There must have been something in the way he glanced at his phone, rolled his eyes in utter annoyance (a gesture that was very unlike himself) and tried to not look at Hiwatari as he concealed his screen that immediately caught the other man’s attention. Of course it had.
Cursing himself mentally, he buried the device in the deepest part of a pocket as the man leaned towards him, as if trying to get a look.
“What was that?”
His playful tone only meant one thing: he would not give up easily.
“Just a message.”
“From work, I assume?” Every innuendo in the world had been manually inserted in that single word, in the way each syllables got separated, in the knowing smile that accompanied it. Kosuke did not have a job per se; it was a direct allusion to his family.
“Nothing but an app,” he confessed.
“That has to do with me?”
“To be fair…” The phone emerged from his pocket again: an unbearable, way too large, way too fragile gadget that made him regret his former companion and its faithful keys every day. The screen lit up, displaying a wall of notifications, including one from a discussion application.
[Celebrate your friendship anniversary with Hiwatari - Send a gift!✨]
“This gets displayed every day…”
“Every day…?” Hiwatari repeated, tone light. “There is only one thing to wonder, then: where is my gift, Niwa-san?”
What even were these? Kosuke pressed the notification, realising too late that his phone immediately opened the application without requiring a password – a piece of information he wish he hadn’t blatantly showed to his companion of the afternoon.
The application’s store opened: before them, a series of swirly frames, comic stickers and other various mascots for… What use did these even have?
“If you need inspiration, I wouldn’t mind stickers of the bear.”
The cartoonish, expressionless bear in question was a popular mascot, given the amount of “packs” dedicated to it in everyday situations. Kosuke slid his index on the screen, browsing the selection. Gifting this to an adult man? And why a bear…?
“Ah…!” He stopped on another pack. Instead of the bear, a small shintō fox smiled at him, eyes shut in a mischievous expression.
This one definitely reminded him of Hiwatari-san! Receiving the little “Good morning~” sticker would have definitely made the man’s voice ring in his ears.
His eyes met Hiwatari’s and they exchanged a smile, perhaps slightly more inquiring on one side.
“For your birthday, then.”
“Assuming this app stops harrassing you~”
Wait… Was there any way Hiwatari-san had hacked… No way.
Right?
yoinks @/keebwee’s format style bc I don’t wanna type everything that goes into my usual one out rn
jump
Summary:
When Sonic receives a call for help from Tails, he races right there. He can’t shake the feeling something is wrong.
-
March of Pain 2026
day 3: jump
SPOILERS FOR CHAOTIX CASEFILES EP 7!
WIP Wednesday
Another week, another tag game! Please share your last sentence; or, if you don’t have one, share a plot bunny or idea! (OR gifs maybe a sketch for your artwork!)
I was tagged by @oddsnendsfanfics thank you ❤️
From the Heated Rivalry 2022 Olympics au:
“I—“
She had looked up the words to say. She had even listened to the pronunciations. Mouthed along.
But it all falls short. It is noisy, in this stairwell, and she feels a growing sense of panic. Because she doesn’t have enough time, because coach probably saw she had made a left instead of a right, because they will send security if they think she isn’t playing by the right rules, and— why are her eyes burning?
She pulls out her phone, pulls up the translation app, types what she wants to say, stares at the blurry screen, thinks she can understand enough English to tell that it translates the right way.
Holds it out to him. There’s too long of a pause. It feels too long, between the offer and the acceptance. She’s afraid to check his expression, afraid when he takes the phone that he might toss it over the banister, might laugh, might tell her to fuck right off.
“I know who you are,” is the flat response. At least, she thinks it is what he is saying in English. Her eyes shoot up. There’s no expression on his face. She can’t read him. Can’t tell what he thinks of who she is.
He blinks back, looks down at the screen, and begins to type something back.
When her phone is offered back to her, the keyboard has been switched from Cyrillic to Latin. But the translation is clear enough.
He writes that it’s nice to meet her.
He writes that her uncle is somewhere in the stadium, too.
She feels like she might throw up.
Tagging (if you want to): @mollywog @lord-aldhelm @paula-in-dreamland @samwpmarleau @kneesofthebee @ongreenergrasses @mega-aulover @districtunrest @the-sun-and-the-sea @somebirdortheother @prithee-make-way @arthdoesart @peaonfire @katnissdoesnotfollowback @thesweetnessofspring and anyone else who would like to play<3
wip wednesday ✎ᝰ
secret third chapter of never neverland
Peter could see the uniformed officer the moment he had taken the turn onto his street. His grip tightening on the handle of the leather holdall he was carrying, he slowly approached, soon realising it was Jim Strange standing there.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sergeant,” Strange greeted with a curt nod, “I just came to tell you, word is, the last court hearing for Morse is in a few days.”
“Oh, Christ…” Peter muttered, rubbing his hand over his face.
“All right, Sarge?”
“Yes, fine— Fine… I just hope it's— enough to get him out, is all.”
“We’ve done what we could.”
He gave Strange a sour look. Never would anything be enough with these bastards pulling the strings and paying the right people to say or not say what they wanted.
“They want to sweep it under the rug,” Jim continued, “I overheard Mr. Bright and County talking. If they drop the charge, they will plead not guilty anyway.”
Peter was not brave enough to believe in that, was too scared of what would happen to him if he would get his hopes up in vain.
two new short stories for i shouldn’t be so curious but hell you’ve got me curious because i might love you
“I would never—”
It went unsaid, because Jakes was so terribly close now, Morse had to slightly tilt his head up to be able to keep eye contact, hoping that the other man would believe him. He truly would never tell anyone, because that would mean Morse would just compromise himself as well, and besides these things were not of anyone’s business but the people involved.
“Glad we talked about it.”
Jakes smirked, and Morse’s gaze dropped to his lips which he took as the final call, moving in, pressing his mouth against the other man’s, his hand caressing over Morse’s neck. The kiss was warm and surprisingly tender, though Jakes was definitely setting the pace here, kissing Morse as if there was no tomorrow, and Morse was suddenly very aware of how Jakes was so successful with his evening company. And at the same time he never wanted to not be kissed like this anymore. It was as if he was enclosed by the other man, all his senses only able to focus on him, and it felt wonderful.
Morse was panting, hot breath spilling over his cheek when they broke apart, and Jakes’ long fingers entangled into strawberry blonde curls, gingerly pulling.
“Told you, you were in for a treat,” Jakes murmured before loosening his grip again and slowly sinking to his knees, his hands following the path down Morse’s body. His breath hitched when Jakes pressed his mouth against the slowly growing bulge in his trousers, and Jakes’ eyes flickered up to Morse’s face. He really wasn’t going to waste any time with courtesies.
“Don’t worry,” he almost giggled, “you’re not a pansy for getting sucked.”
Morse looked almost offended and Jakes grinned even more, swift fingers then opening his slacks, not hesitating to pull his cock out, tongue lapping at it, making Morse hiss with pleasure and having to brace himself on the other man’s shoulders.
###
“Just leave it, Morse.”
He noticed it when Peter turned away from him to take the pack of smokes, the dark red stain on his shirt. Not massive, but not small enough to be waved off as a simple scratch.
“— you’re bleeding.”
Morse reached a hand out, pointed to the spot on the back of Peter’s upper sleeve, though a wave of nausea made him blink rapidly to will it down. Peter turned to look at his arm, cigarette between his lips and he muttered, “Damn!”
“What happened?”
“None of your business.”
He tried to rub at the stain, cursing under his breath, but it was already drying and the garment was beyond saving. Morse approached him, trying to take a closer look, a hand moving to push the shirt off his shoulders, but Peter shoved him away.
“I said, leave it, Morse! Christ, can’t you ever let it be?! That’s exactly what got you into this mess.”
Morse looked perplexed, his face twisting in an effort to not show how much these words hurt him, but Peter was distracted anyway, inspecting his shirt further, deft fingers moving over the cotton, and he lowly hissed at the pain the wound caused him.
“You need to take that off.”
two more short stories for oxford city boys
The morning of the wedding Peter was pacing around in Morse’s small basement flat, glancing out of the window every once in a while, hoping that the blue sky would keep what it was promising. He was giddy with excitement and after the nth attempt to fall back asleep after he got woken up way too early from Morse kicking him in the ribs in his narrow bed, he decided he might as well get up and start getting ready for the day.
Hope and her sister were staying at his place, Hope’s parents at hers. So his only choice had been to kip at Morse’s, not that he was complaining about it, never. Well, maybe only because the place was so damn small and the bed not really good for anything but some naked fun.
They didn’t that night.
Just had some pints down at the pub and then went to sleep, Morse being very reasonable all of the sudden, making sure the groom would be up and fit the next day.
###
The child looked like it was sleeping, Peter realised with terror and he swallowed around the lump in his throat that had been there since they had gotten the call at the station. Body found by the edge of the woods, approximately 11-14 years old, foul play. Peter knew all the tell-tale signs of strangulation without Dr. DeBryn having to explain it. The blue lips, the contusions around the neck— He wanted to avert his eyes, but couldn’t at the same time, so he stared, a hopefully neutral expression on his face, like set in stone.
“Death by strangulation at first glance. With an arm around the neck,” the doctor confirmed, but Peter wasn’t really listening, could hardly understand the others over the blood rushing in his ears.
“Was anything found by the body? Or around here?” Morse asked then and DeBryn denied.
“Uniform is searching an half a mile radius,” Peter heard himself mutter, his gaze finally tearing away from the dead kid, and he looked around where officers were stalking through the meadows and between the trees, hoping to find evidence.
“Shall we say 9 o'clock tomorrow morning?”
Morse nodded when Peter didn’t answer, and DeBryn was on his way, two men in black suits lifting the body on a stretcher, covering it with a thick woollen blanket.
Peter felt sick.
He grabbed for his cigarettes, only realising then that his hands were shaking, and he tried to will the unwanted reaction down, taking a long drag, focusing on the burn in the back of his throat and how the smoke filled his lungs.
Morse had wandered off, eyes fixated on the ground, searching for God-knows-what. Anything.
He would have to get a patrol car back, because he knew there was no point in trying to rush Morse, he did everything in his own good time, but Peter couldn’t stand being there any longer. Even with the body gone, the image of the child was burnt into his mind and he just wanted to get away so nobody would notice how this upset him.
when the weight of the world is so close / a hollanov fic
When an injury benches Shane Hollander, his thoughts spiral and he struggles keeping a grasp on the world around him. (cw: eating disorder, depression)
For most of his life, he had thought that something major would need to happen. Life altering, for him to quit hockey. Now, he was not so sure anymore. Hockey had given him a lot, it was true. Hockey had given him Ilya.
Hockey had also taken a lot away. In just the past few weeks and months, he had lost friends, respect and maybe also passion.
Ilya was home here. He saw it, in his eyes. Ilya was tired, but he was home. He enjoyed himself. Even if his body would decide to give up, he would appear as a coach, as staff. He would find his way in.
Shane was not so sure that he wanted that anymore.
Six +++++ Sentence Sunday.
For @mollywog , an Uncle Ilya flashback for Heated Rivalry.
She is very pink. It’s a stupid thought, he knows. He’s fourteen and stupid. Stupid about any number of things if you ask his father or his brother or his coach or anyone, really. He is especially to have that be his first thought. But she is tiny, with puffy pink cheeks, swaddled in a pink blanket and a tiny pink hat.
[[MORE]]The room itself looks as if the color pink has become a person and thrown up all over it. Pink rug and walls and curtains and mobile. He wonders if she likes the color. Can babies see pink?
It doesn’t matter, he supposes. She is very fucking pink. Somewhat alien-looking, too. Tiny, pink alien, sniffling with glassy, blue eyes, while down the hallway the family and father’s friends are toasting and laughing and celebrating her birth.
His father has been fairly cold about the whole thing. Cold turned to anger at the pregnancy and rushed marriage, at Alexei’s having failed out of the Russian skating leagues after his catastrophic injury last season had landed him in multiple surgical wards. Father had been angry at first, even, at having a granddaughter rather than a grandson. And lastly, when those other things had more or less muted into a cold disapproval and dismissal, he had been angry at the name. He insists the baby be called Irina. Will not call her Aleksandra or Alesya or Asya or any other such thing. Irina. He had held her, and called her the name of Ilya’s dead mother.
Toma, Alexei’s wife, had scoffed. Aleksandra was her own recently passed grandmother. Alexei had surrendered to his father, at least not correcting him as he repeatedly referred to the newborn as Irina. There had been a heated, whispered conversation with Toma. Her insistence that the legal name is not changed; nor will it, Ilya thinks, unless Toma is given persuasion from her position in the form of monetary compensation, which—
A tiny cry sounds out. Those new lungs are surprisingly powerful. Ilya hesitates, takes one step closer to the cradle. That pink face is growing red, tiny nose scrunching up, glassy eyes filling with tears. He reaches a hand out, fingers pressing into the soft knitted fabric. Squishy lump of a niece wrapped within. There’s a moment, a pause, like the touch has short-circuited that tiny little brain.
“Hi,” he manages, a little at a loss. “I’m your Uncle Ilya. I don’t know if– I know my father held you, and I did try to say hi, but there were so many people around and I didn’t get to hold you-”
The crying resumes, all at once, at a higher pitch now. The sounds of the party for this very baby are probably too loud for it to carry just yet.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you need,” he rubs her chest, brings his other hand up, wiping at the hot tears pouring down her cheeks. “Please don’t cry, Aleksya. Please?”
He hasn’t held a baby before. Doesn’t know where to start. His hands are too big and clumsy, his hand as big as her chest. He feels every breath drawn into her lungs.
He’ll break her.
He breaks things, shoves things, angers things. That’s all that he’s good at.
But no one else is listening, no one else-
“What the fuck did you do?”
His head snaps up. He pulls back. Toma slams her drink on the dresser, shoving past him.
His right hand feels warm. He left moves to squeeze it.
“Where is the nanny?”
“She had to go to the toilet.”
“I’m going to wring her stupid neck.”
Ilya says nothing, watches Toma lift the baby up, along with her shirt. He doesn’t quite see the moment, darts his eyes to one side, but the baby is suddenly quiet, a little slurping sort of sound, and a hiss from Toma, who gripes about sucking too hard. It’s an otherwise quiet few minutes, and the baby seems to calm. A soft little snuffling, probably lingering snot and tears from the sobbing, accompanies the sound of shifting fabric. Toma is bouncing the baby in her arms now, back and forth, patting her back with what seems to Ilya like far too much force. He dares to look again. He studies the hold. The hand on the back of the neck, the way the baby is cradled against her mother’s chest. There’s a damp spot on Toma’s shirt, just above her breast. She doesn’t seem to notice. Ilya isn’t sure if he should mention-
“What?” Toma’s brown eyes bore into him, her brow furrowing. ”What, Ilyosha? Has no man in this house seen a pair of tits before? Did I marry a family of perverts?”
“No, I-” He straightens, grips his hands tightly in front of him. “I just haven’t held her yet-”
“Can’t even enjoy my damn party,” Toma is still muttering, bouncing the baby but moving to retrieve her drink with a free hand. “For what she’s being paid, that nanny should be here. Imagine, taking half of what’s left from Alyosha’s last paycheck, even knowing how much the hospital cost us! And that’s just for the month! Did you know, the head of the league is visiting? Might even hear Alyosha out about a position. He hasn’t taken the pills all fucking week, we were so excited. I could do secretarial work in their office, if nothing else; and instead, I’m stuck playing nursemaid because the nanny couldn’t hold off on pissing. How damn long does that even take?!!”
Ilya hesitates, steps closer. “I can wait with her. Until the nanny is back.”
She scoffs, sets the glass down for a moment. “Fine.”
He expects an objection, expects more complaints, expects many things.
He doesn’t expect his sister-in-law to dump the baby into his arms, doesn’t expect to very nearly drop the baby on the floor, or for Toma to hardly seem to notice in the process of fleeing the scene.
Ilya holds on tight, maybe too tight. He shushes the baby when she fusses, rocking slowly back and forth.
“Was that what you needed, Aleyushka? You were just hungry?”
She is blinking up, eyes not quite focusing, red slowly fading back to that precious pink. Her gummy lips open, the beginnings of a yawn. He feels a tug in his chest, this little, tiny, precious baby girl– he didn’t know he could love something this tiny this much.
Then, a blow of air, a sour look on the baby’s face, and a truly foul smell fills the room. The crying resumes. Ilya stands, frozen, at the prospect of a blowout diaper.
He’s more than a little glad the nanny returns at just that moment.
He didn’t know tiny babies could make a diaper look like that.
snapshots of love ⏺ hollanov, 2k
Shane and Ilya, through life, as seen and shown in snippets from the Cottage that cares for them.
It remembered, with trembling breath, when David walked in, saw its boys on the deck. It breathed its sigh of relief when they came back, shaken, but smiling, confident. It noticed, how the rest of their time felt easier. How they breathed easier. How much it had freed them that someone, besides the house, knew.
for the first time in years, snow fell.
slowly, in layers, until it
hid everything from sight.
i was burning up a fever all this time;
on my knees begging for the cold.
i didn’t know it was just another test.
the same old pattern, another cycle to break.
i choose to break the wheel rather than turn it.
to walk away from the illusion of a promise.
away from grey areas and uncertainty
and looking for hope in planets and stars.
i look back on my past and i can see it now.
the turning point, the moment i knew they
weren’t for me but still couldn’t bear to let go.
my tolerance bled dry faster this time.
even though i didn’t want to look at the truth,
even though i just wanted to hold on.
my heart cries out to be seen in all her glory,
to be held on more than just the back burner,
to be saved for something other than a rainy day.
and for the first time i hear her.
for the first time, i choose to walk away.
#148, ‘For The First Time’ by C.A. Beviss
#mywriting = my writing (shock)
#jacky rec = jack abbot fic recommendations
#huckleberry rec = dennis whitaker fic recommendations
snippet sunday
from the next chapter of oxford city boys
It still had gotten later than Peter had expected when he finally shut the front door behind him, leaning heavily against it for a moment. It was quiet in the flat, which most likely meant that Hope successfully had put Penny down to sleep and probably was in bed already herself.
He stripped off his coat, then, every movement feeling like it was too much. Peter felt tired to his bones, an exhaustion he could barely describe, a dull sentiment that was dragging him down. The imagine of the dead body was constantly with him, terrorising his every waking thought when he tried to think, establish the case and the facts and follow Morse’s ideas and theories.
He almost jumped out of his skin when the door to the sitting room behind him opened and his wife poked her head around the corner.
“Thought I heard something. Pete.”
Her voice was soft and warm, and Peter forced himself to take a deep breath to calm his racing heartbeat, trying to give her more than a wry smile.
“Wotcher, luv,” he greeted her as she approached him, arms wrapping around his body from the back and she pressed a tender kiss against his neck. It didn’t make him feel any better.
“I thought you were asleep so I was being quiet,” Peter explained, his body rigid under the gentle touch of his wife’s hands.
“I was reading for college.”
March of Pain: Days 4 + 6 ❤︎ LIES + REVEAL
- Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog
- Whumpees: Sonic the Hedgehog, Miles “Tails” Prower
- Warnings: None
- Word Count: 196
- Summary: After Sonic assured his friends he was okay, they all left on their own solo adventures. Tails comes home to find out Sonic didn’t tell the truth.
A/N: No happy ending. No comfort. Post Frontiers.
-
“You said you were okay!”
[[MORE]]Tails felt childish. He felt childish and small and-and hurt and worried and scared and stupid because he felt that way. He’d been all around the world, visited nearly every continent. He was smarter than all his peers. Smarter than some adults! He knew how to fly a plane! He’d been on amazing awesome dangerous global adventures! He’d been to space!
He shouldn’t feel scared or small or helpless. He was ten years old! Double digits!
But as he stared at the unresponsive form on his brother’s bed, it was all he felt.
Tails’s lip started to tremble against his wheel. He could already feel his eyes watering, and he held the tears back as hard as he could. Sonic never cried! So he wouldn’t either!
…But it seemed Sonic didn’t tell the truth either.
In an impulsive burst of emotion, Tails grabbed his brother’s shoulders and shook! “Sonic!” A hiccup bubbled up out of the kit’s throat. “I’m home! I - I’m back! You said - You said he wanted to hear all about m-my adventure!”
Dark red and electric blue flickered in dull green eyes.
Tails’s muzzle was getting wet.
“SONIC!”
a despair so deep
to rival oceanic trenches
is dispelled
by something so shallow as want
Chris Argent in Light, We Carry as Armor
I’ve gotten a few comments about Chris Argent on my Teen Wolf FF on Ao3, and I wanted to meta a little about it here on tumblr. I honestly love these comments because yes. Chris Argent can be read as a Disney princess 🤣 ( in FF at least) I mean surrounded by creatures, always in the woods, always getting picked up, thrown around, etc. This HC always makes me chuckle. Spoilers for my fic below… link to the series in the title.
[[MORE]]For me, I’ve always looked at him as a complicated character. A good solider, afraid to step out of line. I definitely wrote him like that in A Father’s Vengeance. I think at first, he’s an antagonist. But the more the plot is revealed, the more we find out that he is holding to a code on conduct that he thinks everyone else is also holding to and they are not. I think it causes him to think about his place in his family and what is actually right and wrong throughout the confrontations with his father, with Claudia, and the other Hales.
He was raised by Gerard to be a werewolf hunter, to be the best, but he doesn’t have that streak for sadism like Gerard and Kate. I think his father tried to manipulate him, but sensed early on that Chris had a defiance to him that would have outed Gerard if he stepped out of line, so Gerard didn’t recruit him into the more sneaky schemes.
I think that as he learns more and more about Gerard’s plans, it was easier to just step aside and let what happens happen. He doesn’t interfere in Peter rescuing Claudia, he doesn’t interfere when the alpha attacks Gerard, and he doesn’t go after the Hales in the aftermath. He just lets the events take over.
I think part of this is compartmentalizing, because his father can’t be that bad, can he? Kate couldn’t have done those things to Derek, would she? Even if it’s staring him in the face, it’s going to take time to deal with those things. Because if that’s his family, what does that make Chris?
I think he desperately wants to do the right thing and in his world, the right thing is following the code, and making sure that werewolves don’t step out of line. But when it’s his own family stepping out of line, that is breaking the world he’s created for himself, and that causes the conflicts that we see going on where he doesn’t actively step in and be the hero, but he doesn’t continue to be the bad guy either. Hence the Princess handwringing that the commentator is referring too.
i used to think that everything would just fall
perfectly into place by fate, but really everything happens for a reason. it’s cause and effect. i do this, which causes something else. say for instance, i meet up with my first love for coffee, by doing that i could ripple meeting my soul mate that’s actually meant to be only for a second of reassurance and nostalgia. that will end up just hurting me more and causing me to be blind to the people that actually care and love about me. it’s really interesting to me how everything just sort of connects to each other. how does one believe in fate but also believe that we choose. like love, you fall in love and meet technically by fate and chance, but you choose to stay and make it work, you choose to stay in love. no one has ever chose to stay in love with me, everyone always gives up when things get hard and that might be because i’m hard headed and so scared of things going south that i plan for the worst, and inevitably the worst always ends up happening. i think about it sometimes if i had more hope in those situations where i would be with some people, but at the same time if i’m not with them then, how could it be for me to be with them in another instance if everything happens for a reason?
(an excerpt from my teenage mind)
-love, merc
Sneaking, Sniveling, Communist Snakes
What leg do you have to stand on?
You, in your ivory towers and gated communities
Your security guards and motorcades.
What do you have to say
about the human rights
Of a vile dictator didn’t get his way?
Oh, how terrible it is!
The pedophillic, gay hanging, woman raping
monster
Was crushed under twelve tons of rubble!
Oh, how awful it is!
For Jews to defend their sovereingty
The only gateway of sense and civility
in the cradle of humanity.
You have nothing to say about the deaths
of native Persians
Who have languished and suffered
For Forty-Seven years
But you have quite a lot to say
about obvious propaganda that falls your way
So I say
From the bottom of my
Anglo-German, heterosexual female heart
Shut the fuck up
Kneel down
And bare witness to the atrocities
you so easily handwave away
You don’t know suffering
You breathe depravity
You kiss the heads of dictators
You scorn and the liberators
Oh, I could wish death upon,
but that isn’t the Christian thing to do
Instead I will wish
for you to get what you desire
I’ll teleport you to Yemon or Lebenon
So you can truly feel what its like
To be without power
Sneaking, sniveling, community snakes
@gsirvitor @theconstitutionisgayculture @ned8-back-again @nonenosome2 @inwardhardar
Tagging those who MAY enjoy this poem.
Hi! Oh my gosh, thank you for the ask, I don’t mind them at all, I love them 🙂↕️♥️
1. It doesn’t really mean anything; I picked it once as a kid and it stuck. In Dutch (my language) it sounds like Biggetje (Piglet) and I thought that was cute 😂😂🫶
2. While I very firmly do NOT have the headcanon that it makes him destined to die young, I do think it takes an uncreasing toll on him as he gets older. More days to recover, more pain, more days of fatigue etc 😓 But I’m also a happily ever after person so I’m hopeful he’ll have an easier time accessing wolfsbane and that other improvements/inventions may be made to make werewolf life easier ♥️♥️
3. Thank you for asking about my WIP in Five Year’s Time — I’m so excited you’re reading it and that you care enough about it to come chat to me!! Yes, I’m planning to end it around the time they finish their sixth year at Hogwarts, so the story will cover one school year (the year five years after they met and five years before the marauders fall apart, hence the title). And yes, it’s set in the canon universe/time line (but we know so little of what actually happened during that year in their lives that it means I can still almost pretty much write what I want 😅). Also! It’s finally updating again this weekend! Thank you for your patience ♥️♥️
Thanks again for your ask, I hope you’re doing well too 😊🫶