore.

He met them. His soulmate. And he didn’t even know.

He stumbles back from the mirror, breathing fast. “Who—who—?”

But even as he says it, the memory flashes. Hard and hot.

Your shoulder hitting his as you shoved past him on your way to follow Lily. The disgust in your eyes. The sharp tension in your jaw. You hadn’t said a word. But you’d touched him.

And now the mark is gone.

Sirius stumbles backward and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Peter is watching him with wide eyes. “You never touched her before?”

“I didn’t know!” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t even realise it was you! I mean—her. You know who I mean. I am stressed.”

Remus is still sitting stiff-backed on James’ bed, but his attention has fully shifted. “You’re sure it was her?”

“She shoved me,” Sirius mutters, staring at his shoulder like he could magic the mark back into existence through sheer willpower. “Right after Lily slapped James. Just... barged past me like I was nothing. But she touched me.”

“And you didn’t feel anything?”

“Not at the time.”

“...Do you now?”

Sirius goes quiet. Slowly, he places a hand over his shoulder—over the empty spot where the mark used to be.

It’s warm. But not from contact. From within. A lingering hum of magic, like the echo of something once powerful now stilled. Or maybe it’s just his internal body temperature. He really doesn’t know right now.

“No*,*” he murmurs. “Maybe? I don’t know—”

Peter clears his throat. “Well... you found your soulmate. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

Sirius laughs—short and bitter. “She hates me.”

Peter winces. “Oh.”

“I mean, she doesn’t slap me in public, but she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me and the rest of us.”

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe it’s not what you think,”

“She shoved me, Moony. Deliberately. It wasn’t a stumble, it was on purpose. And she looked at me like I was filth.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it.

The dorm is quiet again. Only the soft rhythm of James’ breathing breaks the silence.

Sirius rests his head in his hands.

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for this,” he whispers. “All the rubbish my family taught me, all the coldness and cruelty—I thought if I could just find my soulmate, it would all be worth it. That I’d finally get to have something real.”

Remus moves to sit beside him.

“But it’s not like I imagined,” Sirius says. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even like me. And I didn’t even know it was her. How could I not know? Isn’t that the whole point of soulmates? That you just... feel it?”

Remus is quiet for a long moment.

“I think,” he says eventually, “soulmates aren’t about one moment. They’re about choosing. About what you do with the bond once it’s formed. Fate puts you in each other’s paths. It doesn’t promise it’ll be easy,”

“I wanted it to be easy,” Sirius admits. “I needed it to be,”

Peter lies back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. “So did James,”

Sirius glances over at James’ sleeping form—his face slack, the traces of dried tears still visible in the soft light from the window. And suddenly, Sirius feels sick.

They’d both spent so long believing that soulmates would fix everything.

But what if they don’t?

What if the person you’re meant for doesn’t want you back? What if you’re not who they want?

Sirius doesn’t sleep that night. None of them really do.

The dormitory stays dim and heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

—

You don’t realise anything’s changed until you peel off your shirt in the showers that night.

The steam clouds the mirror, thick and cloying, but your reflection is still visible through the condensation. You’re barely paying attention—too wrapped up in the tangle of emotion and disaster that had been the day. You’d barely managed to get Lily back to the dormitory before she’d started crying, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once, like she couldn’t figure out where the anger ended and the betrayal began.

You’d held her hand. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Said all the right things, and meant them.

You’re still thinking about her—about the look on her face when she’d slapped James, the silence that followed—when you glance in the mirror and see it.

Or rather, you don’t see it.

You freeze.

Your towel drops slightly, caught on your elbow as your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. Your breath hitches.

Because the mark is gone.

You stare. For a full five seconds, you try to convince yourself that maybe the steam’s playing tricks, that maybe it’s still there and you just can’t see it clearly, but no—your fingers sweep across smooth, warm skin. Nothing. No trace of the strange, smudged mark that’s been with you for as long as you can remember.

Gone. Just like that.

The only thing different today—the only moment it could have been—was in the courtyard, when you’d shoved past Sirius Black with all the venom you could muster and didn’t even look back.

You’d touched him.

Your stomach lurches.

No. No, no, no.

You grip the sink, knuckles whitening.

It can’t be.

Except, it clearly is.

You stand there for a long moment, half-naked and shaking slightly, trying not to spiral. Because if Sirius Black is your soulmate—Sirius Black, who’s been a menace since year one, who charms and pranks and flirts and smirks and acts like the world should kiss the ground he walks on—then what does that say about you?

Nothing. Not yet. This doesn't have to mean anything, not right now.

You inhale through your nose. Count slowly to four.

Then exhale. Focus.

This isn’t the time.

Lily needs you. Lily, who’s just had her own horrible soulmate revelation, whose best moment turned out to be her worst, who is currently lying on her bed pretending not to cry, refusing to talk to anyone but you.

You straighten up. Wipe the mirror with the corner of your towel. Look yourself in the eye.

Whatever’s happening with Sirius—whatever the universe just decided to dump on your lap—it can wait.

You have more important things to deal with.

—

When you return to the dorm, your hair still damp and sticking slightly to your cheeks, Lily’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Marlene and Mary have gone quiet, sitting together on the far bed, shooting you looks that speak volumes.

No one says it. No one has to.

They know too.

You can see it in the way Marlene’s gaze flicks to your shoulder, then back to your eyes. The way Mary’s lips purse like she’s holding something in.

You nod, barely perceptible. They understand. They don’t press.

You cross the room and settle on Lily’s bed without needing to ask. Her duvet rustles as she shifts slightly, and when you place a gentle hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t shrug you off.

That’s something, at least.

You sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Loaded.

Then she says, voice muffled and raw, “He laughed.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I slapped him,” she murmurs, turning slightly to glance at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, lashes stuck together. “He laughed. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. Like it was funny. Like I was... like he didn’t even get it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t think it was that.”

“Well, then what was it?” Her voice wobbles. “He’s always made it a joke, hasn’t he? Me. Us. His soulmate thing. Like I’m something he’s already won, just because some stupid magic says so.”

You squeeze her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,”

“I feel like he’s stolen something from me.”

You press your lips together. “He didn’t mean to,”

“That doesn’t change it.”

You don’t argue.

She sniffles, and you pass her the tissue you’d pocketed from the bathroom on instinct. She wipes her nose, then stares at the ceiling.

“What if this is it?” she asks. “What if this is who I���m meant to end up with?”

Your chest tightens.

“Then the universe has a really shit sense of humour,”

That earns a small laugh—barely there, but enough. Enough to let you breathe again.

“I don’t want to be bound to someone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Who thinks everything’s a game. I’m not just a puzzle to be solved.”

“I know,” you say again. “You’re allowed to be angry,”

Lily turns to you fully now, tucking her legs up under the blanket.

“Do you think soulmates are... inevitable?”

It takes a second before you answer.

“No. I think they’re possible. Not guaranteed. You still have to choose each other. Every day. Some people don’t. Some people can’t.”

She nods. “What would you do?”

You hesitate.

And she sees it. Sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You’re not—?”

You swallow.

“I found out in the shower,”

“Who?”

You don’t answer immediately.

She sits up straighter, frowning. “Who?”

“Sirius.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

She flops back against the pillows. “You’re joking,”

“I wish,”

She groans into the duvet, hands over her face. “This is cursed. This whole week is cursed.”

“I know,”

“And you touched him?”

“I didn’t know, I shoved him—”

“Still counts,” she mutters.

You sigh, tipping your head back to stare at the canopy above. “This is my nightmare.”

Lily peeks through her fingers. “Does he know?”

“Probably. If his mark disappeared,”

“Bloody hell.”

You nod. “Yeah,”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Do you think he’ll say something?”

You snort. “It’s Sirius. He’ll probably write a speech,”

Lily doesn’t laugh. Not quite. But her mouth quirks in a way that feels close.

She lies back beside you and you both stare at the ceiling for a while.

The air between you settles. Still heavy, but softer somehow. Shared.

You don’t talk about the future. Or what comes next. Or what you’re supposed to do now that your entire understanding of the world has shifted in a single day.

You just are. Together. Grounded in the now.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

—

It’s weeks.

Weeks of sidelong glances and awkward tension, of group projects rearranged so the Marauders don’t have to work with you lot, of meals taken at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and corridors that somehow feel colder when you pass Sirius Black without a word.

You don’t speak. Neither of you does.

But you look.

More often than you mean to, probably. He’s always there—hovering in your periphery, just beyond the safe reach of indifference. And sometimes, when you do catch his eye across the classroom, across the courtyard, across the common room—your heart stutters. Not romantically. Not even longingly.

Just... confusedly.

Like your body knows something you haven’t given your mind permission to explore.

You haven’t let yourself dwell on it. Not properly. Every time your thoughts edge toward him—toward what it means, toward what it could mean—you feel like you might actually be sick. The whole situation knots your stomach. So you shut it out. Bury it beneath essays and exam prep and Lily’s slow process of healing. You focus on her. On your friends. On anything else.

But Sirius?

He thinks about it.

Constantly.

He obsesses, really.

At first, he doesn’t know why you haven’t said anything. He waits for a confrontation. An insult. A blow-up. Something. But it never comes. You just look through him like he’s a smudge on glass—visible but irrelevant.

So he convinces himself you’re disappointed. Of course you are. He’s a bloody wreck of a person. What kind of soulmate is he supposed to be? The one who hexed half the school for fun and made first years cry in the courtyard? The one who chased flirtation like it was a sport and never stuck around for anything real?

He’s not soulmate material. Not the kind you’d want, anyway.

So he watches you. Quietly. Miserably.

You, meanwhile, do a spectacular job of pretending none of this is happening.

Until, finally—finally—he cracks.

—

You’re walking alone to the library after dinner—quill case tucked under one arm, satchel banging against your hip—and Sirius intercepts you at the stairwell.

He doesn’t say anything straight away. Just blocks the path with one foot planted on the top step, the other resting two steps below.

You eye him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?”

He swallows. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s messier than usual. Less styled.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You glance past him. “I don’t have time—”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he interrupts. “I swear. Just—listen for a second. Please.”

You fold your arms. “Fine. Talk.”

Sirius exhales. “I know you know,”

Your stomach clenches. But your face remains carefully blank.

“I know your mark’s gone,” he continues. “Mine is too. I saw it the night James’ disappeared. And you... you shoved me that day. I felt it.”

You stare at him. Unmoving. Silent.

“So,” he says. “We should probably have a conversation about what comes next,”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can help it.

“What comes next?” you repeat.

“Yes. I mean—if we’re soulmates—”

“If?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “I meant... since.”

You shake your head. “No. See, this is exactly the problem. You think just because we’ve got some magical cosmic tattoo situation that suddenly we’re meant to be.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you snap. “That’s what you’ve always believed, isn’t it? That it would be this grand, perfect thing. That you’d meet your soulmate and everything would just fall into place.”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You press on.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” you say. “Because just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they’re right for you. It doesn’t mean they deserve you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them.”

Sirius flinches.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “And I don’t like you, Sirius.”

The words hang in the air between you. Thicker than fog. Sharper than broken glass.

He stares at you.

You expect him to be angry. To scoff or sneer or shrug you off.

But he just... looks hurt.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just gutted.

It’s the quiet that does it. The way his shoulders fold in slightly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Like something’s come loose inside his chest.

He drops his gaze. “Right,” he says, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

You hate how your chest aches at the sight of him. Hate the part of you that wants to apologise, to take the edge off your words, to explain that it’s not really about him, but more about what he represents—the expectations, the fate, the lack of choice.

But you don’t.

Because it is about him. At least partly.

You step around him. “There’s nothing else to say.”

And you leave him standing there, alone on the stairs.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake in the dormitory, staring at the canopy, James’ soft snores filling the space between the beds.

He replays your words over and over, like a record stuck in a skip.

I don’t like you, Sirius.

He’d spent years searching. Desperate. Starved for the connection his family denied. He thought finding his soulmate would fix him. Would make it all make sense.

But you want nothing to do with him.

And maybe that’s fair.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But for the first time in a long time, Sirius doesn’t wallow in that thought. He doesn’t spiral, or storm out, or pick a fight with someone just to feel something.

He makes a decision.

He’s going to prove himself.

If you don’t like him, he’ll become someone worth liking.

Not for the mark. Not because fate says so.

But because he wants to.

Because you’re brilliant. Because you didn’t fall over yourself at the thought of being soul-bound to him. Because you called him out. Because you see him, even when you wish you didn’t.

And because something in his chest—something ancient and aching—still hopes.

He’s going to show you he can be better.

He’s going to earn it.

[ageingfangirl2]

Ran's Little Waitress (Tokyo Revengers - Bonten)

RAN HAITANI X FEMALE READER

CHAPTER EIGHT: A LITTLE BOOST TO YOUR CONFIDENCE

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN

The morning sunlight filtered softly through your curtains, casting warm stripes across the floor and your small kitchen table. You sat there in your pyjama shorts and oversized hoodie, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, the other typing quickly on your phone.

You’d just checked your bank account. The moment you saw the backpay deposit, your eyes widened. You double-checked the numbers—yep, all there, down to the last yen. Your heart gave a little leap of relief, and your shoulders slumped like you’d been holding tension without realising.

To: Ran HaitaniThank you so much for sorting out the pay issue. I really appreciate it, especially with rent coming up. I owe you one. Maybe a whole batch of cookies?

You hesitate a second, rereading the message, then hit send.

Setting your phone down, you pull out your worn planner and a stack of colour-coded pens. It was budgeting time.

With quiet focus, you broke down your expenses—rent, utilities, groceries, transit, and a little set aside for emergencies. You even budgeted for baking supplies, scribbling in ‘chocolate chips or bust’ in the margin.

By the time you were finished, your notes were tidy, your math checked twice, and everything lined up. Koko would’ve been proud—hell, he might even shed a tear if he saw how you’d stretched every yen.

You sit back with a contented sigh, satisfied that you could stay on top of everything. Even so, a tiny smile tugged at your lips as you reach for her phone again.

To: Ran HaitaniAlso… I was serious about the cookies.

Club Office – Late Morning

Ran sat reclined in the sleek leather chair in his office, one leg crossed over the other as he skimmed through a stack of club reports with the kind of interest reserved for watching paint dry. The distant thump of bass from the main floor pulsed faintly through the walls.

His phone buzzed on the desk.

He glanced over lazily, expecting some nonsense from Rindou or a security update, but paused when he saw your name light up the screen.

First message:

Thank you so much for sorting out the pay issue. I really appreciate it, especially with rent coming up. I owe you one. Maybe a whole batch of cookies?

He arched a brow.

The second message came in just as he was unlocking his phone:

Also… I was serious about the cookies.

A slow smirk pulled at his lips. The kind that only ever showed when something amused him more than he’d like to admit. He tilted his head back against the chair and tapped out a reply.

To: Y/NYou’re welcome. Don’t mention it.Cookies are a dangerous bribe, you know. It could convince a man to do stupid things.

He hovered a second, then added:

You’re cleared to come back next week. Take it easy until then. That’s an order.

He set the phone down and stared out the tinted window overlooking the VIP level. For a brief second, the usual cold edges of his expression softened.

Then his phone buzzed again.

Rindou:She sent you cookies yet, lover boy?

Ran rolled his eyes and tossed the phone onto the desk, muttering to himself.

‘She’s just a good employee.’

But the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth refused to fade.

Y/N’s Apartment

With the official green light from Ran, you tuck your phone into your hoodie pocket and stand in the middle of your apartment, letting out a slow breath. Your eyes sweep over the small space that had become your safe haven these past few days, then down to your now-fading bruises. Time to pull yourself back together.

Day One: Self-Care Mode On

You start with your hands—your tools, your charm, your secret weapon when it came to trays of drinks and folding napkins into perfect shapes. You book a quiet appointment at a local salon and requested something simple and classy.

You leave with a fresh set of French tips, clean and neat, the perfect blend of professional and pretty. You flex your fingers with a small grin, pleased.

Day Two: Hair and Healing

The next day, you sit in a salon chair while a stylist gently worked through your hair, touching up your colour and trimming away the damage. You watch yourself slowly return in the mirror—not just polished, but poised. There was still a faint shadow under your eye, but makeup could handle that.

More importantly, you saw someone who had survived something and was choosing to keep going.

Day Three: A Little Retail Therapy

You didn’t need anything fancy, but a stop by the drugstore for new makeup and a swipe of lip gloss made you feel fresh. A subtle shade of red, a bit of shimmer—nothing too bold, but enough to give yoy that quiet fire when you looked in the mirror.

You even picked out a new pair of earrings. Just little stars.

When you got home, you prepped your uniform, steamed the wrinkles out, cleaned your work shoes until they shone, and laid everything out like armour for a battle you were finally ready to face again.

Night Before Your Shift

You curl up on the couch with a blanket, your favourite anime playing softly in the background, a batch of taiyaki cooling on the counter—this batch with sweet custard inside. One would be set aside for Mikey, of course. The rest? Maybe a bribe. Maybe a peace offering. Or maybe you just wanted to share something warm. With a soft smile, you whisper to yourself, ‘I’m ready.’

[littlemissstel]

Will You Marry Me? - Shiu Kong

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

proposal gone wrong, fluff, pet names, punctuation warning.

Shiu had surprised you with a trip to your dream destination and you were absolutely reeling. Recently, things for the both of you had been abnormally hectic-- between work, family drama and everything in between, all you could dream about after a long, tiring day was spending some time off with your lover, even if just for a weekend. So when he pulled out two tickets and a brand new suitcase (because he knew you wouldn't pack to fit just one) you practically screamed out of pure delight.

You didn't know what to say at first, excited rambles of unfinished thoughts spilling from you as you packed, and then again when boarding the plane and non-stop ever since you finally landed. Shiu couldn't complain at all about this, finding your nonsensical bursts of joy to be one of the most endearing things he's witnessed during your time together - a good sign that he was doing something right.

On the fourth day of your week-long trip you were beginning to become more acquainted with the area and started to entertain the idea of getting used to it permanently. The culture, the scenery, the food, the people, everything was so rich and filled with beauty that was irresistible to admire. The days were hot and busy when you and Shiu adventured through the streets and while there was still so much to explore, you couldn't deny your favourite, consistent part of your days; the walk along the beach.

Being surrounded by the crowd of strangers- some foreign and some not- who all carried the familiar expression of complete relaxation and happiness was something you would never get enough of. Even back home you had a habit of people watching from your balcony down unto the unsuspecting street, but none of the people there seemed to be as content as the ones here, always rushing and spilling the same over-priced, watered-down coffee from the cafe you knew had a few too many health and safety violations.

At some point Shiu had led you down underneath a pier, a place which shielded you from the sun that was beginning to retreat beyond the horizon and somewhat more secluded from the leisurely crowd.

Sitting on one of the huge stones with Shiu standing next to you, you took a deep breath in, enchanted by the golden-lit sky that soaked the earth in its orange hues.

"It's so so so gorgeous here, Shiu. How did you know to come here?"

"Who knows? Must be my great intuition." he chuffs with comical smugness, earning a look from you.

"Uh-huh, right. Y'know humbleness was never a good look on you."

Letting out a deep laugh he moves closer to you, resting his forearm on your shoulder with slight weight, "I came here on a job a few years ago, thought it would be the perfect place to take someone special."

"So you think I'm special" you coo overdramatically.

"Be quiet."

With amusement you move your hand to smack his butt in retaliation, only to be met with the hard welcoming of something in his pocket. Quickly he moves away, breathing in a sharp "Honey-" but not before you're able to go in for a second time, grabbing his pocket so firmly it will no doubt leave creases in his linen shorts and a ripe red mark.

Mouth hanging open in disbelief you rush out, "What is this!?" to which he wordlessly shakes his head for a few seconds, face mimicking yours, trying to come up with a response.

"I- uhg- fuck! Look- I didn't want to tell you like this-"

"Shiu-"

"It's a spot! A really bad fuckin' spot-- it hurts to sit down and everything!"

"What!?"

"See! I just knew you'd say something about it!"

"Baby, baby, calm down. You really couldn't come up with anything better than a spot?"

"You try coming up with an excuse and see how easy it is." he exasperates, running his hand over his eyes and wincing.

"I'm just saying a rock would've been a better excuse. You expect me to believe you developed a spot of that size within the last, like, two hours?"

"Sweetheart," he sighs, checking his watch and looking back at you with pleading eyes, "you gotta pretend for the next two minutes. I have a huge spot. Nothing happened."

Standing up, you embrace him giggling and feel all his muscles relax into you when you sway side to side, merging into one as you soak up the absurdity of the situation.

"Wow Shiu! Look at the sky, the weathers pretty great here, huh?"

"I love you...but I really don't think acting is your calling."

With the signaling chime of his watch Shiu turns you around, lifting your chin to look in the other direction before he backs away. There, in the centre of the spotless sky, was a plane trailing a banner which read 'Will you marry me?' behind it in bold lettering of your favourite colour. You couldn't help but cackle and run back to him, leaving the man on one knee just enough time to stand up and catch you before you both fell over.

"Yesyesyes! Oh my god! Yes!"

Your face was beaming and so was his, deep smile lines and crescent shaped eyes reflecting yours.

"I had a whole speech prepared!"

"Well you can still say it if you want" you jest. And he does, professing the practiced paragraphs of love he had written months before, detailing his adoration, going off script a little towards the end before finishing with a firm kiss to your face which he littered with a thousand more.

You couldn't stop the laughter pouring out of you as he eased out a relieved 'I love you'.

"I love you too. Even if you did have a spot on your ass."

I've been watching a bunch of early 2000s romance movies. I never realised how cringey and cliche they were before, but i think that's what makes them so great.

MWAH

[arglaucus]

Are you Ace? (Riddle sibblings)

Masterlist

Summary- The boys nag their little sister about romance until she realizes she is asexual

Warnings- a bit wrong definition of asexuality besides that only fluff

Word count:905

There were few perks of being the youngest Riddle. You were spoiled and would get absolutely anything you wanted, but also got all the protection from your older brothers, Mattheo and Tom. Both of them were super overprotective over you, especially Tom. He is acting all cold and heartless with everyone else but with you, he is softer, gentler. He actually cares and you can see and feel it.

It was late in the afternoon as you, your brothers and their friends sat in the common room doing your things. You were sitting next to Tom reading different books. The silence was broken by him asking: ”What book are you reading?”

Mattheo raised his eyebrows while Malfoy and Blaise ignored them.

You shrug. “Some romance book. One of the girls from my class told me that I should find a boyfriend, especially since they are lining up for me. I told her I’m not interested, and I know you wouldn’t even allow me too, but she insisted so they told me to read this to brainwash me or something to see what I’m missing and to make me want it.”

Tom chuckles at hearing that, fully agreeing with you. “Those girls are silly. Who cares about ‘boyfriends’ and ‘romance’. You should keep away from distractions like that and delusions and keep your focus on your studies.” Mattheo nods in agreement, while Malfoy and Blaise didn’t seem to feel the same.

“What? You don’t want to date?” Blaise asks curiously.

“Not exactly my cup of tea,” you say calmly, marking your book as you sense this conversation won’t end soon.

Draco raises his eyebrow, curiously. “Oh, really? You aren’t dreaming of a prince on a white horse? I seemed to remember you loving all that mushy fairytale romance nonsense few years ago.”

“Yeah, and I bet you could pull anyone you wanted to.” Blaise smirks. Mattheo elbows Blaise giving him a warning look.

“Both are true. I do like fairytales, but not for romance. I like how they bring me to my childhood and that make me feel like a princess that I am. And for other thing, I know I can pull anyone I want. But the key difference is that I don’t want to.”

Boys seem even more curious now. Tom watches you protectively, but he was secretly glad you didn’t want to date anyone. “Why not?” Blaise asks, he is more pushy while Mattheo listens wanting to know more.

“Why would I?” It was a genuine question. You look at them confused.

“Well…because…don’t you want to love someone and be loved by them?” Blaise asks confused. It’s rare to him to hear people at that age to not want a partner.

You shrug. “I have people who I love and love me. I have Tom and Mattheo.”

He shook his head. “No, I meant a person to kiss, do all cheesy romance things, go on dates and that sort of thing?”  You again reply with uninterested ‘no’. “Listen, I’m not interested in mushy feelings, exchanging salvia and having messy sex. Is that clear?”

The boys chuckle. Your point even got Tom’s interest, silently agreeing with some of your points. “Is that what you think romance is? No wonder you don’t want it.” Draco says.

“Wait-!“ Blaise exclaims like he figured something out, ”Are you ace?”

“Excuse me?” You look up flabbergasted. “No, I cannot reproduce myself.” That made the boys laugh. Through whizzes Blaise tries to speak:” N-no…I mean…It’s like...w-when people…”

Tom spoke up: “An asexual person feels little to no sexual attraction”

Blaise groaned:“Thank you for ruining the fun Tom, I wasn’t finished”

“I guess,” you go back to your book with that nonchalant answer. “You guess?”

“I don’t know, I don’t care.” You were a bit irritated at this point. You just wanted to go back to your book.

 “Of course you don’t,” Matthe rolled his eyes. He was already getting annoyed by the conversation.

“I don’t understand how you don’t care about your own sexuality; it’s kind of important,” Tom said calmly.

You look up again. You always listened to what he said since he was your favorite and you kind of looked up at him since you were little. “Why? It doesn’t change anything.”

“Because it’s one of the most important things about someone... sexual/romantic interests form a major part of someone’s relationships and social life,” Tom said calmly while Blaise rolled his eyes again and Mattheus nodded in agreement with Tom

“I guess. But it’s enough for you to know that. You don’t need to put a label on it like it’s some fruit at the store. It’s stupid. People today have to put a label on everything, from sexuality to gender to anything.”

Mattheuo just sighed and decided not to comment. “It’s not about needing labels. The labels exist to help us put into words who we are and what we feel.” Tom explained calmly, he seems to have the most control of his emotions. Blaise rolled his eyes again but was still listening.

“Okay, let’s circle back. You are ace then?” Draco finally spoke up.

“It’s a possibility. I don’t know yet.” Tom nods: ”that’s okay. Take your time.”

“Just know we’ll love you no matter what,” Mattheo adds.

“Thanks,” you tried to keep it nonchalant, but a little smile crept on your lips. It was nice to know you always have people who’ll love you.

[sunflowerlando]

Could you do Yuki with prompt 32 👀

My life got absolutely insane after I posted my follower special almost 2 months ago, so apologies on the delay!!! I'm finally getting around to finishing/posting the requests from here

Prompt 32. "Maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.” Mature but nothing explicit. I started writing this when we found out Yuki was going to Red Bull so it's in the past on the timeline...

You were pissed.

Again.

You were absolutely going to strangle the Japanese driver this time.

You stalk through the paddock, passing familiar faces that looked at you with concern – the rage evident on your face and in your stride.

As you reach the VCARB hospitality area, you spot Isack and Yuki having a laugh with some of the mechanics around one of the tables outside.

“Tsunoda!” you practically yell as you walked up.

“Oh shit.” Isack says, “You’ve done it this time mon ami.”

“Can I speak with you, privately…” you ask, trying to keep your tone even. You do not want to chew out the driver in front of a group, and especially not out in the paddock where anyone with a VIP pass could overhear and/or take a video. An errant video was what had gotten you this heated in the first place.

“Ummm, I’d rather not.” Yuki responds, looking to Isack for help.

“Tough shit.” You say, pointing at the door. He gets up from his chair, looking sheepish as he follows you inside. You wind your way through the halls before going into an open meeting room and closing the door behind the two of you.

You try to take a few calming breaths, closing your eyes and visualizing things that make you happy before turning to him and pinning him with a biting look.

“Did we or did we not have a conversation at the last race about your media strategy and how you needed to lay low for a bit?” You ask.

“We did…” he responds.

“And what did you go out and do instead?” You groan. “You did exactly the opposite, Yuki! You went out clubbing and got papped in a compromising situation with THREE PEOPLE. I don’t give a shit what you do in private, but you were in public for god’s sake!”

“Does it help if I say I’m sorry?” He asks his brown eyes shining up at you from where he’s sitting.

“No, because I absolutely know you aren’t.” You retort.

“Okay, but I’m sorry it makes more work for you.” He says, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes again.

“I’m getting really tired of hearing your apologies and excuses.” You say looking at him again. He’s standing in front of you now, and he reaches a hand out to place it on your shoulder. “I am sorry. You’re upset and tense because of something I did. How can I make it right?”

“Start by not doing it again…”

“Right. No more public makeouts.”

“Just no more of any of the things we’ve already talked about 12 times. Stick to posting cute photos of you and food and cars.

“You think I’m cute?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yuki, that's not the point.” “It could be if you wanted…” he says, trailing his hand down from your shoulder and running his fingers gently over your arm.

“Yuki…” you say, a hint of warning in your tone. The air in the room seems to crackle as his eyes bore into yours and he drops his hand back to his side. There has always been this tension between the two of you for as long as you’ve worked with the team. You wouldn’t jeopardize your job by being caught with one of the drivers. It would be a PR nightmare and your job was to try to prevent those.

“I’m going to Red Bull.” He says.

“What?” you say, your breath stuttering.

“They’re moving me to Red Bull, so you won’t have to deal with my nonsense anymore.” He says with a shrug.

"Then maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.” You say and he looks at you quizzically.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and you don’t know if he’s playing coy or the language gap is genuinely throwing him on this one.

“Fuck it,” you grumble before you smash your lips against his.

He’s stunned for a moment before his hands grip your waist and he’s kissing you back fervently.

“I knew you wanted me.” He says as you break apart for a moment to breathe. “Shut up, Yuki.” You say, still annoyed at him. One of his hands come up to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you back to him as his lips move over yours once again. He walks you backwards in the kiss so the back of your legs hit the meeting room table, and you sit back on it as he steps between your legs.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” He murmurs before starting to kiss down your neck. His hands are roaming your sides and you let out a soft sigh. “Tell me you’ve wanted this too.” “I’ve wanted it… wanted you…” you respond, your hips rocking on the table to grind against his hardening arousal. “Good girl. You’re so pretty like this; all needy for me…” He says, tweaking one of your nipples through your shirt and bra.

“Yuki…” you moan loudly.

He pulls back from your neck and smirks at you before saying “Shhhh… you’re going to get us in trouble.”

“Then make me be quiet.” You challenge before his lips crash back into yours.

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕥 𝔻𝕚𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥

Pairing: Lensless/No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Gender Neutral!Reader

Warnings: Language, I guess?

Tags: Comedy, both you & Mark are deranged

Word Count: 656

Synopsis: A summer afternoon turns into a full on, WWE backyard brawl between you & some patio furniture. Eventually you tag in your boyfriend who is more than eager for the matchup.

a/n: this is so dumb LMFAO

This was supposed to be a relaxing Sunday. Piecing together some new furniture for your backyard, ready to ring in summer the proper way – with barbecue and all.

The box had promised “easy, no-tools assembly” — which turned out to be a lie straight from the devil’s mouth, because here you were: sweaty, pissed off, and one Allen wrench away from a full mental breakdown.

The patio chair frame wobbled. Again. You stood slowly. Blank-faced. Breathing through your nose. Then you flipped like a switch.

“FUCK YOUUU!!!”

You flung the frame a few feet with all the rage your arms could muster — which wasn’t much, but it got the point across. A screw popped off and smacked the side of your house with a metallic ping. You chased after it like you hadn’t finished showing it who was boss—which, to be fair, you weren’t. The whole time you were muttering pure nonsense rage.

“You wanna be crooked? I’LL FUCKING—”

You started stomping it.

Kicking the legs.

Jumping on it.

At some point you picked it up and started slamming it against the grill. Honestly you were probably just a minute away from trying to take a bite out of the damn thing. The fury was real.

You didn’t even hear the gust of wind behind you — just the sudden whoop of a voice like a goddamn sports commentator on crack:

“WOOOO!! WHOOP ITS ASS BABY!!! HELL YEAH, GET THAT BITCH!!”

You froze mid-swing, turning a bit feral to look over your shoulder.

Mark was there, hovering just a foot off the ground. That insane glint in his eyes like he just stumbled into a jackass skit.

“You want help?!”

“...No—”

“TOO BAD, I’M IN!!”

Before you could say a word, Mark dove down like a missile — and the chair never stood a chance. He ripped the metal frame apart like it was paper, bent one of the arms backward with a maniacal grin, and then punched the seat straight through the deck boards.

The wood parts cracked, another bolt flying past your head, and a sharp splinter nailed him in the face.

Right in the eye.

“AUGH—FUCK!!” he staggered back, one hand flying up to his cheek. “This piece of shit is fighting back!!”

His eye was already red and watering, a thin trickle of blood starting to smear down his temple.

You, still very much blood lusted, pointed dramatically at the wreckage with gritted teeth. “TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, BABE!! PUT THAT PILE OF SCRAP IN ITS PLACE!”

Mark wiped the blood with the back of his hand and slowly turned back to the frame like he was squaring up with a supervillain. His smile was deranged.

“Ohhh… oh, it wants to go there.”

He was deep in the trenches now. You were nothing but a shadow of his past life. All that was left was him, this patio furniture, and the fate of his manhood before him.

He crouched, picked up one of the jagged metal arms — dented, bent, still warm from the chaos — and slowly brought it to his face. His voice dropped to a whisper, low and dangerous. “I will take from you everything you love and let you die in their ashes.”

And then—without fanfare—he crushed it.

One hand.

Fingers curling like a vice.

The metal shrieked as it gave way, folding in on itself like a deflating balloon before crumbling into all but dust between his palm. Tiny fragments drifted to the grass below.

Mark didn’t flinch. He just stared down at the powder in his hand, eyes wild, breathing shallow.

You watched, absolutely unbothered, arms crossed, nodding like a coach from the sidelines.

“Good form. Really clean technique.”

He turned to you with windblown hair, blood on his cheek, and the light of the damned in his eyes. But then he grinned, and asked, “Need me to take care of the umbrella too?”

[pomefioredove]

I am loving your event! Can I have a sugar cookie, #9, with chocolate chips, candy cane, and chestnuts?

I'll see what I can do!

order #9, sugar with chestnuts, candy cane, chocolate chips

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I think I'll stay

summary: an injury takes you out of a couple's competition tropes: sick fic, fake dating (barely), friends to lovers characters: jack additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

Why is it always you?

Well, you're the main character, so all of the miserable things have to happen to you!

Ha, ha. If only life were that easy.

The truth of the matter is that you're just unfortunate, miserably so, more than anyone else.

You could've stayed home this weekend- eating chocolate in your underthings and misusing the phone that's supposed to be for emergencies to read fanfiction for the manga Ortho got you hooked on- but, you're here.

Stupidly. Badly.

And beat up, now, too.

"It's a nasty twist, but you'll live," Jack says. "A little ankle trouble never hurt anyone- uh, badly."

Your nails dig into the depressed mattress of the medical tent, and you have to force down a nagging that's fighting its way up. How wrong can one boy be?

But, then, there's Ace to steal that title, because of course. "You'll be ready in like, thirty minutes, right?"

"Ace-" Epel tries to warn him, but it's worthless.

"Because it is a partnered competition, and the more teams us first-years have in the mix, the more a chance we have of winning the prize!"

You throw the first thing you feel- which happens to be a first-aid kit on the foldable table by your cot. It catches Ace in the stomach, and he squeals like a little girl.

"OW! What's your problem?!"

"You couldn't pay me to go up there right now!"

"Ace, come on, they're hurt," Deuce says, the diplomat he is. "We can swing this with only two teams. Better than none, right?"

The first-year grumbles and gripes about your "unpredictable temper", his feet shuffling against the grass as the others take him out.

Jack stays. He says nothing, but he stays.

Not like he could do anything, anyway- you were his "partner", after all.

"...Feeling alright?" he tries. He looks like he has more to say, but doesn't. Only nonsensical, meaningless questions like "feeling alright?"

He clears his throat. He pulls at his tie. His tail twitches. His ears flick around the tent, as if keeping watch for predators.

You think he wants to apologize- for, you know, falling on you and fucking up your ankle. Your good ankle, not your overblot-shot ankle (and shoulder, and knee, and a few fingers, but, hey, who's counting?)

Somehow, this is worse than all of that.

"Say it," you sigh, waving him on to give you his woes.

Jack swallows, scratches his chin, and then:

"You really should elevate your ankle. And you need ice. The bandages won't do anything- Ace and Deuce don't know the first thing about first-aid-"

"REALLY?!"

Jack jumps at your yelp, tucking his tail between his legs. "What?"

"That's all you have to say?"

He looks a little uneasy, his ears flattened with guilt, his eyes following the line of your leg and not meeting yours.

"...I'll get the ice," he insists, tending to your injury with a soft touch, as if terrified he'll hurt you further... which is somewhat satisfying for you.

He props your ankle under a pile of pillows, and reluctantly manifests some magic to make ice (the nearest dispenser is probably back at your dorm- your beautiful, safe dorm- you've never missed Ramshackle so much).

Some, not all, of the tension in your spine alleviates at the tender care. Jack was right about the ice and the elevation, at least.

"The swelling's starting to go down," he says. "Just stay off it for the rest of the week and it'll be good as new."

"What about classes?"

"Eh..." he scratches the back of his neck. "I'll bring you to them."

"You'll carry me? Every day?"

"If that'll help. I'll just substitute you for my weight training,"

He's awfully hard to stay mad at. Your cross your arms over your chest and lie in bed, your ankle numb but comfortable from the cold.

"...Fine," you say. "But I don't forgive you. I fell in front of all those people."

He looks away, though you could see the wince and the whimper he's desperately holding himself from.

"I know. I'll make it up to you,"

...Which you suppose is his way of saying "I'm sorry". You'll work on that.

You sigh. "No need, you've said enough. Just... go on and enjoy watching the competition,"

Jack stares, eyes softening more than he'd ever allow them to under any other circumstance. He smiles, too.

"And miss out on your commentary? I think I'll stay,"

[glasskey]

Season 6 WTF!

Am I the only one who thinks this season is almost a complete write off? A season that fucked up great characters and gave redemption arcs to everyone BUT the characters who deserved them? Promised revolution and then sat around doing absolutely nothing for episode after episode, waiting for the last 2 to finally take off? This is the FINAL SEASON….we waited 9 years….Season 6 WTF!

Honestly I can barely be bothered to watch this car crash anymore, they’ve performed a brutal character assassination on Nick Blaine (like I suspected they would) consequently sacrificing THE most engrossing character dynamic they had going for them. To say this was stupid would be underselling it. It was bad enough that they continually focused on comparatively the most bland pairing throughout the seasons, but to actually kill off any kind of connection between Nick and June really did the show no favours. Even watching the two of them fight at The Boston Globe was more engaging, simply because of the combustible character dynamic. As a result, without these two, for the most part unless Lawrence is in the room, I’m pretty fucking bored. They failed to beef out other character arcs earlier on and consequently they act as footnotes or accessories to Osborne. Lawrence remains engaging because of Whitfords ability to convey his delicious snarkiness and he painfulness of his recent nuptials. His interactions with Charlotte have been an unexpected delight. Shifting from demanding she be removed from his study at the beginning of the season, to stealing her away from her lessons to teach her chess, much to Naomi’s chagrin. Naomi is really earning her keep this season; her demands that Lawrence clean out the basement while June and Moira were squirrelled away down there, engaged in acts of rebellion was absolutely hysterical.

In terms of any type of actual character prediction or analysis for the rest of the season; in episode 3 Blaine said he said he couldn’t lose Osborn and now he truly believes he has, leaving him desolate and cold. He already appeared desperate in episode 7, he was mainlining whiskey in episode 8 and by episode 9 he’ll be fucking ashes. Wharton has dragged him under and by the end he’ll either kill Wharton to prove some sort of loyalty once again, be dragged back to Canada by Tuello in cuffs when the revolution goes down, (he’s still an asset even if he’s not embedded), be killed by Osborn as a test of character against Gilead, die like a dog defending her or some such combination of all of the above. I mean how fucking hard is it just to have a character join Mayday? To cross the border and join the underground? It’s pretty easy, they seem to be doing just fine with Lawrence and he’s probably the LEAST deserving of the two.

There’s a multitude of allusions to Blaine being killed off throughout this season, not to mention the litany throughout the previous seasons, and it’s very possible they’ll get Osborn to do it. They’re asking the audience to believe the mother of this mans child would actually kill him, when several episodes prior she was ready to leave her husband for him….it’s all pretty ridiculous and requires the audience to suspend their disbelief, but what would be different from the rest of the season at this point? It’s also a complete violation of Atwood’s text, but they already massacred Blaines character in terms of this, so you know, why stop now? The books state that he’s part of the underground and EVERY other character is being maneuvered into place so you would expect them to do the same for him. However given the ridiculous skewing of his character over the last season, I’m putting nothing past these writers at this point. Given his nonsensical character transformation and the just the ludicrous judgement being passed on such a benevolent character who fucked up once, I’m finding it reeeeaaally hard to get on board with punishing him in the final hours. It all just feels so unjustified after years of service. I’d be more inclined to feel like the writers just did his character really dirty than gave him his comeuppance. Even Osborne’s accusation “you’re just like all the others” seemed more completely unjustified and honestly just fucking harsh, instead of the moment of enlightenment that the writers had intended it to be. The meeting between Blaine and Osborne at the start kind of haunts me as the last time they met in a forest was 4 10 when they disposed of Fred. At that point Fred was expecting a son and Nick had said “for whatever a man sows, so shall he reap. You brought this on yourself commander” and June and a group of women appeared over the horizon. It may be a portent of Blaine’s fate because of the Jezebels, but again this feels horrifically unjustified.

The plot line to bust Nick and June apart was like watching a 3 stooges act put into motion by Luke and June themselves. How I was meant to feel sorry for the protagonist when all of this was just a comedy of errors as a result of hitting her favourite errand boy up for yet another favour, I’ll never know. Particularly when for the last 3 plus seasons I’d watched her sacrifice innumerable innocents for the sake of her own personal vendettas. It’s so clear to me that Tuello got greedy and should have just whacked the cuffs on Blaine by 6 03. Blaine had already gone dark and had basically told him point blank that he couldn’t fulfil his part of the deal because a fucking demon had moved into his house. June could see that he was fraying, she knew that he was in danger when he killed those guards and yet once again she let him walk away. This really was the point at which June should have said “Come with me” and not “See you later”, because ultimately she may as well have said goodbye. Sure Tuello would have tossed him in the lock up but hey, Fred got immunity from all that juicy intel all the way in Canada so why couldn’t Blaine? Plot hole, plot hole, plot hole. As it was they let him go, so ultimately these people are pretty complicit in what went down with the Jezebels. I, and everyone else for that matter, couldn’t help but notice that Mayday and the Nighthawks hadn’t given a fuck about them before, content to see them as collateral damage. They could wax lyrical all they liked but the fact was it was merely semantics, they were less concerned about them dying, than they were about the purpose for which they’d died. Had they died in the service of killing a bunch of commanders, Mayday would have valued their deaths, but because it was Blaine they saw it as a waste and a missed opportunity.

The hypocrisy throughout this season has been absolutely rampant, and I’ve found myself scoffing in disbelief constantly, at the double standards everywhere. Over and over I was told to accept that every one of Blaine’s decisions that brought about his demise was all his own fault, whereas other characters involved were absolved of their culpability in any way. I refuse to see the decent of his character as entirely his own fault, Blaine has spent over a decade being mentally conditioned by Gilead, with it just about to sink it’s claws in for good with a newborn child. Meanwhile Tuello wanted to send him back in there for fuck knows how long, all because he let him visit his girlfriend in the hospital for 5 minutes. It was stupid and greedy and he should have taken the intel he could get, by taking Blaine into custody at the border in season 5.

The writers have tried to use him to point out the soft fascist in the room, leaving it until the very last minute and seriously it’s not good enough. You can’t cast characters under a totally different persona for 5 seasons, then suddenly come out in the last season guns blazing for them and not expect your audience to get whiplash. This sort of thing results in that season being the one that gets purposefully shelved simply for it’s lack of character consistency. His transformation has also been ridiculously swift with the change between episode 6 and 8, the equivalent of a cartoonish reveal.

There was far too little Lawrence this season, I’m at a loss as to why they didn’t just send Lawrence back for those letters, I guess because it would have made sense….but no, had to go and call the boyfriend and consequently fuck up everything. Lawrence has been given far too much leeway this season, all of a sudden he and June are pals again after viciously fighting at the end of last season. I mean I know they wanted to switch things up and insert some exciting plot twists, but it really has been at the cost of any believability whatsoever. Truth is she and Luke would have been gunning for him after that shit went down with Hannah, but nope nothing. Just, here are all our secret plans Lawrence, promise you won’t fuck it up? Urgh.

Now, can someone please tell me who wants to watch Serena blather on about fertility centres (episode 8 and still nothing happening there btw) and weddings? How she could be so dense as to marry the King of all High Commanders, and not expect to be right back where she started, I’ll never know…but there you go. This all could have been avoided if Serena had just sat on the porch in her nice peaceful little commune, shotgun in hand, and when the Wheelers or Lawrence showed up, told them to just keep driving. I suspect Serena will actually end up a handmaid herself by the end but with the leniency the writers have shown her despite her horrific past deeds, who knows. The wedding itself in episode 8 was meant to be absolutely mental, and instead we all sat around and just wondered who’d eat the cake, and if Serena and Nick would spot June at the wedding.

Luke seems to be pretty MIA for someone so motivated to get shit done this season, but we’ll probably see him pop back up in episode 9 and 10. I recently saw in a clip OT saying he was looking forward to the part that he gets to take a swing at Blaine. I predicted this would happen earlier on and it really is just so trite of the writers to have the two objects of the protagonists affection engaging in fisty cuffs like fucking children. Luke’s already shown evidence of a sensitive ego in previous seasons, and this really doesn’t help to restore an image of security in his own masculinity. I was hoping to see some personal growth but it seems that even though he wants to be more pro active in retrieving Hannah, his ego remains an issue and has resulted in some ugly confrontations with June. Regardless of the outcome, the fact is that Blaine is an experienced Military commander, so asking the audience to believe that Bankole would actually manage to beat Blaine up is just sheer fantasy. Maybe if they’d squeezed in a montage of Luke doing drills I might be able to buy it.…but they didn’t, so we’re going to have to add that to the list of things I need to suspend my disbelief for in order to accept. I’m also at a loss as to why he’d want to beat the shit out of the man who is responsible for keeping his wife alive, and then saving his life as well. Certainly he thwarted their Mayday plan, and yes they fell in love (he should understand that better than anyone after that whole thing with Annie) but seriously he’s got a LOT more to be thankful for than he has to be pissed off about. Essentially his wife wouldn’t be alive and he’d have no idea where his daughter is, so yeah seems a bit fucked.

Overall this season I’m really getting the vibe that the writers have had to work overtime to make audiences dislike Blaine. They’ve essentially back pedalled their brains out and rewritten not only his character but also the nature of his relationship with the protagonist in order to do so, which should demonstrate exactly how desperate they were. All it’s really done is make me detach from the entire storyline because of my distrust in them to convey an accurate picture, or one that they wouldn’t completely dissolve at will in the future. It was an inevitable consequence. The hypocrisy throughout the season has been crazy and it’s most evident when it comes to this character and his relationship with the protagonist. We also didn’t get nearly enough Moira and with episodes coming in at 40 minutes long, it’s not like they didn’t have ample time to fill out the full hour with a proper character arc for her. If they’d used the full hour they could have had better character arcs for Luke, Moira, Janine, Lawrence, Nick and Rita. And seriously it’s a final season, episodes should BE the full hour long. Apparently there will be a lot of character deaths this season and the only way that has real impact is if you actually give a shit about them which requires proper character development. Right now Rita doesn’t have even close to the amount of character development that Lawrence has, so as a result the audience will care a lot less if she dies….and that’s regardless of whether that character “deserves” it or not. She was in charge of the cake soooooo yeah, probably not looking good for her. Apparently episode 9 is meant to be for the fans, so I guess they’ve worked out some way to magic Nick and June back together again, Blaine to finally go underground with Mayday, Serena to die a horrible painful death, Lawrence to get a massive amount of one liners and Janine to escape with Charlotte. Anything else tells me they’ve been living in an echo chamber failing to check in with their socials.

[notyourmamasdeerbat]

WIP Whenever!

Thanks @fenrelmercar for the tag 💕💕💕 Many comforts to you this coming week! [vibrating with joy that someone tagged me today BECAUSE GUESS WHO WAS UP TIL 1 AM WORKING ON CHAPTER 5 OF CARRY THE DAGGER 💪]

What I really should have done is cut this stupid thing in half, but I had an OUTLINE and everything and it STILL ran from me. My loves I will have this beast posted TONIGHT before midnight or ON MY OWN HEAD BE IT *holds up Fenris (a la @fenrelmercar 's plot bunny* And I'll let this thing rip out my heart.

The rogue glanced at her. “You could stay in Dock Town. Keep an eye on your Shadow Dragons. Leave Fade nonsense behind and build your bonds with who you already know. Varric may have hired you, but you’re not obligated to stay at the Lighthouse and run through the Arlathan, or Treviso, or wherever while the Venatori wander your home. I’ll have your back, whatever you decide, but if you don’t want to leave–” 

“No, it’s not that, I promise. I just…” She sighed. “Have a habit of picking jobs that go sideways. You’d think I’d learn.” 

Lucanis chuckled wryly, leaning against the wooden rail with his back to the sea. “You’re not alone in that.” 

She chuckled, her gaze wandering to the assassin with a crooked slash of a smile. She was about to speak again when Lucanis peered over her shoulder and footsteps clunked to a stop at the end of the dock. 

Rook turned to see a reedy woman in studded leathers and a brown canvas hood fold her arms. “You the one they’re calling Rook?” 

“...Who’s asking?” Rook frowned, resting their hands on their hips.

“Messenger. You’ve got a summons.” 

“Summons?” A flicker of an irreverent grin touched their mouth. “I don’t get summons.” 

“Bunch of Grey Wardens lookin’ for you. Said you’d be here.” 

Rook’s gaze lit with a mixture of emotions just as volatile as their gear. Relief, confusion, alarm. “But Harding hasn’t– I– okay!” 

They were halfway to flitting to the messenger’s side before Neve grabbed their shoulder. “Hey. You might need back up.” 

“For– Oh. Yes, please, come with me!” Rook tugged her sleeve. Lucanis followed quietly behind, wondering if Rook made a habit of dashing after the first messenger that tried to give them good news. He knew how hopeful they were about making contact with the Grey Wardens, but as they’d surmised, Harding hadn’t said anything about her contacts writing back. Could it be a trap? Who else would have known their merry band was searching for Warden aid? 

The messenger led them to the marble steps of the Cobbled Swan. The usually frequented exterior was deserted, eerily quiet. 

Two Wardens in winged helms flanked the doors, spears in hand, expressions stoic. Rook hesitated only briefly, gaze flicking with no small amount of awe to the picturesque guards. Lucanis felt a glimmer of recognition and some fascination at the sight of their plate mail glinting in the sun, like something out of a fairytale. He moved to follow Rook up the steps. 

The Warden on the left crossed his spear over the doorway. “Just you,” he said gruffly, looking down his nose at the Veil Jumper. 

“Just me?” Rook cocked their head, tone taking on that light and knowing quality as it did when they were about to make a joke. “But I get nervous.”

The Warden didn’t dignify them with a response, spear stubbornly in place. 

“I can’t bring my emotional support? Maker. Wardens are hard core.” They turned to Lucanis with a sigh and a shrug, blue eyes bright with laughter. “Not my fault if I start shaking like a leaf and pee on the floor.” 

Neve scoffed. “If you’re going… just be careful.” 

“Hey, only good news from here. Or I’m really gonna start shaking.” Rook laughed and nudged the detective’s arm. “I’ll be out in just a second.” 

Neve didn’t like it, and frankly neither did Lucanis. But he stayed put, brow furrowed, as the Warden lifted his spear and allowed Rook to pass inside the tavern. The hair on his arms was standing up. 

WOO! Also, yeehaw, because I HAVE SOME MORE OF MY WESTERN AU WIP 🤪 "I Feel A Change On the Rise"

“Then get up there and check it! Something ain’t right– tell Uthern to get the hell down here!”  The rogue whipped the door open and flicked a knife from their belt into one hand, unholstering their pistol in the other as they twisted into the room. Shadow. They flung the knife.  It sprouted like a grotesque flower from the brow of a burly mercenary in a wide brimmed hat. His eyes rolled, he fell. The second one, skinny and reaching for the far door, already had a gun in his hand.  Rook pulled the trigger, jerking to the side as two gunshots rang out in tandem. His went wide. Rook’s got him in the thigh. Sloppy. He crumpled with a cry and Rook planted their boot in the chest of his fallen friend, yanking their first blade free as they adjusted their aim with the clicking of the barrel.  The revolver barked again, and the thin man fell.  Blood splattered the door handle. Rook sheathed their knife and pulled it open anyway. The next car. Another long, narrow hallway of crates. Another swinging lantern. Back… and forth…  Rook crossed the space on long strides and pressed their ear to the door– before drawing back with a hiss. This metal was hot. Boiler room, then? Once more, they wrapped their patterned scarf around their free hand and hauled the door aside. They were assaulted by a blast of heat, the space bathed in a red glow. Hissing steam shrieked from valves all around the main array of the chamber, where three men were rapidly unscrewing bolts and dumping buckets of water on any exposed metal.  A small circular port was smoking, embers recently extinguished. Part of the sheet metal arching over them all had buckled inward from strain– raw stone was visible in the dim through the dents, and the table beneath it was coated in a fine layer of dust.  The first man didn’t even notice the rogue. He got a bullet in his back.  The second whirled, gasping, crowbar in hand. He lunged on instinct with a wide swing. The blow would have caved Rook’s head in if they hadn’t ducked. They swept his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground hard on a clattering bucket. He didn’t get up.  The third man ran.  Rook let him.  He was average looking. Human. In a wool coat and bowler hat a little too nice to belong in a dusty old mercantile train full of thugs. Red-brown hair, a thin goatee.  Rook holstered their revolver, turning to follow the escapee, strides long and unhurried. They blinked away a bead of sweat as it fell into their eyes.  Back the way they’d come, under the swaying lanterns. Back… and forth… One foot… the other…  The man’s footsteps pounded down the hall. He made it to the side door and its iron bar. He flung himself against it, fumbling with the latch, boots crunching in the shattered glass. As Rook walked, they unclipped the leather sling that held a length of sturdy elven rope on their belt. “Hello, Julius.”  The former Mayor of D'Meta's Crossing cowered, sweat slick hands pulling away from the iron bar as he held them up in surrender. “Rook! I– hello-! Fancy seeing you… here-” He laughed, swallowing visibly. As his throat bobbed, he held out his hands, eyes darting about for any other hope of escape. “I know how this looks. But surely we can come to some kind of compromise.”  “I imagine you know exactly what I’m here for.” In easy, patient strides, Rook unspooled their loops of lasso between their hands with casual intent. They acknowledged the thrill of vindictive pleasure humming in their chest. It made them feel as if they could grow fangs. Spit real venom. But they kept their movements slow and purposed as molasses. 

Tagging some of my loves! Bring the madness! Whatcha got?! (Nothing is a valid answer. Because it means you're resting your gigantic brain and I adore you for it always. No pressure, ever. Stay safe and warm out there!) @andthekitchensinkao3 @draco-illius-noctis @davrinsleftpectoral @nevarrantorte @nananarc @hedwigoprah @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @caughtnyact @jenn2d2

[mlobsters]

jared padalecki, jensen ackles, rob benedict, richard speight jr jib con 2025 panel (amberdreams)

slaphappy and punchdrunk (no wonder it ended up in a piggyback ride)

+bonus

[theghostofashton]

.

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

the problem of coming from the high octane shipwar hell of ff7twt to being a ride or die for two white, straight people that i insist are in a metaphorically gayer relationship than a mixed-race married straight couple is that i'm so shipwarbrained that the only basis i consume media through is how much emotional torment can i go through by choosing the less-liked romantic pairing and talking about how stupid it is that they're less liked because the story clearly likes them more and it's just the dipshit fans who have a problem with it. also no one cares about what i'm saying so it makes me feel very stupid for saying it but i can't help that the only media i like is either about people whose lives suck so much they end up killing themselves or about two people loving each other through the worst experiences of their lives collectively. like what's even the point of life if i can't romanticize it.

[dayurno]