girl with the marks on her wrist

Permanent Ink

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Soulmate AU; Sixth Year Hogwarts

1,420 words

Draco is sixteen when it happens.

The inescapable, the invariable, the inevitable.

A strange, searing, effervescent kind of pain spikes through the tangled nerve ending of his wrist halfway through a potions lesson. Ink bleeding through veins into skin.

And he knows, is the thing. Understands that he’s been given a clue to decipher and a puzzle to solve and a loose-threaded soul that will somehow match the stitches in his chest.

He spares a glance across the room. At the girl seated beside the pearlescent, seething cauldrons of Amortentia that he had failed to smell any scent from just a month earlier. Before a mark, a soulmate blossomed across his wrist and -

Her fingers are knotted together as she stares up at Snape. He can see the shadow of her profile - all parted lips and sloping cheeks, a sharp nose and delicate eyebrows - thrown against the floor in a swath of dust cluttered sunlight.

He allows himself a scrape of hope that its her, spelled out across his skin. That he’ll have an irrefutable, undeniable excuse as to any he wants her so desperately.

After all, the magic never lies.

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Based off this post

Canon until 205

For most of her life, Lena’s soul marks were nothing less than very confusing.

Lena was four when names formed on either wrist, written in dark ink. It was two weeks after she’d been adopted, and the marks added to the horror of everything changing and the peace of everything coming together that was rushing through her even as a child. Her adopted brother Lex had grinned without reading the names and given her a high five that somehow meant the world.

Scrawled across her right wrist in a curling, slightly rushed font, was the name Kara Danvers. This was confusing, if only for the first 16 years of her life. For years she wondered why another girl’s name would be on her wrist? She couldn’t be her soulmate? This Kara Danvers was destined to be her enemy, right? Then Lena was 17 and Rebecca Lewis took her to see a bad movie and they held hands and kissed softly at the end of the evening and everything became easier.

Well not everything.

Because of the other name on her other wrist in neat, simple writing.


Who the hell was Supergirl?

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Little Do You Know(P. 1)

Title: Little Do You Know(P. 1)
Pairing: NewtxReader
Warnings: None in this chapter
Summary: Soulmates share everything in this world, wounds, bruises, scars, tattoos. One day the reader draws on her arm with a sharpie and later that night she gets a response.


“That’s so crazy!” I exclaimed, giggling as Thomas took Tylee’s hand, flipping over to write ‘my girl’ on her wrist. He smirked as he held his other hand out and we all watched as each letter he wrote on her appeared on his skin. 

I beamed and hugged my best friend, taking the marker from Thomas and writing ‘Y/N was here’ on her shoulder. “Aw come on, that won’t come off unless she washes it off of her!” Thomas complained with a laugh as he looked at the mark on his shoulder. 

“That’s the point!” The smile on my face not fading. I was so happy to see that Tylee had found her soulmate and that it was Thomas. They were clearly perfect for each other. 

Newt and Minho made their way over to us, I watched as Newt looked me over, a usual guarded look in his eyes as he joined in the conversations. Minho wrapped an arm around my waist and laughed at the writing on Thomas’ shoulder. “Should have wrote something about Thomas’ grand face-plant in gym class today.” 

The Brit snickered, patting Thomas on the back. “It was quite a sight to see.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes and then looked over at Minho. “So what’s going on here? Are you guys a thing or what?”

“You know that’s against the rules, Tommy.” Newt said carefully. 

I lifted my eyes to glance at the lanky boy, before feeling Minho bristle up behind me. “You don’t know that, Newt.” He replied, his voice toned in a warning. 

“Yeah, I mean sometimes the marks don’t hit until a certain point in your life. Tylee and Thomas were just lucky that he decided to fall asleep at our last party.” I chuckled, trying to lighten up the mood. 

Tylee rolled her eyes, rubbing at her forehead. “I had the word ‘Douchebag’ written on my forehead for hours!” 

“It starts when you’re 17.” Newt responded. “You’re 17 now, right?” His eyes glanced over to mine. 

“Well yeah, but I only turned 17 a month ago.” I turned the sharpie in my hands. 

Minho watched it, taking my hand carefully in his. “It doesn’t matter. Soulmates can be friends, they don’t have to be…together.”

I looked over my shoulder at him. We knew that wasn’t true. It was law. It was how we remained loyal. You only married and had a family with your marked one.

“Well…Have you tested it?” Thomas asked, pointing at the sharpie. “I mean you two are joined at the hip, I’m sure you’re meant to be together.” 

Minho rolled his eyes, taking the sharpie from my hand. “Alright fine.” 

I looked over, watching as Newt uncomfortably switched his weight and shoved his hands far into his coat pockets. “What should you draw?” I asked with a giggle, holding my hand out so he could draw on my wrist.

“I got it.” He chuckled, nipping my earlobe before popping the cap off the marker. His hand held the back of mine, thumb running over my wrist before he started writing. 

I stared down with a grin as he drew a check mark with two boxes, the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ written next to each box, a heart underneath. My eyes lit up and I couldn’t help myself, I took both his hands in mine, flipping them so we could all see. 

It was quiet for a moment before Thomas cleared his throat and Minho took his arms back. “Whatever, this soulmate stuff is dumb anyways.” He grunted before kissing my cheek. “I got to get to track.” 

“Call me later.” I said quietly and then waved as he jogged off. 

“You okay?” Tylee asked, watching my facial expression closely. I scanned all their faces and then gave a small smile, shrugging lightly. 

“Of course!” I tossed my backpack onto my shoulder and leaned down to tie my shoe. “It’s not a big deal. I got to get home though. I have chores.”

Tylee frowned at Thomas, but the two waved goodbye anyways. Newt giving a small nod, keeping his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket. “You’re gonna skate with me tomorrow, right, Y/N?” Newt asked, a hopeful smile on his face. 

I grinned and gave a nod, heading out towards the school parking lot. As I walked, I looked down at my wrist and frowned, sighing softly. Somewhere in this world, someone else had the same mark on their wrist and they had no idea why. 

Later that night I finally finished my chores and laid back on my bed. I stared up at the ceiling for awhile. As much as I was happy for Tylee and Thomas, I couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy that welled up in the back of my eyes, escaping in small quick tears. 

Biting my lip, I looked down at my vibrating cellphone and saw Minho’s picture. Sitting up, I grabbed it and hit the answer button. 

“Hey Min.” I smiled softly, holding the device to my ear. 

“You okay, Y/N?” He instantly asked, I could hear the worry in his voice. “You’re not seriously upset about that marker thing are you?”

I sighed, laying back on my bed. “No…I’m fine.” 

There was a pause on the other line and then he cleared his throat. “It’s not gonna matter, right? We have feelings for each other, soulmates or not.”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. Another tear escaping down my cheek. “I know. I know, but it’s just…That’s how it’s supposed to be. We’ve always been taught that.”

“And you don’t want to go against it.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I’d be going against everything I’ve ever known…” I tried not to cry, biting at my lip. “It’s not like I wanted this to happen, Min….Of course I wanted to see the writing appear on your wrist. It’s what I’ve been waiting to happen.” 

“But it didn’t.”

“It didn’t.”

“So we’re just gonna be…”

I shut my eyes. “Friends.” 

He was quiet for a bit and then I heard him sigh softly. “If that’s what you want, Y/N.” I could hear some noises in the background and then he gave a small chuckle. “I got to go…I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Alright.” I smiled softly. “Night Min.”

“Night, Y/N.”

I hung up the phone and set it to the side, holding my hand up in the air, I twisted my arm slightly to see my wrist. My eyes widened lightly when I saw a red check mark suddenly appear in the box next to ‘yes.’ 

I jerked myself up and out of bed, grabbing the closest pen I could find. My heart was beating out of my chest as I brought the ink to my skin. 

Can you tell me who you are?

The Mark

For the @omgcp-tropechallenge​ Trope #1: Soulmate AU // on AO3

Eric didn’t know of anyone who had initials.  His parents had each other’s names.  His father even had “Suzanne” and not just the “Suzy” that he called her most frequently.  His moo maw had his pa paw’s full name too.  Only one of Eric’s cousins had a soulmate.  She hadn’t known who her soulmate was because Elena had only known her by her dead name until the girl had come out.  After that, Eric knew this meant that the marks know, so Eric had always thought he’d have a boy’s name on his wrist.  Not this.

Still, Eric did his best to find out what it could mean in the weeks following his sixteenth birthday.  He couldn’t find any stories of people having initials, though he did find a lot of stories about platonic soulmates, either because they were in love with other people, or because one or both were aromantic.  He also found stories about people who had multiple soulmates.  Some were in polyamorous relationships while others were on some sort of team or in a group.

But all those people had a list of names on their bodies, not initials.

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hermacusa  asked:

seraphina's favourites would be princess and the frog and brave. and beauty and the beast probably. seraphina going out and getting a vinyl player and making queenie dance with her. seraphina leaving red lipstick marks all over queenie's neck and the inside her wrist. girlfriends being girlfriends.

do you see her?? she’s smitten ––– queenie definitely experiments with different recipes and cooks dinners. they have romantic candlelit dinners on random weekdays. queenie gives really great massages. also breakfast in bed. it happens. 

love on queenie ( always accepting )

First Meeting

A little thing regarding my OC’s.

Amber shoved her jumper sleeve down into her hand. The Mark was growing. In a month, it had grown from a single stroke on her wrist to a complex pattern that ran the length of her forearm. It wouldn’t be long until she could no longer hide it.

She walked briskly down the suburban street, keeping away from the light shed by the streetlamps. It made sense. The Mark was meant to be disruptive. It was a notice, a signal to let venatoras know that she had Evaded death. She was not meant to be alive.

Her safehouse wasn’t far from here. She knew a girl who could place strong, but temporary, shielding enchantments. But they’d only last a day more at most. And she was running out of favours.

She suddenly felt off. Amber quickly spun around and scanned the path behind her. A few leaves danced in the light breeze. Nothing seemed out of place. Still, her hand tightened around the club hidden in her jumper, and continued forward.

She heard the footsteps before she heard the panting. There was a short man running straight for her, but his eyes were squeezed shut. Nevertheless, she stepped back behind a nearby tree.

Amber planted her feet on the ground. He was five meters away now. She readied her club, primed the swing…

He stopped. The man bent over and placed his hands on his knees. Amber did not lower her club. He fumbled around in his backpack, looking for something. When she saw his eyes, she realised he was a civilian. She unclenched. Stepping forward, she lowered her eyepatch to cover her orange eye and hid her weapon.

His head jerked up when she came into view.

“Sorry!” he gasped. “I didn’t see you there.” He stopped, and hesitantly put up his hands.

Do you sign, he asked, moving his open hands in opposing mirrored circles in front of him. His face was hopeful, but held a prepared resignation underneath.

Amber sighed. Today must be your lucky day, she replied. I do. Why were you running? And why are you so okay with running into a mysterious stranger in the middle of the night?

I’m scared of the dark. And I forgot my torch. The man shrugged. My name is Myles. Nice to meet you.


Her mind immediately went to the torch that hung off her belt. She groaned inwardly. Was she seriously considering giving it to him? She did notice how he clung to the light offered by the streetlamp. She begrudgingly unhooked it from her belt and offered it to him.

Be careful, she signed after he took it. The dark likes to play tricks.

The man smiled at her. He seemed harmless enough, but Amber still felt uneasy. Her first instinct was to leave, to get out and find another route home. But she didn’t obey it.

That was her first mistake.

As soon as she began to ask if he would be okay, they were both surrounded. The venatoras had found her.

Myles noticed them first with a jerk of his head, and moved closer to her when the four of them stepped into the streetlight.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Herring.” A short lady stepped towards Amber, her charged baton at the ready.

“That’s kind of the point,” she retorted, taking out her club. “It’s nice to see you again. Been a while since Coober Pedy.”

“You’re not the first to run. I Marked you, I’ll find you.”

“Oh, so it was you. Thought I could smell the Ochi stench.”

Myles nudged her. “What’s going on?” he said.

Amber grunted, then stuck her club underneath her arm. That lady and I have met before, she explained. She has been…looking for me.

“Watch it, Herring. Or I’ll have to take you in by force.”

“Sheesh, first you Mark me, then you won’t let me translate for the guy?”

“Fine. Are you nearly done?”


“Who is he, anyway?”

Amber ignored her, and returned to signing.

Here is my plan. I will attack her first. Everyone will go for me so that will give you a chance to–

“This is taking too long,” muttered one of the men behind her. She saw Myles’ eyes grow wide, and she fell back as he pushed her to avoid the venatora’s lunge.

Amber quickly got to her feet. Everyone was heading straight for her despite Myles in their way. Of course they would ignore the civilian.

She rounded back behind the first man and felled him with a smack to the head. It didn’t take her long to down the next two, but not without getting some electrified jabs from their batons. Her Mark would grow even faster now.

It was just her, Myles, and Ochi now.

You can run if you like, she signed to him. I can handle her.

“Don’t think I won’t take extreme measures, Herring.”

“Are you sure you can take me? Those were your top agents I just took down, no?”

Ochi only smiled, something which put Amber on edge. She always had to have the last word. So why was she just looking at her?

Amber didn’t hear the creak of the branch above her, nor did she feel the weapon that knocked her unconscious.

She could never see well in the dark, so it was all too easy for her to miscount.

There are lipstick stains on my wrist
from the girls
I used to be.

Red tries.
She tries, and tries, and tries.
She doesn’t care that she leaves
a scarlet ring on the neck
of every bottle.
She marks her territory like a lioness,
and when she tries to scrub the colors from her face they drip into the sink
like blood, blood, blood.

Pink wants to be better;
she cries at sunsets
and makes her bed.
She doesn’t skip class
or drink too much or bury herself
like a treasure chest.
She lives a dream.
There is no difference between sleep
and waking.

Purple is strange.
She doesn’t mean to be.
She means to keep up.
Instagram in the morning,
red wine in the evening.
She skips her pills,
she skips her meals.
She is a record player and everything
is fine,

I wear these girls on my sleeve and I hear their whispers in my ear.
They sing and they screech and they want out.

I paint my lips in shades of black,
I lock my drawers at night.

—  Lipstick
The Mark - Part 1

In a world where everyone is born with a Mark on their wrist, Felicity Smoak is not. She never grows it either. Soulmate AU. Sort of canon. One-shot. Mild Angst.  

When Felicity Smoak had cried for the first time upon entering the world, Donna Smoak had cried with her, looking at the miracle she had produced, falling in love with her beautiful baby girl at first sight. She had kissed her tiny little fingers and counted each toe before the haze of motherhood had cleared enough for her to check her wrists for the Mark. 

She hadn’t found any, but her baby had only been seconds old and it would come later. Donna hadn’t given it a second thought. 


When Felicity had been four, she had waddled down on her little feet and in a t-shirt that said “I wuv hugs” to see her mother washing the dishes. Her eyes had gone on the Mark on her mother’s wrist and with an intelligence too much for her tiny brain, she had asked her what it was. 

“It is a soulmate Mark, sweetheart,” he mother had replied, not looking away from the dishes. 

“What’s a souwwate mark?” Felicity had furrowed her brow at trying to pronounce the difficult word. 

Donna had looked at her then and smiled at her toothless daughter. 

“It’s the Mark that only you and the man you are going to spend your life with have, honey.”

Felicity had blinked and looked down at her wrist, staring at the clean patch of skin. “Why don’t I have one?”

Donna had been quiet for a few seconds before pasting a smile on her face. “It will grow soon, honey. You are so young, my little nugget.”

Donna had tickled her daughter, masking her own fears and worries in her giggles.


Felicity had been seven when she had started noticing it on everyone’s wrist. Some had a weird smudge, some had distinctive designs. She had nothing. Just pale skin with what her mother called veins. 

Her mother had explained to Felicity how the Marks attracted each other and then you could identify your mate with it. Her mom and dad had the same marks and they loved each other and Felicity smiled whenever she saw them. 

The day her daddy had gone somewhere and had never come back, the day Felicity had seen Donna Smoak destroy herself had been the first time in her little, intelligent life that she had been grateful for not having the Mark. Some pains were better left without being felt.


Felicity of sixteen was nothing sweet and everything sassy. Having always been ahead of her peers had afforded her a kind of ostracism she had never wanted. Her peers had been cruel in not only picking on her intelligence but on the fact that her wrist was a blank space with nothing to show for her destiny. 

They would rub their own Marks in her face when she passed the corridors, tell her she didn’t have a mate because who would love a freak like her, and though she had accepted that she was not a late bloomer, in fact she wasn’t a bloomer at all, their taunts and words haunted her at night and every time she thought about it, she felt a pang of something akin to pain and loneliness go through her chest. 

She left Vegas and cruelty behind the moment she got accepted in MIT, started wearing heavy bracelets so no one could see her empty wrist and went goth so no one would dare to. 

But she knew. She knew she did not have anyone the universe had for her. And seeing the same knowledge in her mother’s eyes everyday had gotten to be too much.


Felicity had met Cooper in her last year of college, at eighteen, since she graduated early. Cooper had been smooth and the first boy to show interest in her. And she knew he had a Mark of his own, but for the first time, she had gone ahead, ignored her conscience that told her to back off, and forgotten her loneliness, if only for a little while. 

But every time she lay on the bed and looked at the ceiling, her wrist would be the lead weight on her gnawing heart.  


College and Cooper were two things she had left behind. After everything that happened, she had felt guilty for taking away someone else’s mate away from them. She had become with Cooper what she despised in herself. Never again, she had promised. 

So, she changed looks, changed cities and started working in Queen Consolidated as the quiet, shy nerd who kept to herself and let go of her filter to put off anyone getting close to her. It became a habit. 


She had gone in to keep a file in Mr. Steele’s office when she had seen the picture. Oliver Queen had been a constant presence in her life since she had started working in QC. Employees talked about him, his playboy, reckless ways, his untimely death, his everything, all the time. 

Felicity had heard of him but never really paid a lot of attention. And then she had seen the picture of a dead boy and had the same pang she had had her entire life, only worse. 

And she had walked out of the office. 

Felicity Smoak was twenty-one the first time she saw Oliver Queen in a picture.


Her wrist had become a topic of discussion in the office as well. She had been in the ladies room washing her hands and the biggest office gossip had been next to her. She had looked at Felicity’s wrist, scandalized and then pitiful, and left. The news had traveled to all the floors in a quick 30 minutes. 

Felicity Smoak had been a nobody by choice till then. Suddenly, she had become the office gossip of the year. 

That was the first time she had cried in the office bathroom.


Oliver Queen had come back from the dead like only people on TV shows did. But his return had the entire city buzzing, with curiosity, with interest, even with happiness. 

He was in her office two weeks later. Right in her cubicle. And he looked even better than he had in the picture. 

Felicity had talked. He had smiled. And then he had put a bullet-holed laptop on her table and her eyes had lingered on his wrist. On his Henley covered wrist. 

For the first time in her life, Felicity Smoak had wondered about someone else’s Mark.


She had joined what she liked to call Team Arrow in her head (even though Oliver denied it) months ago. She had found in Digg a brother she never had and in Oliver a friend. She had never had those. And she was pretty sure she was also in love with Oliver even though she’d never tell him that. He probably had Gorgeous Laurel’s Mark on his wrist. 

His wrist was a mystery to her. While Oliver paraded shirtless all the time and liked to show off his supremely exquisite body despite the scars, he kept his wrist to himself, always wearing gloves or full sleeves or a watch, hiding it from anyone. She understood that. He was Oliver Queen and his Mark would make the paparazzi go on a manhunt. 

Digg showed her his mark though. And he never asked about the lack of hers. Never had any pity in his eyes, just warm affection. Both of the men did. And that made Felicity more at home in the damp foundry than she ever had anywhere else.


Months passed. They got through the Undertaking, Tommy’s death, Sara’s return from the dead, Slade’s return from the dead, so much, as a team. Roy joined in and he became another man in her life who never questioned her lack of mark and made sassy comments to people who even looked at it. 

Sara used to look at her wrist a lot, with a kind of speculation in her eyes. Felicity never understood since her wrist had never inspired that particular reaction. 

Barry had been a breath of fresh air with his own Mark. He had also been the first person to ask her outright about it with curiosity more than anything else. She had really appreciated that. And told him what she had known for her entire life. What she hadn’t told him was what she had only known for a few months. Oliver.


She sometimes caught Oliver looking at her wrist when she would be typing and he’d look away as soon as she caught him. She never understood that either. 

Oliver liked to touch her. She had noticed that. He was never as tactile with anyone as he would be with her. Soft smiles, touches on all platonic places. Those became their thing before she had even realized. 

Oliver getting back with Sara had hurt, a lot. She had known she didn’t have any right to him and his Mark had to be destined for one Lance sister or the other. But Sara had been genuinely nice and super amazing and even though looking at the two of them crushed her heart a little every time, she never hated either of them. She could not. Not for finding in each other what she could not in anyone.


The touches had stopped since Sara came. Felicity had kept a smile on her face. 

Digg had noticed. Felicity had kept a bigger smile on her face. 

Her Mark, lack of it, had become her curse. 


It had been after Slade, after Sara, after the fake ‘I love you’, that the touches had started again. It had been after this, on a night in the foundry, when the team had been having drinks and playing truth and dare childishly, just having a quiet night in, when things had changed. 

The bottle had stopped at Felicity and she had opted for truth. Roy had, for the first time, asked her why she didn’t have the Mark. Oliver had growled a low “Roy” and Felicity had sighed. 

“I don’t have a soulmate, Roy,” she had said softly, the truth so deep inside her bones, as she looked at the bottle on the ground. Then, she had laughed it off. “I’ll probably be a really old cat lady. Except I am allergic to cats.”

They had continued the game for a little while but Felicity had been out of it. So, she had excused herself with a smile and picked up her bag, leaving. 

She had been trying to control her breathing, walking to her car, when she had heard Oliver jog up to her. She had turned with a smile on her face but it had frozen at the intent, focused look in his eyes as he strode up to her. 

He had stepped right in to her personal space, gripped her face in his huge palms and slanted his mouth over hers with a vigor she had never felt from him. He had kissed her with a ferocity that made her toes curl and her stomach fall to her knees, her entire body shaking as their mouths meshed and tongues entwined. 

Oliver had pulled back after long moments of kissing her, sipping from her like she was all the nectar he needed to live, and looked down at her with those beautiful blue, blue eyes. 

“Pull my sleeve down, Felicity,” he had said in his soft, husky voice, the one he only used with her. 

Her heart had stopped. Her eyes had widened and she had tried to pull away. Oliver seriously could not be that cruel, not after kissing her like that, not after everything. 

He had held her in place, his eyes intent. “Pull my sleeve down,” he had commanded again.

Mouth trembling, the pain filling her, she had closed her eyes and tugged at his sleeve, feeling the material slip up his muscular forearm, and stopped, her heart hammering so loudly she could feel it in her ears. 

“Look at it, Felicity,” Oliver had ordered in that same voice, still holding on to her face. 

Mustering all the courage, she had opened her eyes to look at his earnest ones and let them flicker to his exposed wrist. And everything in her body had stilled. 

Oliver’s wrist had been blank. As blank as hers. No smudge, no shape. Nothing. Just flesh and skin and veins. 

Stunned, she had looked back at him, to see him smiling softly at her. 

“I don’t understand,” she had stuttered. Wasn’t he supposed to have Gorgeous Laurel’s Mark? Or Sara’s? Anyone’s?

Oliver had touched his forehead to hers, his thumbs moving on her cheeks. 

“This is my Mark, Felicity,” he had whispered. “Just you.”

And she had closed her eyes, feeling the years of stigma and pain flow out finally, understanding finally as she stood there with the man she had loved for so long, the man who was her hero in every sense of the word, saving her yet again from herself. She understood. 

Sometimes, you didn’t need the Mark to find your soulmate.

Sometimes, they just were.

Tagging beautiful peeps under the cut.

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There was a girl in my class
When I was just the age of twelve
Who would draw marks on her wrist
Each time someone hurt her
And when I’d ask why
She’d say it’s to remember how many
For when she got home

“You’re stupid,” could be one
While “You’re fat,” could be five
But on some days, one could be more
And one could be less
I never understood why
Anyone would make those pen marks
And then those permanent ones at home

There was a girl in my class
When I was the age of thirteen
Who wore long sweaters
And smiled more than enough
That disappeared in the year
And no one knew where
But we all had that hunch

One attempt, two attempts
Three attempts, four
And no one wants the four
To become the more
Because then there’s a mess in our hands
And everyone’s to blame
And just walking on eggshells around them
When all they want is to be treated normal

There was a boy in my class
When I was fourteen
Whose smile could brighten blackouts
Whose eyes could shoot through your soul
Who never realized
That he was so special
He could stop wars
With just a laugh
And he had no idea

There was a boy in my class
When I was fifteen
Who could conquer the world
If he just had the money,
With financial problems
Deeper than the ocean,
Who didn’t ask anyone for anything
So he wouldn’t be a burden,
But instead sat around
And hurt while everyone complained
About not having the new phone
And he had none at all

There are all these people around me
While I am sixteen
I have not talked to these people
In quite some time
And I can’t help but to wonder
How they must be doing
How the scars are healing
And how the heart is too
How the self esteem has managed
And how his family has too
But I hope for the best
From me to you

—  I wonder if they could tell they’re the ones mentioned in this
mundane magic


It wasn’t always that Elena dressed in period-appropriate clothing, but the last thing she wished was to draw attention to her (maybe?) date. So, for a change, she wore regular dark jeans, a jacket and a shirt with a cat pattern, looking like a regular 20-something girl in the 21st century. The ever-present leather bracelets were on, hiding her wrists, and she waited nervously inside the café they’d agreed on meeting five minutes early. Elena had picked a booth by the back, discreetly located, tapping her red fingernails against the side of her glass of water. There was a mark of crimson lipstick by its lip, and Elena had to stop and check her own reflection on the window every 30 seconds to make sure the lipstick that still remained on her mouth was yet to be smudged.

Although it was most likely an irrational thought, Elena kept wondering if she would be stood up. As she’d already told Dutch, it was her first date since the mid-1920s, her first date with her now dead spouse, Anika. Comprehensibly, Elena was nervous, even if Magnus had already given her the run-down of 21st century first dates about 6 times already.

Anxious, Elena forced herself to stop looking at the clock for an unknown period of time, before she picked up on the aura she’d recognized as Dutch’s entering the café, accompanied by the ring of the bell. Immediately, she straightened up, checked her reflection one more time before pretending to be ‘chill’ (as kids said these days) and that she wasn’t already aware of Dutch’s presence in the shop.

Soul Mates : Michael Clifford/4

Requested: nope

Word Count: 246

Prompt: Every time a person falls in love a red line, like a tally, appears. When the love is permanent, it turns black therefore they found there soulmate. The line becomes a scar when the loved one dies.

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ssadrblake-deactivated20150114  asked:

Since no one's sent you anything, how about Barry/Iris + 1 if you're up for that?

Iris West has far fewer soulmarks than a girl her age should by the age of eleven. But the ones she has are strong; her father’s love marked at first touch by a rich forest green mark on her wrist. Her favourite aunt has left a sweep of a rich magenta at the side of her cheek. Even her mother, who she never knew, has left a surge of beautiful royal blue on her foot.

No one her age has left any trace on her. She doesn’t know anyone who’s had a strong imprint, of a lifelong companion or a lover, just friendship marks up and down people’s arms like a veritable rainbow.

Maybe that’s why Barry Allen’s streak of bright red, dotted with yellow, left when he gets her playing tag in the playground confuses her. It’s a big deal; teachers shepharding children away and Iris refuses to touch Barry back. Every soulmark she has is this strong; maybe it’s a quirk of hers.

It isn’t wrong though, whatever it’s supposed to mean. He quickly is her best friend, her companion on every adventure, following her down to the police station. But she never touches him on the skin. Even when he moves in. It becomes second nature, and no one questions it; Barry touches Iris, and Iris doesn’t touch him back.

For fourteen years, she keeps it up. Only then Barry gets struck my lightening and is in a coma, and no one knows if he’ll ever wake up.

The first time she visits, she watches from the door. Going in there makes it real. The second time, she makes it to the chair beside the bed. The third time, a nurse sticks his head in and goes, “You can talk to him, you know?”

“Does it actually help?” Iris asks.

He’s fiddling with the IV bag, switching it out with a new one. “No one knows. But a lot of patients, they say they can hear people. Or hands. Touch is important.” He narrows his gaze. “You have to know he’s important, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”


“You’ll work it out.” With a smile he turns out the door, leaving Iris alone with her thoughts.

Barry has to be important. She’s got the evidence of how important she is to him, startlingly clear on her arm, the mark that has never dimmed or faded and causes questions wherever she goes; whoever that person is, dear, they must love you very much.

Iris just doesn’t know how she feels about him.

But there’s an easy way to find that out. Barry’s hand is just there, lying on top of the sheets. Iris reaches a hand out, lifts his wrist where it’s still covered. She laces her fingers through his, touching as much as she can, and says:

“Barry Allen, if you can hear me, you better wake up.”

She closes her eyes as she withdraws her fingers. She waits; for Barry’s breathing to become clearer, his voice, some sign that he’s woken up. There’s nothing. She has to open her eyes. She’s never going to know otherwise.

She blinks them open, momentarily blinded by the harsh glare of the hospital light. Barry looks just as he always does. His eyes are still shut, the IV is still in his arm, the faded orange soulmark of an old friend on his neck. Only there’s something different:

His hand is a vibrant, brilliant cerulean green.

Might I make free with your lettuce, my lady?” Mark was saying to a girl with bright pink hair and a pile of salad on her plate. She pushed it toward him, grinning. “You’re gorgeous,” she said. “Even with the fake elf ears. Forget the lettuce, you can make free with my-”
“All right, you’ve made your point, enough.” Julian took Mark-who was cheerfully eating a baby carrot-by the wrist and tried to draw him toward the door. “Sorry, ladies,” he said as a chorus of protests rose. The girl with pink hair stood up. “If he wants to stay, he can stay,” she said. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m his brother,” Julian said
—  Mark & Julian, Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight)