#since it's a writing to write challenge

[kessielrg]

I feel so sorry for myself when I actually get into the major choices that branch into different endings. Things are going to look a LOT less organized. xD

[loveanddeepsecrets]

“I don’t want a sleepover…”

Ft. Caleb

⤠ A headcanon turned one shot inspired by a couple’s prank I saw on TikTok

How I’d imagine the LI’s would respond to you when you say you don’t want to spend the night anymore. This would’ve been shorter, but it felt hollow writing bullet points & quotes (I had to set the scene LMAO) so it’s a series now.

⤠ I’m not confident calling this a fic, but this is my first time writing in a fic-like format, so please bear with me if the tone of voice is off

⤠ Tags: Caleb x gn!reader, needy Caleb, fluff, angst if you squint, inaccurate timeline (I think? Mentions Springfresh Day but takes place a few weeks after Lucid Dream myth)

⤠ ft. Xavier| ft. Zayne| ft. Rafayel| ft. Sylus|

⤠ Word count: ≈1.3k (mostly proofread)

It’s the weekend leading up to Springfresh Day, and Caleb insisted you stay with him in Skyhaven because the white Fringetrees are perfect this time of year, and you hardly see any in Linkon. His excitement paired with the laundry list of activities he planned, had you thinking this would be the perfect time to try that couple’s prank you saw on social media. Caleb knows you too well you when it comes to petty, almost juvenile pranks, so you knew time was of the essence.

You two decided to enjoy the warmer weather and fresh blossoms by roller skating around the city to commemorate the new season. The afternoon was scenic and lively. A day filled with festivities like sampling small bites at food trucks, to browsing local street vendors, to strolling through the park, now ends with a race back to Caleb’s apartment.

You hunch over holding your sides, sore from laughter. Your eyes are misty from the wind and tears, but you successfully manage to reach the end of the hallway to tap his front door.

“You’re unbelievable!” he pants, finally catching up to you.

“I only learned from the best! Don’t beat yourself up.” you tease.

Though you’re a skilled and nimble hunter, your muscles still ache from today’s mini excursion. You lazily roll into his living room and faceplant onto the plush sofa. Caleb, trailing close behind you, lets out a small chuckle as he plops himself next to you to remove your skates.

“Ya know…I would’ve carried you back, but you just had to try and best me again didn’t you?”

“It was starting to get dark, and you said you wanted to chase the sunset!” you retort while painfully turning on your side. You let out a low groan as he starts to massage your calves.

“I didn’t mean for you race me! Besides, we only have this weekend together pipsqueak. I don’t want to chase time when I’m with you.”

He grabs your leg to pull you onto his lap and plants a quick peck on your cheek. A comfortable silence lingers between you before he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You knew it was cruel, but with his guard down, relaxed your embrace, now seemed like the perfect time to try the prank.

“Caleb…” you say quietly.

“Yeah?” he replies teasingly, matching your hushed tone

“I don’t think I want to sleep over this weekend.”

You feel his muscles tense under your hold. He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours filled with concern and confusion.

“Wait, huh?”

“I don’t really feel like sleeping over. Today was so much fun— believe me I had a great time, but I kinda want to be by myself for a bit.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “Why? What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know. I just like the feeling of being in my own bed right now.” you explain, slowly pulling away. The sadness in his voice grows more apparent.

“You know I’d never expect you to share a bed with me when you come over. That’s why I made sure you had your own space. Is your bed not comfortable?”

“No it is! It’s just— not the same as laying in my own bed at my own place you know?”

You were confident you could save face until he gave you that look. You know the look. The one with hurt and helplessness in his eyes whenever he can’t read you. You know he hates feeling like you’re hiding from him.

He slightly shifts under you and reaches for your hand. He softly traces his thumb back and forth along your knuckles.

“Ever since we were kids, the only time I’d see you chicken out like this is if you were really spooked by something.” He stops tracing his thumb and gives you that look again.

“You’re not scared of me, right?”

Your heart sinks and you start to falter. “Of course not, I��”

“I know you still need more time to trust me again—”

“Wait, Caleb—”

“And I want nothing more than for us to get back to the way we were before. But if you’re serious about heading back to Linkon, I’ll let you go under 2 conditions. 1: I drive you back to your place. I don’t care that it’s far. Our time is shorter now, and I want to spend all that’s left of it with you. Plus, we haven’t had a good road trip in forever.”

He hesitates a bit before grabbing hold of your hand once more to continue.

“And 2: At least stay for dinner? I sorta bought the ingredients already to make your favourite.” he added shyly.

You didn’t expect this side of Caleb to lay bare so soon after you agreed to give your relationship another try. Then again, you were far from strangers. His vulnerability paired with the sad puppy eyes always failed you when you were kids, and it was about to fail you yet again. Finally, you give in; cupping his face, your words spurt like rapid fire. “I’ll definitely stay for dinner…and dessert…and breakfast later. I don’t actually want to go back, it’s a prank. I saw it online and wanted to do it to you—I’m sorry!!”

Caleb lowers his head in disbelief at your admission, laughing to himself. He leans back, dragging both hands down his face with a heavy sigh.

“You got me.” he concedes defeatedly.

You’re as relieved as he is at his reaction. But the moment quickly passes as you seize the opportunity to gloat.

“You were gonna make my favourite huh?”

“Don’t start, pipsqueak.” he warns.

“And you were right about the road trip. It’s been way too long. When will we actually go on one this time?”

He looks at you for a moment before answering.

“Whenever you want.” he says earnestly.

Taken back by his sincerity, a warm flush spreads to your cheeks. You try looking away, but his face follows your gaze, and he closes the little remaining distance between you. His lips nearly brush against your ear, “You owe me.” he whispers with a hint of mirth.

Before you can respond, he curls one arm under your legs and scoops you off the couch. You yelp and quickly grab hold of his shoulders for stability. You flick his ear for startling you.

“You still have skates on, are you crazy?! We’re gonna fall!”

“Well pips, you bested me 3 times today, and every winner deserves a victory lap, right?” He slowly glides his way around the living room.

“You tricked me into racing you, you tricked me with that cruel, sick prank and now you’ve tricked me into making your favourite tonight. I was actually planning on makin’ it tomorrow.” he says as if he’s revealing a big secret.

“Please, you would’ve made it tonight if I asked anyway—oh! And the road trip!”

“And the road trip” he adds, playfully rolling his eyes. “Always a sore winner.”

“So that’s me: 4 | Caleb: 0. What do 4 wins get me?”

He smirks mischievously and holds you tighter.

“A victory lap at 4x speed.”

“Wait, no—!”

But you were too late. Caleb was already zooming throughout his apartment at breakneck speed; skillfully weaving around furniture and sharp corners ensuring you don’t bump into anything.

Your eyes shut tightly as you held onto his neck even tighter, laughing and squealing. The speed, mischief, and sounds of shared giggles, briefly transported both of you back in time with memories of a young Caleb running around the house with you on piggyback. Always chasing the clock until you’re inevitably caught by grandma with a new punishment and long lecture.

ꨄ︎ A/N: Thanks for reading! Likes and comments are appreciated as always. Writing dialogue in the tone of the LI’s is the hardest part imo and this was certainly a challenge. This took weeks to write on and off no lie. I think I’ll stick to tiny drabbles and headcanons once this is over

Side note: Why is it so hard to find Caleb fluff? I’ve been searching so long to find some on here but it always ends up spicy! Nothing wrong with that, but I want more lover boy Caleb 😤 (If you know of any pls lmk!)

Dividers by: saradika-graphics and @/strangergraphics

[deputiized]

i will breach the battlefield and die a cold lonesome death for folly. being dead serious rn. i cannot believe they dressed her in a button up for valentines day

[year-of-whump-tropes]

Here's the tentative list for the first month! It may change a little as I finish the rest of the final prompts list, but it's something to start with at least. And I won't be picky about it if you create for the prompts as they are now instead of the finalized version given how late I'm finishing things.

January: Living Weapon Whump

Week 1: Dehumanization

Day 1:

Weapon name/number/designation

What was your first experience with whump?

Day 2:

Skill presentation

“Keep your dog on a leash”

Day 3:

Treated like an object

What kind of living weapon whumpee most appeals to you?

Day 4:

Transported as cargo

“It’s not like it’s a person”

Day 5:

Assessment

What kind of dehumanization do you find most fun as a trope?

Day 6:

Self-dehumanization

“Just leave it.”

Day 7:

Maintenance

Not being acknowledged

Week 2: Emotion removal/repression

Day 1:

Emotionless

Going through the motions

Day 2:

Breaking down

“Are you okay?” “I have not sustained any damage.” “I meant like…emotionally.”

Day 3:

Silent tears

Attack dog living weapon or killing machine living weapon? Why?

Day 4:

Leaning into conditioning to escape the pain

“Weapons don’t have feelings”

Day 5:

Detached

What part of living weapon whump most appeals to you?

Day 6:

Unsure how to feel

“Something’s wrong.”

Day 7:

Malfunction

"It's better this way"

Week 3: Orders and obedience

Day 1:

Blind obedience

Mission

Day 2:

Target practice

“You’re a weapon, aren’t you? So fire.”

Day 3:

Killing on command

What’s the most challenging kind of character to write?

Day 4:

Contract(s)

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Day 5:

Unreasonable orders

What’s your favorite setting for living weapon whump?

Day 6:

Chain of command

“You have your orders.”

Day 7:

Reluctant obedience

“You're not meant to think, you're meant to do as you're told”

Week 4: Defiance

Day 1: 

First assignment

“Never.”

Day 2:

Refusing to do harm

“Don’t touch me!”

Day 3:

Desertion

Would you be defiant or compliant as a whumpee?

Day 4:

Re-conditioning/going back to training

“Struggle all you want.”

Day 5:

Turning against handler

What kind of handler do you enjoy most in living weapon whump?

Day 6:

Malicious compliance

“It’s useless to resist.”

Day 7:

Made an example

Inciting rebellion

(discussion prompts are italicized, dialogue prompts are in quotes, trope prompts are plain) (prompt fills will not be reblogged before 2025)

[witherby]

the path finding would be so cute when little wayne learns how to walk they just automatically find bruce anywhere or their brothers no matter what

That's what I was thinking! Regardless of the power Flittermouse gets, I'm wondering about how they'd use it to interact with their family members before anything else.

Duplicating? Hmm, two brothers want your attention...two yous to spend time with them both!

Circadian manipulation? Your dad looks awful tired. Maybe if you just tweaked one little thing....aaaand he's asleep! Great!

Shadow manipulation? They're a family of crime fighters that do their best work in the night! You can work with that.

Kinetic absorption? Well, you weren't just going to stand around and let your brother take a bullet, that's just silly.

Pathfinding? What are they looking for? A stray pen or joker's bombs hidden throughout the city? Either way, you know where.

[duusheen]

Pandora’s heart was pounding so hard in her chest that her hand was shaking as she hit the button to unblock Yaoko. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t... that. A part of her, still naive and hopeful, thought maybe Yaoko missed her, that she regretted what happened between them somehow. But no. Of course she’d move on, and of course it’d be with Kenshi. As much as Pandora hated to admit it, the truth was Yaoko never loved her.

[duu-kiwi]

I bet aziraphale wrote about the day the universe was made, about the angel whose voice recited the words that created the stars, about how bright they shone, and still shine, in those angel eyes✨🪐

Here you have some detailss and a cropped version with just!! them!!!

edit: prints link !

[polarmoon]

🌌 percy hasn't spent much time in the back yard lately. he used to spend entire nights in his treehouse, watching nature, reading books, and playing space captain. he must have grown out of it at some point, though - maybe life got in the way.

josie must not be taking care of the grounds very well, percy notices, considering the overgrowth, and the large patches of earth sinking in around poor Old Penelope. pools of water are even starting to collect in the trenches. it's strange though, with how much time josie spends back here, tending to her garden - you'd think she would clean the place up a bit.

what's even more peculiar, though, is the strange flora growing in the pools around the plane. they glow with some kind of bioluminescence that even percy's bad eyes can make out from the top of the treehouse. he can't help himself but to go investigate...

moodlet text:

scared +1 what's going on? from noticing something weird...

these trenches of water around Old Penelope, with their strange, bioluminescent plants, can't possibly be normal. and what's even more curious is that low, faint humming sensation... right below percy's feet.

[akakumoeteru]

Mine!

[thelonelyshore-if]

Beck Propaganda

Who is Beck:

Chaos incarnate, Beck is all fire and passion. He's a character who is trapped, intrinsically, by forces beyond his control...and by his own fear. He's spent his entire life in a dead-end town and he's obsessed with anything that makes him feel alive. Usually that means risking his life. Free climbing radio towers, racing motorcycles, swimming at the top of a waterfall...anything that gets his heart racing. He feels everything up to eleven, and never sits still. Sitting around doing nothing is boring. Beck would rather die than be bored.

Beck is bold and brash and stubborn. She has issues with commitment and permanence. She's terrified of death...but not terrified enough to avoid courting it. When it comes to adrenaline, Beck loves feeling afraid. Fear is how you know you're alive. Other kinds of fear aren't nearly as appealing. She's playful, and teasing, and brave as hell.

Beck's Romance:

In a way, Beck's romance is a jumbled pile of contradictions. It's one of the fastest romances, because everything about Beck is fast. They don't wait around for anyone. They're flirty, and they're quick to let MC know that they're interested. What's the point in waiting around twirling your thumbs and pining over somebody when you could make out about it instead? On the other, Beck is terrified of commitment. Kissing someone is great--dating them is harder.

Beck's romance might be good for someone interested in a will-they-won't-they sort of romance. It will bring up a lot of feelings for Beck that they don't know what to do with. How do you let yourself fall in love with someone when the sheer thought of being in love is terrifying? They want to be with MC...nearly as much as they're scared of it. All in all, they're one of the harder ROs to pin down...for better or for worse.

Beck Inspo:

[daeyumi]

Cycle of the Stars: Prologue II

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60104758/chapters/158660371

Prologue II

Ipseity

***

23rd day of Rising Sun

It happened again today. That uneasiness, a looming duress; like thunderheads come at last to devour the hungry sky. A catalyst. It seems a portent of things to come. I feel it when I walk the streets of the town, a grim wind between the crowds. Not in their faces or in the busy markets, vibrant as always. But I feel it all the same.

Reports are the same as ever. Monsters to the west, far across the sands; dispatched by the party who brought the news. An unconcerning pattern. Our people are strong, we carry the wind and the sky in our swords.

All is well.

And yet….

Current emotions: apprehension, stability, resilience

24th day of Rising Sun

I passed by her effigy. I didn’t intend to, lost in thought and wandering the back streets of my city, away from my pretensions and the relentless eyes of its denizens. I’ve walked these streets so many times, day by day over the years, the markets, the inn, the homes of my people. Our lives.

I know them like the tracks on the back of my hand, each line a story, an introspection, a defiance. I do not walk the path that leads to her. Always taking alternate routes- a lifetime of avoidance, of cowardice; a king hiding like a rat from the burning glare of a sun that was never meant for me.

And yet I saw her. That abhorrent goddess. Weathered stone worn smooth by the ardent consecration of many hands; an immutable effigy to match its subject. She leers down at me from her hallowed alcove; her cold eyes watching me, freezing me, judging me. Using me. She would use me if she could, as she has so many of my predecessors. I reject their fate, as I should have rejected their path and tread another.

Sometimes I think I should have chosen a different name, far removed from this accursed title and its implications. But the associations persist, groundless; and so I remain.

Current emotions: defiance, wistfulness, steadfast rejection

25th day of Rising Sun

I keep running it over again in my mind. Did I feel this way before? Yesterday? This morning? There’s no evidence. My records show the same; the persistence of my resolve unequivocal in these pages.

I feel they’re plotting against me. The goddesses.

Every movement I make, I suspect interference of a higher power. A puppet on divine strings, a doll tossed to the callous earth and left to rot amongst the refuse, swallowed by avarice and the fetters of eons spent in limbo.

I wonder if she smiles down at us as we fight and kill and die in her name like playthings.

I will wander no further down this path tonight; I have other matters to occupy my mind.

Current emotions: introspection, suspicion, anticipation

26th day of Rising Sun

The merchants whisper of strange disappearances across the sand, some travelers claiming to have lost contact with inhabitants of the far dunes.

Swallowed to the earth without a trace.

These allegations are unsubstantiated at best; yet still I am forced to consider the implications of an unknown actor upon my lands.

Current emotions: scrutiny, quietude, steadiness

27th day of Rising Sun

Another skirmish broke out on the northeastern border with Hyrule. None of our own were lost, yet I cannot but suspect that larger pieces are in motion. For today, I remain grateful that all my warriors have returned to me.

Current emotions: peace, requital, suspicion

28th day of Rising Sun

I couldn’t sleep last night. My dreams were filled with faces; features scratched out and incomprehensible, looking down on me from a formless haze of revelation. So many in their number that a thousand lifetimes could not count them, and yet so few that they seemed only One. Flaying the skin from my bones with their judgment until nothing remained of me but the crest upon my right hand, tattered skin peeling back from the bone and shredding, fragmenting, returning to the sand in all corners of the world; scars releasing their hold on their captive and fleeing to the edges of my vision, absolved by the light in the piercing eyes above. And still those etched triangles remained. I felt my eyes recede into sand in the wind as I woke, my consciousness ebbing to the void at the same time it returned to me in wakefulness.

And yet nothing disturbs us in my waking hours.

Current emotions: foreboding, apprehension, resistance

29th day of Rising Sun

They say a Hero has appeared. They say he heralds a great darkness, the misfortune only endowed upon those forced to the wrong side of fate. The Hero’s rise has only ever spelled desolation for us. It’s the same damned prophecy I’ve been running from my whole life. The Princess, the Hero, and the sinistrous man held fast by the thrall of the dominance forced upon him by birthright.

I see my deepest fears laid to light before me. Strung out along my path like corpses wrung by the neck, withered husks prefacing a descent to erasure. They beckon me forth with voices of autonomy and empty promises.

Is there any other recourse to be taken than to wait? For if I make a move now, I throw myself willingly down the same declivity of actions as all those who came before, abandoning my will to providence and to the whims of the curse upon my flesh.

Current emotions: unease, disgust, rejection

30th day of Rising Sun

Hyrule wants war with us. They won’t state as much, but I see it in their eyes; the way they look at us, at me. Blame.

The envoy arrived this morning with an air of finality. Only a handful of Hylians; ambassadors and their guards. That woman striding brazenly at their helm. That Gerudo-turned-traitor, come to accuse us; burying the intent of Hyrule’s words beneath pleasantries and clarifications. Hiding behind the swords and shields of a so-called honor guard.

Their precaution is telling enough. And their adjurations when we spoke has only strengthened my conviction.

I spell it plainly here, so my future self can recall these terms without influence or bias- above all else, I must know my own thoughts. They suspect us for the monster attacks that threaten their kingdom; they claim the border skirmishes are waged in self-defense, citing raids on the settlements at the fringes of Hyrule. For disappearances and deaths. Brutality.

I demanded proof. They had nothing to show. Only discarded shards of bone, warped beyond recognition. A splintered, massive claw, serrated at its edge; holes driven through the carapace as if awaiting new growth from within. The tip of a weathered blade, blood rusted upon its surface. Nothing but refuse and remnants and blame. Blame for the past. Blame for the future. Blame for the unknown and the secret and the goddess-scorned and the false. They left in a stone-faced resolve, disappearing in the haze of heat across the sun-smeared dunes.

They’ve said nothing about the whispers of the hero. Is it ignorance, or subterfuge? And what does it say about my own state that I am unable to discern between the two?

I ill wish for bloodshed, but I will do what is necessary. Always.

Current emotions: tension, regret, unease

31st day of Rising Sun

I’ve begun to wonder if I’m overthinking this.

Perhaps what I sense is merely a facet of the larger scope. If the enmity I perceived was instead representative of a more tangible threat. I’ve had time to reflect upon the events of the past few days; and now having a clear sense of Hyrule’s intent, I fear the threat of men over formless cosmic interference. War. Or perhaps she has once again played me for a fool.

And when my senses fail me, I can trust nothing more than my own writings.

Current emotions: doubt, intrigue, contemplation

1st day of Zenith

I feel once more a fell wind upon our city. The masses pray in earnest to their delusory goddess; beseeching salvation from a burden which should never have been theirs to bear. I do not begrudge them their faith, though I wished they had chosen a better target for their prayers.

Current emotions: contempt, rejection, stability

2nd day of Zenith

Nāori brought the report today. One of our scouting parties did not return from their sortie; a routine patrol to the southwestern border. They were expected back at dusk two days past; a search party already dispatched to their aid. This development... it weighs heavily on my mind. I wait until the morrow, but no further.

Current emotions: impatience, unease, worry

3rd day of Zenith

Trouble. A giant pit in the sands. My soldiers are missing. Glass sphere. Vast abyss. I will write more as time allows.

Current emotions: anxiety, resolve, anger

4th day of Zenith

I found them.

I set out yesterday at dusk, after one of my soldiers returned bearing news that their scouting party had been swallowed by the desert. She cited a massive pit in the wasteland like a giant abyss; it opened up suddenly in a in a flash of searing cold, rending a hole in the dunes. Isa is her name. She claimed herself the sole survivor, witness to the desecration. I have no reason to distrust her, though I am forced to consider the possibility that she is an agent of a higher power, sent to lure me away. I go forward regardless. I will not risk the safety of my people to send another.

I tread the long path to the southwest, to the cruel corners of the desert, following Isa’s footprints until the sand reclaimed them; tracking my soldiers by the moon and stars alone. Out to the far reaches of the kingdom, away from the border with Hyrule.

I saw it there.

A gaping fissure in the earth; a compressed sphere of sand above, its surface glassy and dark as if burnt by the sun, forging a black eclipse in the arid sky. It cast an ominous presence above me. I descended along the cliffs in the midday sun, finding rest along the shallow crevasses in the sun-baked earth; seeing no one, hearing nothing. Only the wind howling rough across the entrance to the abyss. The further I plunged, the more the cracks in the walls opened up, pushing deeper into the earth like the seamstress’s needle on coarse cloth. I found the entrance to the cavern far below; a tunnel rough-hewn but steady, unnatural.

I beheld the first signs of despair upon that threshold.

Empty eyes. Twisted, broken limbs. Once familiar faces contorted into mockeries of amity. Blood on their bodies and the floor and the walls and the ceiling; glittering rubies dyed crimson with the sunset draining from the sky, leeching the color from ashen skin. The final nightfall before the end.

Rhine. Luka. Ryza. Fyrani. Palu. Osa.

Their bodies haven’t even started to decay yet. Maybe it would be easier if they had. Perhaps then, they would not be so easily recognizable. That I would wish for the desecration of those I should have mourned…. The cycle begins anew like violence welling up beneath my skin.

I never want to forget this feeling. Numbness; ineptitude; guttural, sickening, twisted fury. I dared not move for fear that I would act upon my impulses. I refuse to allow her a way in.

I will not become her tool.

…

The silence has afforded me the time to write, but little else. I wish it were not so. I sit with them still, one final vigil in the gloam.

It is all I can offer them now, ill solace that it is; this and the promise of vengeance with every breath I take.

It is not enough.

It will never be enough.

Current emotions: wrath stability, perseverance, vengeance

—NO—

preservation

***

I cannot sleep.

I remember the carnage on the sands. Standing amid the corpses of a dozen grown men. A child. The feeling of the spear haft in my grip, battle hardened and slick with blood and sweat, sticking between the crevasses of the treated wood and freezing my hands in place. And I remember Sumiira’s eyes. Holding me, pleading. Not for her life, but for mine. She was wrong. Unseeing; the vitality in them extinguished by the ring of persecution laid lifeless at my feet. And all I could think about was what I could tell our mother. Feeling even then that I had already fallen victim to the curse of my forebears.

Enough.

If I have time to write, I have time to search.

Tonight I will return my soldiers’ remains to the desert, and press forward into the hungry earth. There are still more bodies unaccounted for.

5th day of Zenith

I am running out of time. I swept the catacombs from the early hours of the morning til the sun disappeared once more from the tenuous horizon, dripping light from the edges of the hollow eclipse hanging over me. Unable to sleep, unable to rest.

These tunnels reek of her influence. “Divine intervention”. It seeps into the floors and the walls and the air, clawing it’s way into my throat, infecting me from within. I hear voices calling in the darkness but I dare not open my mouth to respond, for fear that she will use that ingress against me.

I make haste to the depths of the labyrinth now, wondering if I lead myself to the precipice of my demise.

Current emotions: unease, impetus, melancholy

6th day of Zenith

There are other corpses still, in the tunnels. I passed ever more in my descent: those unfamiliar to me in their garments and features. And some of our own. Rotted flesh flayed beyond recognition. The stench settled heavy around me as my footfalls broke the requiem to sully the tainted ground beneath me. Alone, I walked the winding crevasses beneath the sands; alone I searched in vain for the last of the unaccounted for.

I heard them, first, but suspected another trick of the fetid air. Their silhouettes came into focus as I rounded a corner in the catacombs, stone-still and broken. But the bodies that crouched amid the blood and rubble still drew breath— their eyes desperate and wary, reflecting back the firelight of my torch. Five living in total. Makure cradled her sister’s limp body in her arms. All of them bore wounds. Even so, knowing that they yet lived strengthened my resolve and justified my quest; I was more relieved to find them than anyone may ever know.

I forged on.

I left the survivors but long enough to confirm the passing of the final two missing women; laid cold and solitary at the back of a dead-end passage. Time spared no kindness for us this day. I honor the dead by reconciling the living.

We returned through the winding paths of the chasm, ascending; emerging once more to the surface under the watchful reign of hardened glass, sun piercing the sky around its edge. I brought my warriors home. Delivered them hence to their families and their lives, carrying the wounded on my back and the dead in my heart. Yet still I feel the weight of an imminent future upon us. Tonight, I ordered the southwestern dunes closed off. I haven’t the numbers to investigate this anomaly further; and my own attention needs be turned to preparations for the inevitable conflict ahead of us.

I feel her eyes on me still; scorching my back in the candor of the sun, binding my hands and committing my mind to preclusion.

This is not the end.

Current emotions: foreboding, resolve, resistance

[Exerpts from the diary of Ganondorf, 71st King of the Gerudo.]

[lilianhuas]

i love three artistic gentlemen who made one of my most favourite films of all time Queer (2024): (Daniel Craig (William Lee), Director Luca Guadagnino, & Drew Starkey(Eugene Allerton))

[starry-bi-sky]

no context snippet for a "SY is SJ" au i thought of at 1am last night, because i am a firm believer of the "amnesia doesnt erase your trauma it just erases the context of it" agenda.

(although in SY's case he DID kinda forget that trauma.. at first. it's coming back to him. the system gave him a grace period. there that's my excuse)

crossposted on ao3 too in case anyone wants to read it there instead

--------

Shen Qingqiu is painting again.

He's found himself doing that a lot lately, now that he's out of seclusion and Binghe is in the bamboo house, squirreled away into the side room where the Head Disciple should be. Painting is, of course, a logical course of action for a peak lord to do! Especially one such as himself, the Peak Lord of Qing Jing, which was basically the peak of the creative arts.

But— well, he wasn't expecting to find himself liking it so much. Or doing it so often. Painting in the style of the time period is a lot easier to learn than he expected, and it gets him B-points for in-character actions! Who knew the Original Goods was such an artist of the time? He had such an evocative way with his brush, he should know — he's found some of his works!

(They were tucked away like a dirty secret in the back of his closet, locked away in a qiankun chest that Shen Qingqiu found the key to far too easily. He’ll admit to being a little disappointed in the Original Goods’ predictability — a false bottom in the vanity, really? Anyone could find that!) 

This brought him to his next issue; he was getting headaches, and he thinks, perhaps, just a little, that the Original Goods' thoughts and feelings were bleeding into him. Just a tad! And he was certain it was the Original Goods too, because— because, well…

He keeps flinching. You know how you’re walking down a public but otherwise empty hallway, and turn the corner and nearly run right into someone, and your heart jumps three spaces to the left and back? Subconsciously you knew there was a chance you were going to see someone, but their sudden appearance still startles you? 

Yeah, that. He keeps experiencing it with Binghe. He about jumps right out of his skin whenever Binghe emerges from the side room or the kitchen, even though he knows his disciple is there! And he knows it’s not a habit from his old world, because Shen Qingqiu lived with three other siblings in the house, and always knew to expect someone to be right around the corner. 

And he knows, especially so, that it’s not a habit from his old world, because along with the mini heart attacks that come with Binghe’s presence in the bamboo house, is the discomfort. A distinct yet indistinguishably vague feeling of unease that comes with sharing a living space with someone. The kind that makes his hackles rise like a particularly disgruntled and cornered street cat. 

Again, he grew up with three siblings! That could not be coming from him. It has to be an Original Goods feeling slipping in, and it was really getting in the way of things! How was he supposed to give Binghe a sense of belonging and a better upbringing if his presence in the bamboo house made him feel horribly exposed?

Some days, he just can't escape the gnawing feeling of dread in his chest when he returns to the bamboo house at the end of the day, knowing full well that it will soon be accompanied by someone else. Even if that someone was Binghe. 

That feeling of a lack of privacy makes his skin crawl and his shoulders lock up to his ears with every step. It was inconvenient; annoying. 

It was utterly unscientific, it was his house! And it was only Binghe, who, currently, is a harmless little white sheep! There was no darkened protagonist here, come to tear his limbs off. There was nothing to be so… tense about. 

It does nothing to stop the little swooping his heart does when he opens the door to, sometimes, Binghe already there, kneeling at the table like a dutiful disciple as always.

Oh, and that's not starting on his steadily increasing dislike of physical touch. It had to be something to do with the ludicrous amount of layers he wears and the modesty standards of the time period — and, also, of course, the Original Goods' own aversion to it.

He knows he's never felt so uncomfortable in another human being's presence before! Sure, he wasn’t the most social of people in his old world, but he still remembers being able to leave the house and be among the masses with relative ease. Here, though, was an entirely different story. His personal space bubble seemingly doubled, no, tripled in size, and it was irking him quite unhandily. 

The worst offenders were the Peak Lord meetings, it had to be. Navigating through the sea of disciples, cultivators, and visitors on Qiong Ding was a nightmare enough on its own — lessened only by the fact that said mountain occupants parted like the red sea when they saw him coming — but sitting in a secluded room with eleven other people, majority of whom still disliked him despite his turnaround? Awful.  

The proximity between him and his martial siblings isn’t even that bad, either. He has plenty of elbow room and in fact, would need to make an effort to reach out and physically touch anyone on either side of him. But, still!! Too close!! 

Shen Qingqiu made the conscious decision to sit as close to the door as his own comfort would allow, but not so close that he couldn’t see it — he tried that once. He doesn’t want to speak of the incident. The stress alone will give him heart palpitations. 

(He, pointedly, doesn’t want to think about the time he arrived at a Peak Lord meeting and found the Long Ning Shou Peak Lord sitting in His Chair either. Shen Qingqiu has never been particularly territorial about ‘assigned seating’ before, up until that moment. While he’s proud to say that he didn’t do anything to Chen Qingxuan for sitting in his spot, he’s mortified by how childishly petulant he felt about it for the rest of the meeting. He’s pretty sure everyone could sense his sour mood.)  

Why, just a few days ago he nearly bit a poor disciple's head off during martial lessons when they accidentally tumbled into him after a series of spectacularly fumbling footing. The child had been so horrified and apologetic that Shen Qingqiu remembered to reel himself back in time and merely scold them, rather than tear their skin right off with a tongue lashing.

But— enough about such stressful things! Shen Qingqiu was painting, and when he was painting, Binghe knew not to bother him, and to not let anyone do so either. Lest they all be dealt with a moderately grumpy Shizun. 

(His emotions may be as volatile as a hormonal boy lately, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to keep them in check!! He still had a reputation to keep.)

His studio offered him a sense of privacy and solitary that not even his bedroom allowed him — for Binghe could knock on his bedroom door to alert him for whatever needed his attention, and while he could do the same to the studio, the fact remained; a Shizun interrupted during his precious studio time, did not, a happy Shizun make. 

There were silencing talismans painted into the walls — courtesy of the Original Goods — that Shen Qingqiu really quite appreciated. It allowed him the peace of mind to do things his face could not allow him outside of it— and that is, he got to muse aloud to himself, and hum songs from his old world that he couldn't anywhere else. Some songs that he still knew the lyrics to, he was happy to half-sing under his breath.

It had to be a form of meditation, it had to be! With how much peace and grounding it brought him, it couldn't be anything but a form of meditation.

Currently, he was just letting instincts lead his brush strokes while he hummed a melody from some myth musical he stumbled across a few weeks before he died. The songs had been so catchy that he had most of them all but memorized! He's tried repeating the instrumentals on his guqin and ruan with varying degrees of success.

Painting helped kill his migraines the most. As it stands, he’s had a killer one hammering at his skull since this morning. Bad enough to the point that he nearly snapped at poor Binghe during breakfast, and the child could all but sense the sour mood radiating off his master, and in turn had been silent and subdued until he left. 

Aish, that child… Shen Qingqiu hasn't quite quelled the guilt in him. Something about that awful subservience rankled him in a way he couldn’t explain, making him want to recoil and snap out at the same time. Something dark and deep in him had reared its head, wanting to reach over and shake Binghe for it. 

He'd been horrified by his own thoughts, and then locked himself in his studio for the rest of the day.

Even in death — or wherever the Original Goods was — he was still making things difficult! It was only natural that Binghe would go quiet and careful at the sight of Shen Qingqiu’s bad mood, he used to beat the boy at whim for imagined slights! He’ll have to reassure Binghe better that he wasn’t going to hurt him. 

Bah. He was supposed to be painting, not thinking about things that made his head pound worse or his mood dampen more! He didn't want to think about Luo Binghe right now — a surprise, even for him! — he wants to focus on the scent of ground ink and paints, and his own soft humming.

He blinks, once, twice, and focuses on the painting. It happens, like now, that he would zone out and paint entire landscapes, people, whatever, without realizing. It was always a guessing game of what he's made when he lets his mind wander. Some of things he painted were merely of Qing Jing, other times— 

— a burning red fire, encased on canvas, hangs off his eyelashes. And following it, the ensuing qi deviation he'd shoved off. —

Other times aren't worth mentioning.

He's painted a boy this time, a young one, with dark skin and even darker hair, and a smile that isn't quite right. There's a beauty mark right above the corner of his lip, artfully placed, as if it had been hand-placed by an expert craftsman. The boy's upper face remains unpainted, as if he’d been born without eyes. Yet, even without them, the boy looks completely serene and non-judgemental. Mn, no, perhaps more accurately he looks passive? Peaceful? 

Shen Qingqiu can feel his gaze, missing as it is, burning into him. He frowns immediately. His headache no less lessened, in fact— he thinks it's gotten worse. There’s a horrid familiarity about the boy in the painting, like a word poised on the tip of his tongue that he can’t quite place. "Don't look at me like that." He says aloud, bah, he hadn't meant to! But it’s not like there’s anyone to hear him. "Don't you know who I am?" 

En, no, it’s placating. That’s what it is. The boy is placating him. How unscientific! Unneeded; ridiculous. Why would he paint a boy trying to placate him? He was a scum villain, and a grown man!

The painting says nothing, as it ought to, it was only wet ink and dry parchment. Shen Qingqiu's ears burn anyways, and his eyes drop down to the smile on the boy's face. 

He finds that he deeply detests that smile on his face, it disgusts him. 

It disgusts him in the way only sheer incompetence can, a burn of irritation that bubbles up every time he saw an objectively wrong take in the PIDW comment section. As if he can't believe someone would look at him, a scum villain such as himself, and still be able to smile like that.

More than that, it's not right. That smile. It's— there's something wrong with it. Which can't be right, Shen Qingqiu hardly makes a mistake when he makes these trance-made paintings. But there is, he’s looking at it right here. He hates it. That awful smile. It's so— so… insincere. If you're going to smile at him, at least mean it, eh? Doesn't he deserve that much?

Long, slender fingers dip into the small wooden paint bowl beside him and lift back up, dripping wet ink onto the side table, and then onto the floor, across the last two layers of his robes that he always strips down to in here.

He reaches for the canvas to— to what? Smear that stupid smile off that boy's face? Mould it into his own image, back into place like the way it should be, paintbrush be damned? That wretched child, smiling at him like that. That smile is too straight, too perfect. It's mocking him.

Where is the tilt? The slant in it? That boy always smiled with an off-kilter turn of his lips, crooked, that made him real the same way blood in the mouth did, and now he's not, and it's wrong. He will wipe that smile off the boy's face himself if he must, if only to get him to wear anything else—

There is a knock on the door, gentle, hesitant. Only his cultivator hearing is what allows him to pick up on it. Shen Qingqiu's head pounds terribly at the sound. It makes a screeching sound go off in the back of his skull, like an abrupt kick to the teeth. His jaw clacks together on pure adrenaline as he regains the sense to not snarl wordlessly.

Didn't he say not to interrupt—?

His ink-stained fingers snap back, a gunshot recoil that sends splatters of ink flying and splatting coldly against his face. His nails dig painfully into the soft flesh of his palm, and Shen Qingqiu gathers himself back into his lofty cultivator persona with a single breath and a ramrod straightening of his spine. His ears ring horribly. "What." He calls, perhaps a little too coldly.

"Shizun?" Binghe says softly, and the sound of that child's voice is like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Recognition hits him, and the guilt crawls back in at his earlier irritation. "Forgive this one for interrupting, but Yue-shibo is here."

Shen Qingqiu is still staring at his painting, but the boy’s smile burns behind his eyelids like a fire. It takes half a beat for him to respond; "…Alright," he says, and stands up, "prepare some tea, Binghe. And use the ginger root this master owns, he has a terrible headache."

He walks around the stool, fingers still dripping black, and plucks his robes up from the chair he draped them over. His head still hurts, and there’s a peculiar ache in his heart. He takes his time putting his layers back on, vindictively tying each button and knot leisurely. 

Surely Yue Qingyuan has the patience to wait for this one after he so rudely arrived unannounced, hm?

[myokk]

before it felt like a sin, ch. 1

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 3000

summary: Eloise never wanted to be different.

And yet, her differences are what have defined her life up until this point: growing up as a squib in one of the most prominent wizarding families, being exiled to muggle society, and then attending Hogwarts at the age of sixteen.

She finds herself thrust into the life she should have been prepared for from birth but was denied. As she navigates this new life and her new precarious position in her family, she must come to terms with the fact that maybe what she dreamed of her whole life isn't turning out how she ever expected it would.

a/n: Hi everyone!! I decided to post this here too...I'm slowly going through everything I've written so far, and I want to post each chapter here as I edit them. I'm hoping that this can be a way to a) get back in to writing more, and b) get better at my art as I make full illustrations for each chapter. Let me know what you think!! :)

There is nothing quite as horrible as being a muggle, Eloise thought savagely as she ripped out yet another stitch in the landscape she was embroidering. At least, it was supposed to be a landscape. Maybe with her head tilted to the left and with her eyes almost closed so everything blurred together, it might resemble one. She did just that, trying her hardest to make out some recognizable shape and blast the stupid practice of manually pushing colored thread through a fabric in some sort of -

“And what is this, Miss Babbit?”

Eloise jumped at the sound and looked up at the scowling face of her teacher, and then quickly back down at the tangled thread in her lap. Behind her, she could hear the hushed giggles of the other girls in her class.

“Oh! Er…it’s -”

“How long have you been here?” the woman interrupted.

“One hour…I just -”

“Don’t be smart with me. I mean, at this institute.”

“Five years.” Eloise glared down at her embroidery as if it had personally offended her. It wasn’t like she was actively trying to be bad at everything, but she had the distinct disadvantage - how had it ever come to be that she would be at a disadvantage to muggles? - of not having spent a lifetime being prepared for muggle society and all that it entailed. The last five years had been a monotonous, endless cycle of lessons designed to turn her into the perfect lady: French (a waste of time as Eloise was already fluent), embroidery (a waste of time as the things she embroidered weren’t actually useful), dancing (a waste of time as she was already engaged to be married - why would she bother trying to woo another silly man?), and her most dreaded class of all: etiquette. No matter how many years had been spent trying to assimilate into muggle culture, her thoughts still got muddled when she tried to remember the steps to a dance, or how to properly address the son of a duke.

Did it really matter, anyways, what the other girls thought? She had pretended her whole life to be the daughter she thought her parents had wanted - now she was simply pretending that she hadn’t been thrown into the muggle world without a second thought. What was a bit more pretending - that she didn’t care? That she hadn’t been tossed aside without a second thought?

“Exactly. Five years. And yet, you have shown no progress whatsoever. This -” a finger jabbed accusingly at the embroidery - “is absolutely horrendous. If your parents hadn’t continued to make such a sizeable donation every year, I would have deemed you a lost cause and sent you packing when you first arrived. How your family ever managed your betrothal to the son of an earl is beyond me.”

Eloise grimaced at the mention of her fiance as her teacher clapped her hands together to get the attention of the class - a wholly unnecessary action due to the fact that it was already being given. “Class is dismissed. Please collect your belongings and put them in the correct place. Remember, as future wives and mothers, you must be organized in all aspects of your life. Many of you will be managing important households and the slightest misstep -“ a slight glance to Eloise out of the corner of her eye - “can cause the biggest of scandals.”

Eloise raced to gather her things and leave the classroom before everyone else. No matter how many years had been spent at the school, she couldn’t help but hate sitting through the classes amongst the judgmental stares and snide remarks. Although things had started out shaky at the finishing school - to be expected, really, when you’ve grown up in wizarding society and then are then forced to live as a muggle - it still stung that after all these years, she still hadn’t found a friendly face. She was treated as if she were a pariah: it was as if the other girls just knew that something was different about her. But…wasn’t that the great irony of it all? She wasn’t different than them. She was a filthy squib.

When she first arrived at the school, she was an anomaly. A twelve-year-old girl who didn’t know how to play the piano or who the queen was. It was clear to everyone that Eloise wasn’t the charity case of the school - her parents were obviously quite wealthy - and yet they seemingly wanted nothing to do with her. Whereas the others got regular letters and visits from their family, it was as if Eloise were an orphan. Nothing new to her of course, but to her peers this��otherness aided them in her ostracization.

Upon entering her room, she was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts. Something wasn’t right. Everything seemed the same: a twin bed perfectly made opposite a small wardrobe, a plain wooden desk placed between them. The weak afternoon sunlight shone through the window, illuminating her desk. But…there.

That…

Placed on her bed, resting on the pillow, was a letter.

She never received letters.

Eloise shoved her embroidery under her bed and hungrily grabbed at it, pausing when she saw the address. Miss E. Babbit. The Third Bedroom on the Left… It seemed vaguely familiar to her in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

As she read the letter, though, it became apparent to her exactly why this was. Although not exactly the same as the one her brother had received six years earlier, it quickly became apparent that this was a Hogwarts letter. For her. For Miss E. Babbit.

Hands shaking, she set the letter down on her desk and sat on the edge of her bed. She smoothed her hands over her skirt over and over, taking comfort in the familiar softness as she tried to even her breathing.

How was this possible? She had all but accepted the fact that she was a squib. The shame of her family, a dirty secret to be hidden away and never talked about or mentioned again. Her parents had suspected as much by the time she had turned seven without any signs of magic whatsoever manifesting around her - not even a basic transformation of brussel sprouts to sweets during dinner. It was ultimately confirmed, however, when her own Hogwarts acceptance letter never arrived. She had spent the whole year before her banishment daydreaming about her life at Hogwarts, still optimistic that there could be something magical inside of her. Her brother, Leo, came home every holiday with wonderful stories of his new friends and teachers, and the subjects he was learning at school. Even back then, at twelve years old, Eloise hadn’t been sure if he was actually hopeful she wasn’t a squib, or if he had been trying to prolong the fantasy for her before it all came crashing down.

Although she had had five years to come to terms with her new life, there was still a small part of her that hoped. A small “what if…”. She had tried time and time again to squash that tiny ray of optimism that would escape every so often, tried so very hard to cultivate a hard exterior that wouldn’t let any sort of vulnerability shine through. And that optimism was a vulnerability, after all. It was that vulnerability that had made it absolutely impossible for her to fit in the muggle world, and made it so that she didn’t really want to try.

Five years to come to terms with the fact that she needed a new purpose for her life and…

…not anymore?

Eloise grabbed the letter and greedily read through it again, drinking in all of the words. She paused at the end, thinking. Was this a forgery? Some sort of awful joke orchestrated by her brother? Leo had never been cruel to her in the past; in fact, he was the one who always encouraged her and was the most probable source of the small optimism that remained within her. However, she had no way of knowing how he had changed since she had last seen him. It had been, after all, five very long years. And not once had she heard from him, even though he had promised her through huge sobbing gulps that he would never abandon her. Maybe their parents had slowly poisoned him against her. It would be right on the nose for them, after all.

Looking at the envelope again, however…Third Bedroom on the Left…no. It was too specific. Nobody in her previous life had any reason to even want to contact her again, and nobody in her current life even knew what Hogwarts was, let alone have the ability to convincingly forge a letter just to have some fun at her expense.

A light, bubbly feeling began to spread throughout her body as it sunk in that this was real. She was going to Hogwarts. Soon, a - squinting at the letter again - a Professor Fig would be contacting her and giving her things to study. A huge grin slowly spread across her face and she hugged the letter to her chest as she fell back on her bed. She read through it again. Was it the fifth time already? It felt as though no amount of times rereading the letter would ever be enough.

Eloise got up and walked over to look at the calendar on her desk. She was surprised to see that September 1st was in only two days. The days at the finishing school moved in such a strange, sluggish way. They all felt the same. Monotonous. French and Latin and embroidery and household management and Merlin even knows what else all blending into each other in an endless parade of dusty classrooms and gossip and boredom.

The light feeling left her in an instant as, after years of practice, the optimism was squashed back down. But how will you even get to London? And, her brain added sneakily, you haven’t even shown any signs of magic. Maybe you’ll just be returned back here after they realize their mistake.

No, she thought fiercely, gripping the letter. Until -

A tapping came from the window. A tentative smile returned at the sight of a tawny brown owl with another envelope in its beak. She ripped it open as soon as it was in her hands (again addressed to Miss E. Babbit) and along with the letter a small, purple pouch fell out of the envelope and onto her bed.

Miss Eloise Babbit,

I am pleased to be the wizard charged with such an important task as escorting you to Hogwarts in two days’ time. It is something extraordinary to be accepted in your fifth-year, and as such, I expect extraordinary things from you. I have enclosed a small pouch along with this envelope, and in it are some items that will be vital to you in the upcoming days. I have included books for you to study at your leisure, and a small gobstone that will bring you to our rendezvous point in London. All you have to do is touch it at noon on the 1st and you will be transported instantly.

Your family has not been informed of your acceptance. I am sure you understand why - at this, Eloise scoffed quietly to herself - which is why I will personally be your escort.

I am looking forward to meeting you and bringing you to the sorting ceremony in two days’ time.

Yours,

Eleazar Fig

The handwriting was tiny and spidery and cramped, but it didn’t stop Eloise from reading it with the same vigor as the previous letter and as many times. Finally, she turned to the small pouch that had fallen onto her bed when she opened the second envelope. It must have had an invisible extension charm, because it was filled to the brim with books on basic spellwork and general wizarding history. Professor Fig had no way of knowing, but Eloise had already read many of these books and many more during the year her brother had started Hogwarts, as she had needed to know absolutely everything about what would be awaiting her. A few years may have passed since she had stepped foot in her family’s library, but she couldn’t get the books or their contents out of her brain even if she had wanted to. She had really wanted to forget everything she knew about the magical world when it was confirmed she was a squib but it was a futile effort. As she zoned out during her piano lessons, she would find herself mentally going through the movements to cast different charms.

It was painful to be thinking about things from the life that had been ripped away from her, to know that what she was thinking about would never come to pass, that she would never be able to wield magic - and yet she couldn’t find herself able to stop.

As Eloise picked out one of the books and settled into her armchair, a steely resolve overcame her.

She would prove that she deserved to be there, and was just as capable as any of they were. She would make her parents regret ever discarding her like she was nothing.

She was worthy. She was capable. And she would prove it.

The morning of September 1st dawned cold and rainy. Absolutely perfect.

Eloise had pretended to be sick the night before, and no one had suspected a thing when she stayed in bed long after all of the other girls had gotten ready and headed to breakfast. As the last of the chattering faded away down the hallway, Eloise finally got out of bed and prepared herself for the day. It was difficult to sit still long enough to braid her hair. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling and she had to restart countless times. Finally, she tied the black ribbon at the end into a neat bow and turned to the drawer of her desk to retrieve the small purple pouch she had hidden away.

Everything she deemed important enough to come along with her had already been placed inside: the books from Professor Fig, the hair ribbons gifted to her by her brother many years ago, and some clothing. Nothing else was coming with. She needed the fresh start. Besides, anything else she might need would be supplied, as her acceptance letter had specifically stated that any school supplies would be provided to her.

Waiting the hours before noon came along proved to be more difficult than Eloise had imagined. Time seemed to be moving slower than the molasses that had come with the breakfast sent up to her, the steady patter of the rain becoming a sort of metronome keeping time as she paced back and forth. Wasn’t there anything that could distract her, even for a bit? She glanced at the clock. Only five minutes had passed since the last time. 10.35.

The second hand ticking away in tandem with the sound of rain splashing against her window.

What if this was all a trick? What if she arrived at Hogwarts, and they turned her away because they realized they had made a mistake? After all, why would they admit a sixteen-year-old? Surely she was too old; every other student had started Hogwarts at the age of twelve and had shown signs of magic much earlier than that. She still hadn’t shown any signs of magical capability whatsoever, and didn’t feel any different than she had before receiving the letter. It had to be a fluke.

As her thoughts started veering into the melancholy she was prone to, she shook her head. No. Today was a happy, exciting day. She wasn’t going to squash the optimism down today, not when she needed it most. All of these thoughts she was having were simply that: thoughts. Not reality. Hogwarts never made a mistake, and in all of the history books she had read, she couldn’t recall an instance of someone being turned away at the door. Granted, she had also never heard of someone being admitted so late. But, better to focus on what she did know, which was that she had gotten the letter. It must be right in its assumption that she had magic.

Trying to pass the time was easier said than done. She ended up quizzing herself on all of the charms she had memorized in the books sent by Professor Fig, moving an imaginary wand in the precise movements needed to successfully cast and focusing on her pronunciation. She had studied all of these forms late into both nights she had had the books, and when she would eventually close her eyes to sleep, the wand movements were all she saw.

Eloise was determined that she would receive pity from nobody. Nobody was going to look at her like she was lacking. She had gotten enough of that to last a lifetime, and now that she was given this opportunity she wasn’t about to waste it.

When noon finally struck, Eloise was ready and waiting. She eagerly grabbed the gobstone that was sitting on her desk and felt the familiar tugging sensation in her navel as she was whisked away to London and the beginning of her new life.

next chapter

[necrotic-nephilim]

ok ok but jayroytim😏

this feels especially funny if brudick happens in the background and oliver hates the fact he's now in-laws with bruce

so i have to regretfully admit i'm not really a fan of JayRoy, or at least i'm not a fan of the popular version of JayRoy. i think JayRoy could work and would be a lot of fun! but i have *zero* interest in New-52!JayRoy (or New-52!Roy in general) or rlly any version of Jason and Roy on the Outlaws together. both bc i'm a pre-Flashpoint stan at heart. usually i can stand newer content for ship fodder but for these two oh man it grinds my gears how badly Roy got fucked over-

BUT BUT. that doesn't mean i think the ship has *no* merit. because Jason and Roy *do* have some fodder in pre-Flashpoint. they meet briefly when Jason is Robin, and then again when Jason is Red Hood during that Outsiders arc where Black Lightning is in prison. so! there's definitely material to work with. especially playing into the more fucked up nature of Roy knowing Jason when he was Robin. i think it's cute if Jason had a childhood crush on Roy. and maybe Roy even thought Jason was kind of cute, a spunky kid with a lot of energy and passion. then with Jason as Red Hood, Roy openly doesn't trust him and doesn't like that they're working with him. Jason is just a run-of-the-mill villain with a nasty kill count. and sure, Roy's got a record of tangling with people more on the villain side of things, but even going near the Red Hood feels like a step too far.

adding Tim to the mix is really fun. bc honestly it gives Roy some kind of a fetish for guys who have been Robin and i find that to be delightful. like, even if Roy just sees Jason as the Red Hood, he can't *quite* let go of the image of Jason as Robin. like it just won't get out of Roy's system ever since Jason came back. i think, if i were to write these three together, i'd have Roy and Tim get together first of all people, just because Roy is trying really hard to stop thinking about Jason as Robin, especially now that Jason is older and a little meaner. he's full of guilt about it, and he can't talk to Dick because he's still not sure where Dick's feelings fall about the whole Jason thing so. he goes to Tim instead, thinking if he fucks a different Robin, maybe he'll get it out of his system. Tim's pretty and he's just old enough that it's not *too* morally questionable for Roy to seek him out. it takes a while for Roy to work up the nerves because he and Tim aren't particularly close, so how do you even approach that conversation to make it look organic. it's awkward and Tim can definitely tell something is up but hey, who's going to say no to Roy Harper offering sex? one of Dick's best friends? especially if we put this right after Kon and Bart's death where Tim is just. sort of lonely and seeking companionship. in some ways,, Roy would remind him of Kon, just a little. that sort of cocky attitude and snarky smile.

i would add Jason in by having JayTim happen alongside RoyTim. it's not like Roy and Tim are serious enough to be exclusive and Tim knows Roy is sleeping around, so Tim ends up in a weird hatefucking situation with Jason, which definitely was not supposed to happen. Jason just has a damning way of getting under Tim's skin and won't stop bothering Tim until he gets some kind of attention from Tim. and somehow Jason is interesting enough for Tim to cave. and he doesn't even think about the two relationships he's balancing until he happens to sleep with Jason after being with Roy the night before and there are still marks all over him and Jason does *not* like sharing. so when he interrogates Tim and gets nothing, he does the reasonable thing of stalking Tim to figure out who it is. and it just happens to be the guy Jason had a crush on as a kid.

i think Roy finding out he tried so hard to avoid Jason that he accidentally ended up with the same fuck buddy as Jason would be the funniest thing in the world. like it's not something he can run from anymore and he has to accept that. he tries to awkwardly ask what Tim even sees in the guy bc well, Jason's a killer and not known for being mentally stable. but he's also the guy who exonerated Black Lightning with no real motive besides just helping out. he's complicated and Roy doesn't know how to react. Tim just sort of shrugs bc how do you even explain Jason Todd and well, one thing leads to another and Tim ends up in the middle of the most emotionally charged threesome he's ever been in. love the idea of Jason and Roy using Tim as a toy while they work out their feelings for each other. to me that's the peak dynamic. Jason and Roy are pissed about liking each other and somehow, Tim got roped into things. their relationship is not healthy or normal whatsoever, but somehow, they end up balancing each other out nicely.

background BruDick is also hilarious tho. bc there is no one who hates Bruce more than Oliver and he'd be so annoyed that not only did Roy get tangled up with the Bats, but now everything is so weird their families are pretty tangled together and Oliver has to deal with Bruce a lot more than he wants to. and he's glaring daggers about it the whole time.

[stemmmm]

my wordcounts got no business looking like this