#it’s the only reason i started writing that fic

[atariakana]

I've seen lots of these types of posts lately and with the new year coming up, now seems like a good time to share a personal anecdote:

A few New Years ago--I don't remember exactly which, time is soup to me these days--I made a New Year's Resolution to leave at least one comment on every fic I finished. It is the only resolution I have ever kept for more than like, a month. I stopped commenting on every fic at some point, because some days my brain just Will Not cooperate and it was causing undue pressure for something that was supposed to be fun, but--for at least two years, I kept it up. Some of them were essay-comments, some of them were one sentence, some were just emojis. But I always found something to say, and do you know what? It was one of the best things I've ever done. Here are some reasons why:

1. I got better at expressing myself. At first it was hard to put all of my Big Complicated Feelings about a fic into words, but as I continued to leave comments pretty much daily, it obviously got easier. And this started to bleed into my regular life--it got so much easier to express gratitude, care, and love to my friends and family. The words didn't get stuck in my throat anymore, and it wasn't as hard to parse complex emotions. It genuinely made me a better communicator.

2. I got to make people happy for fast, easy, and free. Sometimes I would spend like 30 seconds just giving my honest thoughts and I would get a reply back that I made an author's week. Their entire week! For just saying what was on my mind! After they made my week by writing something beautiful about a thing I loved! It's, like, the world's best positive feedback loop. You get to TALK to the people making beautiful art and THEY TALK BACK. NOWEHERE else do you get that kind of direct connection, quite frankly. Revel in it.

3. Extra lore drops/easter eggs/explanations for things. I love lore so much and when people construct complex little universes or paragraphs worth of justification for like one (1) throwaway mechanic or trope I eat that shit up. And all of that doesn't always make it into the fic, however, sometimes if you ask for it. The author will just. Tell you. And sometimes, you don't even have to ask, you just talk about an aspect you liked and the author will be like "funny you should mention that" and tell you background you didn't even know existed. Again I say: where else do you get this so easily. Revel!

4. The joy of receiving AO3 emails. This one may sound silly but honestly when most of what I get are promo emails and correspondence I Do Not want to deal with, the little spark of happiness I get from seeing "reply to your comment on..." in my inbox is such a blessing. Between chapter updates and comment replies, there was a period when I was getting like a dozen AO3 emails a week. Do not underestimate the serotonin boost receiving a dozen AO3 emails in a week can give you.

Most of the people I interact with/have interacted with regularly have been in fandom for a good ten years, at least, and so are part of an older fandom culture. But I have gotten glimpses, through posts like this, of a changing climate. People seem to have mistakenly constructed a divide between the Artist and the Consumer. This is a divide that exists, perhaps, for big time actors and pop stars, who are doing a job and getting paid for their work, and who have large numbers of fans who want their attention. But the relationship between fic authors and fic readers is not that of Artists and Consumers--we are a community. Nobody here has legions of fans, we are the fans, and the reason we post anything is in the hopes of connecting with someone over the things that we love. We are doing this for eachother. AO3 comments are not the same as writing a letter to your favorite youtuber or whatever, they are engaging with your community. And engaging with a community is one of the most rewarding things you can do.

So tl;dr: leave comments! It's fun I promise!

someone I follow on the bird app just announced they’re starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they’re reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic

I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS

I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there’s 10,000 other people that will continue…but if you participate in a fic “book club” server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?

the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don’t rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit “post”

[midnight-mourning]

*Taps mic* Heard y'all like Moon around here, you're in luck, this one's for you

massive, MASSIVE thank you to @lunarmoves for beta-reading this chapter!!

She put a lot of time and effort into making my BS readable for y'all and it's greatly appreciated <3 <3 <3

Shay also makes really good dca stuff (also sebastian solace but I know very little about the fish tbh) and you should check her out!

Also, happy 200k+!!! We're only 297k from truly becoming the 500k enemies to lovers slowburn of our dreams lmaoooo

But for real I apologize for such a delay with this one. If you'd like to hear my excuses/reasoning they're below the cut, or you can just go read the chapter whatever suits ya ^-^

Tag list (if you would like added please see this post for more info):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8

@luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @amarynthian-chronicles

@robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva

CW: medical stuff & additionally a bit of unreality mentions

Okay going to try and keep this simple bc I've said parts of it before

So as most of you know, I've been sick for 3 months now

I've now been on two rounds of steroids, and currently on my third round of antibiotics, which are basically keep me fucntional, not improving

besides general discomfort and pain, my memory has been pretty shot at times, I will go through the day and barely remember what I did/what I'm doing/what I need to do

as someone who had brain fog caused by covid a few years ago, this was genuinely a scary experience because ultimately, this has been worse

i've felt out of control of my body, having times where I'm mid thought and then instantly lose it

this is not my normal, I usually pride myself on my memory, so losing it has been incredibly devastating and scary

this was not helped by the fact that the quick care I went to (THREE TIMES for this) basically kind of sort of tried to gaslight me into believing nothing could be done and that it's not an infection

so not only has this entire thing has gotten dragged out so much more, which makes me sad tbh, but I've also felt like I've been going crazy bc it felt like no one was believing me when i said I was sick and not getting any better (including friends, family, coworkers etc, though unintentional on their parts to be fair)

I feel like I've lost three months of my life and coming to terms with that has been, yeah

on top of all that, I'm still in school AND doing grad stuff, and while the school side of things has been okay (thank god), grad's had it's moments, won't get into it but have had multiple issues with my advisor that have been at times just really tough to deal with

Confused spirit got pushed to the back burner, because i quite literally at times could not think, and when it comes to this fic, where there's multiple ongoing plot threads, characterizations, lore, and so on to keep track of, it was just, impossible to me to even consider writing for it

having shorter stuff like promptober, the oneshots and such was great to keep me writing, and also still interact with everyone in the community, plus i had a lot of fun with them so that helped too

this is all to say that I do sincerly apologize for the delay, and at the very least I should've clearly communicated about there being a hiatus, when this all started I thought i'd be down for two weeks max, then as that time kept increasing I just kept putting it off and putting it off because i thought i was going to get better, and then I didn't

I do this for fun and for nothing else, fic writing isn't content (it's engaging with fandom) and i have to remind myself of that sometimes but given that I've been around in some capacity on and off I feel I should've said something in some regard

Having said all that, I'm doing okay now! Still sick, but as long as I'm on meds I'm functional, stuff is getting managable with grad, and hopefully have some fun things coming up irl! Point is, the last three months haven't been the best, but they've been alright, due in part to all the support you all have given me, so thank you for that, can't say it enough :)

Okay, I think that just about covers it, thank you for taking the time to read all of this if you did <3

[kingkat12]

omg I love your fics so so so much and I think you would absolutely nail a fanfic where roman is teaching reader how to smoke? or something like that 😭 like it being really intimate and stuff ughh idk but roman smoking just makes me go absolutely feral

Roman..... teaching reader.... how to smoke....?

do you.... want to give me..... a heart attack......?

THIS WAS SO DAMN HOT IT MADE MY BREATH HITCH WHEN I READ THIS, you BET i want to write this!!! you know me, i love writing reader having her first time doing anything at all lol, this was PERFEEEECT!! hope i've done your request justice, thank you so much for this one!!<3333

nymphomaniac (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, smoking, mentions of sex, angst, flirting deluxe, Roman's mouth is FOUL

summary: not all lessons are good for you-- especially the ones taught by the notorious Roman Godfrey, who you also happen to have a history with

word count: 2,425

a/n: and this is NO WAY an encouragement to smoke, i don't smoke myself so... heh. read at your own risk i suppose, and be critical of what you read on the internet PLEASE!! mwah

How to smoke – a thorough guide by Roman Godfrey. That was a book I wouldn’t buy in a million years; why give a millionaire more money?

Thankfully, I didn't have to pay anything to get a free trial from the author of said imaginary book.

Roman sat next to me on the porch leading up to the house of the party we were at, having asked me to follow him outside to escape all the noise. I wouldn’t have gone with him, had I not started to get a headache from what I could frankly only call ear-rape. “It’s too fucking loud in there,” I muttered, shifting on the uncomfortable step. “There’s a reason I don’t go to these things very often.”

Roman shrugged, patting down the pockets of his jacket. “It’s not usually this bad when someone else hosts. But I heard this guy is notorious for being legally deaf, so that might explain it,”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if he did that to himself,”

With a laugh, Roman pulled out an orange-hued box of cigarettes, shaking his head. “It’s too bad you don’t attend parties that often. I never see you anymore, y’know? Just bring some earplugs if you’re so bothered by the damn noise,” 

Oh. My heart jumped with a jolt of pain. I cleared my throat; “Of course you don’t see me anymore, Roman… We broke up two months ago,” 

Despite seeing it coming from miles away, it had been the hardest breakup of my life. I knew whom I had gotten into a relationship with, knew exactly what kind of a guy Roman was, so I had been emotionally prepared for it when it all fell apart. The relationship had been more of a whirlwind thing, a lust thing, which had left me with a very bad case of being-walked-in-on PTSD. That one time Roman decided he wanted to go down on me at school, only for my math teacher to walk in on us in the classroom, was a memory I was sure I would never forget. Sadly. 

However, the bliss of being sexually compatible couldn’t carry the relationship forever, and I was aware of that long before he was. Around the time we hit the one-month milestone, I could see in his gorgeous green eyes that he was tired. Roman needed to be free to function, free to fuck any girl that walked by, and free to disappear for hours and come back whenever it pleased him. 

And what did I need? I wasn’t so sure anymore. 

If I were to use my brain and ponder that question once more, I would conclude that I needed to stop sitting next to my hot ex-boyfriend who was now lighting one of his classic cigarettes. Roman knew I didn’t approve, knew how many times I had told him it was cancer on a stick—still, I settled for the fact that he wasn’t scared of death. Actually, he probably wasn’t scared of anything other than real commitment. 

With a sigh, Roman nodded to himself. “I’m aware, but I’m still allowed to miss the sight of you,” He turned to me, his strikingly green gaze piercing mine— I held my breath. This was getting intense. Nonetheless, the next thing that rolled out of his mouth caught me off guard; “Do you have a lighter?” 

… What? “Roman, you know I don’t smoke,”

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk. “Worth a shot. I had hopes that you’d at least managed to become an arsonist in our time apart, maybe then you’d carry a lighter around with you,” Like this, faced with his heartbreakingly beautiful smile beneath the hues of the moonlight, I was reminded of the first thought I ever had when I met him; he was so… cool. Roman always looked so damn cool. I loved the way it made my heart flutter— the feeling of being with the coolest guy at school was still the most thrilling feeling of all. I felt cool, knowing he wanted to sit next to me instead of being inside the loudest party of the year hunting down his next lay. 

It was impossible not to smile back. “Don’t be so disappointed. At least I’m still a cannibal,”

Humored, Roman chuckled; “Glad to hear it,”

“And you’re still a nymphomaniac,”

That seemed to strike a nerve— Roman let out an offended huff, now patting down the pockets of his jeans. “Forget it. I never go anywhere without my lighter, anyway,” he mumbled.

Oh no. “I didn’t mean it as an insult! We were joking, Roman. You’ve never been the type to hide that you like… sex—” 

“Don’t fucking talk to me about sex right now, I’m too tipsy,” Roman’s words were harsh, snappy. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, now fishing out his usual red lighter; I hadn’t seen that one in a while. “No sex-talk. None.”

“Fine, Jesus!—”

“Thanks to you, I now have to smoke away the taste of you. Thank you,” he grumbled, a slight twitch appearing beneath his left eye as he brought the cigarette to his plush lips— oh, how I missed those. “Your perfume isn’t helping, either. So don’t talk about sex, because then I’ll start thinking about sex with you, along with how you taste after I’ve been going down on you for about ten minutes, squirming, whining, and then I start thinking of how much I miss it. So could you just—just shut up for a minute, okay?”

I stared at Roman in disbelief, my lips parting as my jaw threatened to hit the floor. He must’ve had a few beers too many to be talking so openly about… anything. I would go off on him about his use of words, telling me to shut up, but I was too stunned to think properly. With my mind still buzzing, I scooted closer to Roman on the cold steps of the porch, daring to lean my head down on his shoulder like I used to do when we were together. “You’ve only proved my point,” I breathed, closing my eyes. “Nympho.”

I knew him too well— I knew Roman would appreciate casual physical contact. He didn’t have enough of that in his life, anyway. Chuckling, amused, he lit his cigarette, inhaling with a quiet moan— something told me he had been waiting for a hit for some time. And just as I opened my mouth, ready to start my usual smoking-is-bad lecture, Roman cut me to it; “Don’t start talking about cancer now, either,”

“It is a cancer stick,”

“I don’t care,”

“You should!”

“But I don’t,” With a sigh, Roman exhaled, watching the smoke evaporate into the warm summer air. He leaned his head on top of mine, and I couldn’t help but think how the smell of the cigarette clashed with the comforting smell of his shampoo. It ruined everything. 

This conversation was one we’d had tens of times, and I wasn’t too keen on repeating it. “Roman…” I reached for the cigarette he lazily held between his fingers, feeling the softness of his hand against mine. “Maybe youdon’t care, but I do. You need to take care of yourself.” I didn’t need to look at Roman to know his brows were drawn together as I took the cigarette out of his hand, holding it away from him. 

He sighed again, slower this time; “If you’d ever smoked, you’d see the appeal,”

“Yeah?” It was hard not to roll my eyes— “The appeal of cancer?”

With a low laugh, Roman turned his head, kissing the top of my head out of habit. Weirdly enough, it felt platonic for the first time ever, yet it didn’t fail to evoke a hard thump in my chest. It felt like I was being electrocuted from the inside, and my eyes sprung open—I was happy he couldn’t see that. “Not cancer, don’t be stupid,” he huffed. “Just use that pretty little brain of yours, I know it’s in there somewhere,”

If only he knew my brain was currently working overtime. “I’ll never see the appeal of inhaling crap that ruins your lungs. If anything, you’re the stupid one,”

Roman rolled his eyes, gently giving my head a nudge with the shoulder I was leaning on, motioning for me to sit up. “Let me show you, just once. If you don’t like it, you’re allowed to call me a nicotine-addicted nymphomaniac until the last day of high school,”

“And the day after. An extension for your favorite ex,”

“Nope. The day of graduation, and that’s it,”

I turned to look at the blindingly pretty smile on Roman’s face— how was it possible not to fall for this guy? He was gorgeous. “Fine,” I mumbled, knowing I would call him that no matter what behind his back until the day he died. “So how the fuck do I do this?”

Something in Roman’s green, green, eyes shifted. Maybe he was wondering why he had ever let me go in the first place— maybe he was thinking about the word to describe the color of my hair as it mixed with the grays of the moonlight? He cleared his throat, turning his body towards me as I mirrored him; “The first step is easy,” he said, reaching forward to place his hand behind mine, bringing the cigarette to my lips. 

My skin burned. Fucking burned, with every touch. 

Roman’s eyes were already big, which is why I was surprised to see they could get even bigger when he gazed down at my lips. “Open up,” he breathed, absentminded. 

Now, I could be sure he wasn’t thinking about the color of my hair. Maybe he was back to reminiscing about the taste of me? Or other nasty nympho things, as per usual.

I placed the cigarette between my lips, but Roman let out a short, alarmed sound that nearly made me yelp. “Now comes the trick,” he urged, leaning closer— I was unsure whether he was aware he was inching towards my face or not. The closer he got, the easier it was to focus on the single strand of his dark hair that lay over his forehead, straying from his stylings. It was so damn attractive— I had to hold myself back from smiling, now that I remembered the one time I caught him pulling it out of his gelled updo to lay it there on purpose. Cutie.

“The trick?” I echoed, realizing he had frozen to his spot just staring at my lips. I pulled the cigarette away from my mouth; Roman hadn’t said anything for about five seconds. This was bad. This was dangerous. It made me want to jump him and let him fuck me right here on the porch. 

“Uh—” Roman cleared his throat, letting out a breathy chuckle as he shook his head. “Sorry. The trick, right…”

God, I was two seconds away from bursting into flames like a phoenix. Was I still breathing?

“For your first time, you should— because this is your first time, right?”

“Yes!”

“You sure?”

“Roman!”

“Alright, alright!” Roman laughed, biting his lip as he tilted his head just a little. Had the cigarette not forced a space between us, I would’ve started wondering when he would kiss me. “The trick is to not inhale too much smoke for your first time. I don’t want you to cough up your left lung on my new shirt. And hold the smoke in your mouth for a moment, let it cool down, and only inhale it when you’ve taken the cig out of your mouth.”

If Roman one day actually did decide to write a smoking-guide, I could at least be sure the content would be explained simply and concisely. “Seems easy enough,” I mumbled, watching Roman’s pupils widen as I placed the cigarette back between my lips and sucked in a small amount of smoke into my mouth.

It felt like I was getting a mild burn on my tongue— it wasn’t pleasant. For a second, I got scared my eyes would pop from the shock, and I closed them to ensure the blood at least wouldn’t splatter anywhere if I happened to be so unlucky. But when the burning subsided, I finally dared to inhale.

My eyes sprung open, meeting the fascination in Roman’s green gaze as my previous headache caused by the loud music disappeared. My brain suddenly felt like it was buzzing with pleasure and energy. Before I knew it, I was half giggling against Roman’s mouth, letting my cigarette-clad hand fall by my side. “Wow,” I breathed, in awe of the satisfying whirring in my head. 

Roman looked like he was two seconds away from cooing at me, right in my face; “There you go, good girl,” he purred. “Do you get it now?”

God, I hated myself. Still, what I hated more, was that my hot ex-boyfriend was blatantly right. “I think I do,” 

Roman hummed, smirking as he reached for the cigarette in my hand, smoothly brushing his fingers across my skin on his way down. With a content sigh, he looked into my dazed eyes as he pressed his free fingers over the pulse of my wrist— “I still make your heart jump,” he breathed, leaning in so close I could feel the hotness of his breath against my cheek.

I swallowed. “You always will. It doesn’t mean anything,” My eyes flickered back and forth between Roman’s green eyes and his plush, pink lips despite knowing I shouldn’t. 

“It doesn’t?” he echoed, visibly amused as he raised his brows. 

“… Nope,”

Roman hummed, nudging the tip of my nose with his just as he always did—was this maybe just a habit, or was he going to…? The atmosphere was so thick, I could reach out and touch it. My breath had long caught in my chest, but Roman’s next words only made it worse; “Let’s talk about sex again,” he whispered against my lips, his lashes hanging heavy over his eyes.

“No. This is over. We’re just sharing a cigarette,”

“We could share a bed too,”

“Stop it,” I breathed, hoping he’d spot the desperation in my eyes. “It’s been two months. Aren’t you over this?” Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.

Roman stilled. With the next beat of my pulse against his fingers, his eyes softened with a new realization beneath the moonlight; 

“Over you? Never,”

[conkers-thecosy]

It needs some serious revisions and some bloody good edits, but I just finished writing “Backs To The Wall” at last 😭

Once I’ve got things edited to a way I’m happy with (see: fixed the continuity errors I knew would happen, which was the reason for the hiatus in the first place) I’ll start posting again!

The results of the poll I did last month asking if folks wanted chapters still posted at intervals or all at once was surprisingly conclusive, so I’ll be sure to honour that and space the chapters out a bit. I will post the next two together though, just as a thank you for everyone who has been so patient while I worked on the final chapters.

Seriously. It means the world to me how many folks have been so kind about the big gap between updates. I know it’s not ideal to make folks wait like that, but I just really wanted to make sure I could post something worthwhile and finish the fic in a way that I could be happy with 💛

I know I got upset last month, but the majority of readers have truly been wonderful, and frankly, the only thing that has kept me going some days. I can’t thank you enough for that, and I’m sorry I let a few miserable butt-heads make me forget how lucky I’ve been to have such wonderful support and friendship the past year of working on this fic.

So yeah! Watch this space! New chapters are incoming! I’m going to take a week off, then I’ll be back at it again! Hope to have 34 and 35 ready to post on the first week of January!

(I will be answering all your outstanding messages soon, too! I’m so sorry for the delays - I’ve just been so focused on trying to get to the end!)

~ Conkers 🌰

[starmocha]

All of the smut scenes are written (three lol 😭✌️) no two diccs cry about it

I cannot emphasize enough that this is still an AU one-shot with me interpreting Sylus as an East Asian dragon with many Chinese/Vietnamese influences in the story

I can't wait to read his myth tomorrow and hopefully I can glean some canon details I can apply to this fic to make it feel even more like Sylus

I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel 🥹 A little project I started 2.5 months ago on a whim and some vibes, I didn't expect it to reach this high of a word count and still rising

OK, here's probably my last wip preview while I finish the story. (Maybe...7 more scenes? The first 2/3 of the story is more or less finished and the ending is already written. The climax is really the last part that is the most struggling to write right now even though I have the notes and scenes I want for it. 😔)

Prelude is already out! Read it if you haven't, and request to be added to the taglist if you're intrigued by the upcoming main story. <333

“Indeed,” he agreed, pouring some osmanthus wine into two crimson cups. He handed one to you. “We must enjoy a drink or two tonight.” “I would think some tea would be more appropriate with our mooncakes,” you argued, but you accepted the little cup nonetheless. You held it between your fingers and eyed it skeptically, remembering the last time you had drank some of his liquor and suffered the immediate consequence the following morning. “We can have some tea as well,” he said, smiling before tossing his drink back. He sighed blissfully, his eyes seemed to twinkle with joy. “With a good atmosphere, and some lovely company, it is only natural one would want to enjoy a drink or two.” You frowned at his cheeky reasoning, giving him a disapproving shake of your head, to which he only laughed it off. You scoffed, “You will say anything to find a reason to drink.” “I will not argue with that,” Shin answered, grinning. He poured another drink into his cup, and then to your surprise, he hooked his arm around yours, the wine cups crossed, yours moved closer to your lips while Shin’s was near his. “The alcohol is not as strong as what you had drank last time. You will enjoy this, Miss.” “Sh-Shin, what are you doing?” “We should practice,” he murmured, “For when we are wedded and share our first drink as husband and wife.” You blushed. The delicate floral scent of the osmanthus wafted from the wine cup. You looked at Shin, and he continued to smile, waiting for your next move. Your eyes softened. “You still want to marry me?” “I have never stopped,” he murmured, and you noticed a sad tinge in his eyes. You wondered why you would catch moments like this, when his smiles would disappear, and a cloak of melancholy seemed to cover him. “Such devoted words,” you whispered back, and he smiled again, but just as before, you saw no joy in his expression.

You can pass me by because you Forgot about me Because until you remember I will Wait for you ☆ Don’t ever forget the truth that I was by your side Don’t erase my heart that could sacrifice Everything for you ☆ My love, look at me Do you still love me?

[canonicallyobserving911]

Season 8A: Date and time discrepancies

While I was live blogging episode 8x8, I posted a question about the time frame when Eddie told Brad it had only been three months since Chris went to Texas but I knew then it was BS because it didn't make any narrative sense (linked here).

Recently, I've seen a few speculation posts about the time frame and some were alluding to the idea that viewers should just get over it but when things deal with dates, time, numbers and money, I can't because I'm a "left-brain" or logical and analytical thinker and things have to make sense to me for them to be believable. Also, if it's said in CANON without proof, then I'm going to try my best to understand WTH they're doing. Granted I know 9-1-1 has LOTS OF DISCREPANCIES especially with characters' ages (Buck, Eddie, Chris and Denny to name a few and I've already posted about them numerous times) but the time difference Eddie mentioned is significant and I won't ignore it. Instead of drafting a brand-new post about this, I'm going to include my notes from a chapter in a fic I'm updating today since IMO, it's the only logical explanation for the discrepancy.

"As of episode 8x8, Chris had been in El Paso for 6 months because there’s no way he could have only been gone for 3 months since he’s in school (here in the U.S., new school years begin in early to mid-August) and he’s in the chess club.  Additionally, Buck’s relationship started in April and it’s CANON that it lasted for 6 months, therefore since Chris left L.A. at the end of May, it means he’s been in Texas for 6 months and the CANON date on Eddie’s iPad during their last FaceTime call was listed as November which further validates my claim.  This isn’t the only time ‘inconsistency’ the show has included, in fact there have been a lot of them.  It’s interesting because it shouldn’t be one at all but I’m also not surprised since they RETCON things whenever they want to without a valid explanation (looking at Buck’s, Eddie’s, Chris’, Shannon’s and Denny’s ages).  Be clear, Chris has been gone for 6 months and I won’t debate that fact since 3 months doesn’t make any narrative sense.  If he would have only been gone for 3 months, he wouldn’t already be enrolled in school." I think TM (showrunner) retconned the time Chris has been gone because HE DIDN’T REALIZE VIEWERS WERE GOING TO BE PISSED THAT CHRIS HAS BEEN AWAY FROM EDDIE THAT LONG.  His lack of planning and outlining the season in advance and making last minute changes to the script is the cause and I’ve said this before, when a person fails to plan, they’re planning to fail and during the summer months, TM admitted during an interview that he doesn’t plan seasons in advance.  Since he doesn’t do it like he should, 9-1-1 ends up with time, age and continuity issues that show up, they end up being cluster f~cks and it’s been this way since season 5 but I digress.

I included this in my notes for Chapter 7 of my fanfic titled, “I can’t imagine anything more painful than going through life alone. Except maybe one thing… going through death alone.” While I was writing it, this seems to be the only plausible explanation for the difference stated unless Buck's still in a coma like I explained he could be in my "Buddie Crack Theory" (linked here).

TM (showrunner) said during the hiatus last summer (linked here) that he doesn't plan seasons out in advance which is a shame and it's the reason why everything is so messed up now. He makes last minute changes and they end up being noticeable with the pacing, editing, timing and continuity.

TL:DR: Basically, TM had the writers include Eddie saying "Chris had been in El Paso for 3 months" because viewers are pissed at the amount of time Eddie and Chris have been away from each other. I mentioned this would be an issue at the beginning of the season and it still is (linked here). Since we know better and we know how to count, he can't just haphazardly stick an arbitrary number of months into a scene and believe no one will notice.

I noticed it and I won't just move on from this because it matters and Eddie's storyline should have been handled better but I digress.

[misshoneyimhome]

willy the swiftie is my favorite! what fic would you write for him since cardigan is his favorite song?

Oh babe, this sparks so many ideas ❤️ I suppose it really depends on whether William is more of a lyrics kind of guy or a melody kind of guy—does he actually pay attention to the lyrics and feel a connection to the story, or does he just enjoy the vibe, letting the soothing sounds help him relax 🧘🏼‍♀️?

I can absolutely picture him being the latter, which gives such cosy, lazy sofa vibes. The two of you lounging on the couch with a film or TV show you’ve both seen so many times that there’s no need to pay much attention. His thumb softly tracing circles on your arm as you lean against his chest, both of you simply enjoying the stillness and each other’s company.

But if he’s the type who really listens to the lyrics, trying to understand the meaning and connect with it, then that could inspire such a different moment -

➼｡ﾟ

Cardigan I William Nylander ✐

William Nylander wasn’t the type to dwell on the past. Sure, he’d occasionally get nostalgic about his childhood in Sweden or reminisce about a big hockey win from years ago, but he was more of a live in the moment kind of bloke. Unless it involved hockey stats, line combinations, or plays, he didn’t overthink much.

But over the past few weeks, something peculiar had started to happen. A specific song kept cropping up—first on the radio in his car, then in the middle of a shuffle on his Spotify playlist. Cardigan by Taylor Swift.

At first, he hadn’t thought much of it. It was catchy, sure, but not the sort of song he’d usually pay attention to. Yet, for some reason, he found himself letting it play instead of skipping it. And then, one evening, as he sat alone in his Toronto flat after practice, the lyrics stopped him in his tracks.

“And when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someone’s bed, you put me on and said I was your favourite.”

The line tugged at something deep inside him, stirring a memory he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit in years. He leaned back on the sofa, staring out at the city lights, the words echoing in his head.

“You drew stars around my scars, but now I’m bleeding.”

A sharp pang spread through his chest—unexpected, almost like his heart had skipped a beat. And just like that, your face appeared in his mind, vivid and unshakable.

He thought of you.

The way you used to look at him with those eyes that seemed to see straight through him, past all the bravado and the hockey jerseys. The sound of your laugh when he’d tease you about your so-called “armchair coaching,” only for you to throw some obscure stat back at him to prove him wrong. The way you’d made him feel like he was more than just a player, more than just a number on a jersey.

He hadn’t let himself think about you in years. Not since that last argument—the one where you’d accused him of caring more about hockey than you, and he’d said you deserved someone who wouldn’t have to split his life between love and a career.

But now, as the song played softly in the background, it was as though the lyrics were unlocking something he’d carefully tucked away. He thought about the way you used to call him “Willy” with that teasing lilt, the way you’d sit beside him at the rink, bundled in scarves and gloves, cheering him on.

He thought about how much he missed you.

William ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself for letting his mind wander like this. It wasn’t like him. He was the sort of guy who kept moving forward, who focused on the next game, the next goal, the next win.

But as Cardigan faded into the next song, the weight in his chest lingered. It wasn’t just the music. It was you. You had always been there, somewhere in the back of his mind, like a favourite cardigan tucked away but never truly forgotten.

And for the first time in years, William allowed himself to wonder: Did you ever think about him, too?

[08melancholie]

I'm writing a Micah fic and I'm not satisfied with how I write him 💀 you have any tips?

This is a great question, and I can definitely find a few tips you can go off of that I usually memorise before I go ahead and write him. So first; lets section it off into five parts.

1. Micah's usual nature.

2. Behaviour I.—In camp.

3. Behaviour II.—Missions/outings.

4. Behaviour III. —Valu(able)s.

5. Language/the actual writing.

I'll go through every section and give you my tips and information that fits. Hopefully this helps your writing!

Most important highlighted/summarised in colour of section<3

1. Micah's usual nature.

First, let's break down Micah's character; he presents himself in a very cold, closed-off manner. He isn't that much of a helpful character, nor is he very social. In fact, Micah seems very asocial to me. You'll rarely find him socialising with camp members if he's sober, the only exception being when he drinks, where you'll find around 3-4 camp interactions (Javier, John, Bill, Arthur,...) in the game. He might come up to Arthur for a normal conversation a few times, but they mostly end in mockery or some sort of self-gain. You won't find Micah doing (re)quests for people, seeing as he's very focused on himself—excluding errands for Dutch since he's his boss. While on the topic of his nature in camp, lets continue this in "2. Behaviour I.—In camp".

2. Behaviour I.—In camp.

If he's actually found talking to fellow camp members that aren't Dutch, Micah enjoys antagonising any and all characters in the game. He throws crude comments and jokes people's way in his free time—which he clearly has a lot of, considering he doesn't ever do chores in camp, as confirmed in an interaction with Arthur where Micah says he "buys the clothes, not washes them". He also looks for ways to get under people's skin a lot. As for the women, there's quite a few interactions of him catcalling and harassing them, plain simple. He doesn't seem to care about being called a creep for it by Arthur either, as thats just entertainment for him.

3. Behaviour II.—Missions/outings.

Micah is very confident in how he works. He knows he's a great shot and one of Dutch's best gunmen, that much is sure to me. If he's doing better than Arthur, for example in "A Short Walk in a Pretty Town", he'll comment on it, saying "You're getting sloppy, Morgan." to him if he fails to get all four people in the gun store. You need to write him as such; keep his confidence in his abilities, and his subtle blood-thirst as well. Micah is much ruthless and somewhat of a brute, not to forget unforgiving and uncaring of his victims; killing Maddy, Norman's wife for.. little to no reason, as far as we know, or the little girl when you play as John later on in the game and are told so by Cleet in Strawberry. While on topic of Strawberry; massacring an entire town over two guns—another point that emphasises his self-worth. He killed and had Arthur kill off an entire town, despite much protest and complaints from Arthur about this choice. And yet he still didn't think much of that choice of action, laughing about it to Arthur after they stopped getting chased. Again—uncaring, ruthless, self-centred.

4. Behaviour III.—Valu(able)s.

This part is mostly useful for the start of a fic, since valu(able)s can change by the end of the story, and especially if you're writing a fix-it fic. We'll start with valuables, since Micah's are very simple; he values two things in his life over everything; his two custom-made DAs (Double Action revolvers) and his horse Baylock. We know he cares a lot about his guns, from the fact that he risked shooting up an entire town just to get them back when it would have been very simple to buy another set—this can be used to write an unhealthy attachment, or show vulnerability with risk of losing said weapons. Baylock is also pretty self-explanatory; he cares a lot about that horse, and IMO, he sees it as its best friend. With that, there's also one more thing that tethers between valuables and values; he doesn't want a future like many, a wife or family and stable life—those are mostly out of interest to Micah. His most important wish, at least Chapter 1—Chapter 6, is the future he wants for himself—a strong gang; "five to six strong men",as he says. This is his main goal in the game, and it'll be very valuable to him at the start. Then, come the values, and like many in 1899, he'll be very old-school; he wouldn't want women in his ideal vision of a gang, obviously. Micah sees them as beneath him and as too weak for the life—which is much obvious in the game... If you're writing a fanfic with F!Reader that's got the attitude of Sadie, I wouldn't instant make him jump for that type of woman. Micah expresses he's more into feminine women anyhow, so that's also important to remember when writing Micah/Reader fics.

5. Language/the actual writing.

Now, the way Micah speaks. He's very obviously and shamelessly open about how he talks—like I mentioned in the second section with the women; he'll openly harass them, uncaring of being reprimanded by Arthur for it. He's very vulgar and direct, so you won't see him hold back too often. Can't forget this part, of course—Micah has an accent like many characters, and I like to emphasise that by changing up the way some things are spelled; "you" turns into "'ya", "and" into "an'" and such, little changes that let the reader know how they should be reading the words said by the character, especially good if someone doesn't yet know who Micah is and your fic is their first impression, they can immediately assume an accent.

As a tip here, I'm gonna try and put a few grammatical details I usually keep in mind when writing my texts.

Verbs I.: if it ends in "-ing", leave out the 'g' and add an ' at the end.

For example: "Well, safe to say she's changin' her ways."

Verbs II.: If they don't end with "-ing", like with words that aren't in the present for example (and irregular verbs), I look for ways to change them which I then memorise for the future.

For example I.: "It just burns a little, 's all." —> "is"

For example II.: "She's just wen' and gone!" —> "went"

"You, you're, your": The change here is very obvious, and the only warning I have is for for using "you're" and "your"; the change is the same, so if you have both in one sentence, only change one.

For example I.: "But he said 'ya didn't like the gift?"

For example II.: "How?! I know yer supposed to be gone!"

For example III.: "You know yer left shoelace is undone?"

These are a few of my tips, and I'm hoping that they'll be helpful to you—and anyone else that is looking to write Micah. Thank you for the lovely ask, and as always, good luck! <3

friend wanted to be tagged: @angel-w1ngsss

[shortbreadly]

having big thoughts tonight. i only listen to three mountain goats songs (aka the ones that were on moral orel) so my thought process is if old college try = chainshipping and no children = coffinshipping then i will be forcing love love love into equalling shotgunshipping

[kettlefire]

A Panic in Time (DP x DC)

This is all thanks to the awesome @tkiesai for basically being the foundation of this idea! This is probably going to be long, and probably won't delve that deep into my ideas about this idea. Largely so it's not insanely long. But here I go!

°•°•°•°

Bruce's head felt like it had been shoved through a straw and spit out on the other side. The throbbing was annoying, but it wasn't anything the man couldn't handle.

His mind was muddled, memories of what happened prior to him awaking was blurry and unsure. Bruce knew it wasn't something good.

He vaguely remembered a league meeting, a threat, something looming. It wasn't world ending, or at least that's what Bruce remembered. It should have been something they could handle.

But now, here was Bruce. Waking up in the grass of some random park. He was dressed in casual attire, something he'd wear in public as Bruce. Although last he remembered he was in the Batsuit.

The sun felt too bright in the sky. The sound of families filled the air and children's laughter. No one seemed to blink twice at Bruce as he pulled himself together.

It took a moment to steel himself, to gain composer again. It took a few sweet lines, and a charming smile for a nice mother to slide him a few painkillers. The lies rolling off his tongue like second nature.

To his luck there was a newspaper at the top of the trashcan. He was in some town called Amity Park, and the year... the year was the problem.

It was 1996. Whatever had happened had sent Bruce back in time. There was a few suspects Bruce can think were the cause of this. But something in his gut kept drawing his train of thought to the Flash.

It seemed like each time the League had any time related problems, Barry was in the center of it. Which also leaves Bruce with the question if he was the only one sent back in time.

God, he could only imagine the nightmare if the others were sent back in time. Yes, they can be professional. They understand the risk of changing things in the past.

But Bruce also understands that his team can be less than... intelligent at times.

Despite that, Bruce needed to find a way to get back to Gotham. He might not know for sure where everyone was right now, but he knew Alfred was the safest bet.

A plan laid out in Bruce's mind, a list of people he knew wouldn't be a risk to approach. He just needed to find a way to get to them. He had barely made it to the gates of the park before a shrill cry pierced the air.

There was just one loud outcry, before it quieted down. Bruce glance around the space, spotting a young boy curled on the ground. Tears streamed down the boy's chubby cheeks.

And no one even moved to the boy's aid. Not a single mother spared more than one glance in the kid's directions. No parents came rushing over to the boy's side.

Bruce almost walked away, he really did. This wasn't his time, anything he does can cause immense damage to the timeline. But when Bruce caught sight of blood bubbling from a scrape on the boy's knee, Bruce couldn't ignore him.

Maybe it's just the father in him, but Bruce barely even notices when he's crossing the small distance. His mind zeroing in on a hurt child that needed help. Kneeling before the small boy with a gentle smile, and pulling his handkerchief free from his pocket.

"You're alright there, buddy. It looks like you took a bit of a tumble there." Bruce slipped into the same tone he used to use when his kids were young. Gentle and understanding, as he pressed the handkerchief to the small scrape.

The boy sniffled, tears slipping from his eyes. Bruce was more focused on the way the kid was looking at him. Like he couldn't fathom someone coming to his aid.

That look had Bruce's heart breaking slightly. He's seen a similar look before. The few times he's come to the aid of a hurt child that wasn't used to getting help.

Something no child should ever feel or experience.

"Where's your parents, kiddo?" Bruce asked after a moment of silence from the boy. He had waited until the kid's breathing settled down when the boy's chest stopped pumping so quickly.

Except his question only seemed to bring a new wave of tears to the boy's eyes. The small child just seemed to curl into himself further, ducking his gaze away from Bruce.

And as much as Bruce didn't want it to be true, it was clear the kid didn't have the support he needed. It might not as be as far as some of Bruce's kids have had in the past.

But it was clearly not good.

"That's okay, it's alright. What's your name?" Bruce tried again. The boy's silence was leaving an uncomfortable pit in Bruce's stomach.

"D-Danny..." The boy spoke out his name between sniffles, and Bruce felt a wave of relief hearing the boy speak.

In hindsight, Bruce can see how strange the scene might look. A slightly disheveled man comforting a lone young boy in a park. It wasn't exactly perfect.

But with the lack of reactions from the parents around, Bruce had a feeling the town had an idea who this boy was. The whole situation just didn't feel that right for him.

It took a few more comments before Bruce managed to get the boy to crack a smile. A laugh had felt like breaking a massive wall.

Before long, Bruce had Danny actually like any other boy he's known. Carefree and happy, just like a child should be.

"You didn't tell me your name, mister." Danny had suddenly cut down the relaxed moment they were in. A pout laced the boy's lips as he looked up at Bruce, almost accusatory.

"I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." Bruce responded without missing a beat. He knew this might cause problems in the future. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But when his gut is telling him something, he can't just ignore it. He checked his pockets, finding no business cards anywhere. So, Bruce fell back in plan B.

"No matter how long it's been from now, you can come to me for help. Just look for Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, and when you find me... just say Fairbanks sent you."

Bruce wasn't sure if he'll ever see Danny again when he goes back to his own time. Wasn't even sure if this was the same universe as his own. But he couldn't walk away without at least offering the boy help in some way.

When Danny's eyes filled up with tears again, Bruce thought he said something wrong at first. That was until the boy was suddenly clinging to his shoulders in a tight embrace, muttering 'thank you' over and over again.

Bruce felt himself almost close to tears just from that alone. His heart was aching for the small boy. Even if Bruce couldn't help Danny anymore than this, he was hoping the boy would have a better life.

One where he wasn't clinging to a stranger for comfort that family should be providing him.

THWAMP

It didn't hurt, but it did cut their hug short as Bruce suddenly pulled away. Turning his head to see a young girl wielding a wiffle bat, and another young boy standing behind her.

Her purple eyes glared at Bruce like he had done the worst thing in the world. Her grip on the bat was threatening and ready to swing again. Her knuckles white from the tight grip alone.

Maybe leaving this time era might not be as easy as Bruce thought as the young girl probbed him with angry and scolding questions. Not that Bruce could blame her.

He just hoped this hiccup didn't get back to the league. They'd have a field day hearing about how Batman got scolded by a child with a wiffle bat.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Danny wasn't sure if this was the best idea. It's been years since he met Bruce Wayne. So many years. Danny had just been a kid, not even ten, when Bruce had introduced himself.

When he had an adult, actually check in on him. Yet, it was a memory Danny couldn't forget. Maybe it was just the kindness that Bruce radiated.

Or maybe it was when Sam came to his "rescue" near the end. Regardless, it was cemented in his mind. A core memory that Danny cared with him through the years.

Now, here he was, roughly seven years later. Standing in front of a manor that put even Sam's place to shame.

It took a lot of courage for Danny to knock. Barely a second later, an old man answered the door, an accent Danny was certain Bruce hadn't had.

A stuttered explaination of being here to see Bruce Wayne, that the man knew him, barely left Danny's mouth before the old man ushered him inside.

The man, Alfred, told Danny to wait by the door before vanishing further into the manor. It took a lot for Danny to not just vanish.

Being half ghost nowadays had its quirks, Danny could just vanish, and no one but Alfred would know. But he couldn't.

It had taken a lot for Danny to make the journey to Gotham City. He hadn't even thought to look up a current picture of Bruce either. Which was probably a big mistake on his end.

Danny didn't even know if Bruce was offering this kind of help. But Danny didn't have many allies to turn to. He needed help.

Not just for himself but for his family. For Amity Park. He couldn't be afforded the ability to run away. Not now.

Danny felt all the air leave his lungs when Bruce entered the area. The man didn't look a day older than what Danny remembered. Bruce looked a bit more put together, not like he had just jumped out of a moving car, but it was Bruce.

"Uhm... I don't know if you remember me. But my name's Danny... we met when I was a kid." Danny started trying to explain himself before Bruce could speak. He recognized that confused look anywhere, and Danny didn't have the guts to go through with this if Bruce asked any questions.

"You told me if I ever needed help, to come find you. Bruce Wayne in Gotham City... you, uh, told me to tell you Fairbanks sent me?"

That came out more like a question than Danny would have liked. But it did ease his nerves a bit as he watched Bruce's slightly confused expression turn to alarm and surprise.

Danny wasn't sure what this would do. If Bruce could truly help him. But he was out of options. Just seeing Bruce recognize something he said was enough to calm the teen's anxiety slightly.

"I'm sorry, Danny... I don't remember you. But I believe you and I want to help you. Come inside, have a seat, and tell me what's going on."

That response was enough to have Danny's eyes fill with tears. His chest filling with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in weeks now.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

[pastelhooman]

[WVW Exchange Event 2023!]

"The kisses on your lash, your ears, on the nose that keeps scrunching. The kisses on your hand, on your cheeks, and the exchanging soft words waiting for the break of day."

----- ID under break -----

A total of 6 pages of comics, starting with a close up shots of vash kissing sleeping wolfwood's nose, eyes, lashes, and he furrows them a bit. an overhead shot of the two of them in a motel room, on the bed with vash leaning over wolfwood from the left, laying soft kisses on him. their legs tangled. their normal outfits are thrown haphazardly on the floor, instead donning comfortable clothes. on the outside, the very first ray of lights are yet to shine.

"what a face you're making pfft" - vash says as he grabs both of wolfwood's cheeks, squeezing them a bit. wolfwood mumbles, "There's something that keeps landing on my face, it tickles." he grabs the hand that is on his right cheek. "Well you're letting it happens anyways right?" Vash muses, bringing the hand up to kiss on its knuckles. "Good morning Wolfwood. It's almost dawn"

"… Isn't it way too soon?" - wolfwood asks, but keeps to himself the prayers he's sending to god because the the boy on top of him was such a sight to behold. Vash flops down onto him, leaving the hand hanging and lace his own hand into Wolfwood's hair, peppering kisses to the side of his face. "Yep" - he answers - "But you woke up on your own tho" - facetiously. He giggles, saying that it was a joke after a beat of silence. A sigh, "don't make me upside you first thing in the morning." Wolfwood closes his eyes, hand combing through golden strands. "Heh, how merciful~" "We have a meet up with Milly and Meryl today, remember?" Vash reminds him, which does raise some vague memory. wolfwood hums, the other hand reaching around vash's torso, hugging him. " So, the sooner we arrive, the less likely she'll chew through my head." - Vash adds. "riiiight. And you were SO urgent in waking me up." in wolfwood's hold, both of them slowly turn to the right, towards the edge of the bed.

Well, you were just soooo cute, I couldn't help it! didn't thinkk you'll actually wakE UAA-!"

the bed creaks under the sudden shift in weight as wolfwood tosses vash over and under him, arms firmly hugging him, one at his back and one at his head, hungrily dives down to kiss. "!! Wolf-! Wait-!" Vash yelps, leg instinctively curls around the other's man hip to hang on, trying his damnest to grip on his shirt as HE is now half airborne, barely has any contact with the bed on his upper body. However, wolfwood seems to have another idea as he keeps deepening the kiss, pointedly holding Vash close, hands spread guarding the back of his head as both of them are sliding off the soft fabric.

"THUD!" a resounding fall, possibly enough to wake the room downstairs, followed shortly by laboured breaths amist wet smacks of lips. Heaves and huffs of air exchanging between the two bodies when the need to breath made itself necessary. They press close, cradling each other, and are lost to their own world. After a while they had to part. Metal arm shifts through black locks, caressing down to his nape and they hold eye contacts there, with lidded eyes, strands of saliva thins then breaks.

Wolfwood pushes up on his arms, looking smugly down at his now disheveled partner: "Now this is how it's done, Needlenoggin." he remarks. Vash tries to wrangle his thoughts back in order, but strings of Wolfwood's name and a wonderous question keeps filling his mind, of whether he should risk it all and have fun for a bit more. Regardless, snapping out of his trance, Vash sourly asks, with a wry smile and an aching head: "But did you really need to roll off the bed?" "Wrong side, whoops" - Wolfwood anwers unseriously, laughing as he finds the situation quite amusing.

----- End of ID -----

[wandixx]

I have an idea that includes two person love square because identity shenanigans are always fun, but I have no idea what they should do, despite having fun dynamics between them, like:

"Of course they're dating" said Public Opinion about Miss Martian and Phantom, right after she broke his heart a bit by telling him she was in love with someone else (Megan's long distance best friend, Danny). Before this happened, Phantom was overly flirtatious to both Miss Martian and Megan, so she asked Danny what to do about "This one guy in my sports team" and his advice is to tell him to "Fuck off". She does exactly that, without quite understanding the weight of the word and Phantom is stunned into obedience (and he understands that no means no)

Anyway, I need help with actual... plot. Situations I put them through, because I'm determined to write it. They would be cute together imo.

[abyssal-ilk]

elgar'nan razed the island to the ground with fire for ghilan'nain's death. his anger was so strong he lashed out not only at rook and their team, but his own forces as well. he got the dagger he needed, but at what cost? the price of his sister's life? the sister that he needed to make their dream come true, for without her the dagger is simply a weapon and not an artist's tool? will be thinking about this forever.

[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

[here-comes-the-moose]

When I’m writing my Modern AU but then try to figure out and calculate how the life I gave the Batch is financially possible:

[king-candybug-backup]

I'm noticing an uptick in comments complaining that most of the current WIR fandom content is Turbo instead of the other characters and, like... you guys know you can search other characters by their specific tags, right??? Or exclude Turbo from search results by temporarily blacklisting him in your filtered tags?

Idk, it's just weird to me to be discouraging towards people making fandom content just because it's not the specific content you want to see, like, it's ok to want to see other content, but complaining about how other people aren't catering to your tastes enough instead of just making the content you want to see yourself is kinda bad vibes, y'know?? (And that's not to say that I think those comments are intended out of malice of course, I really don't think they are, I just wanted to point out that it can come off as a little entitled, as well as discouraging towards people who just want to draw Turbo, which is something that should be fine if that's what they want to do. Fandom should be fun for everybody, and there's lots of tools available to curate your experience with it!)