#see author's note on Ao3

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[eliotquillon]

have recently realised that the reason why i struggle to seriously ship kevin with anyone in aftg is because i find the idea of him perpetually third-wheeling to be too funny. sorry kevin

[lunarmoves]

it’s more of a pussy-out look

LMFAOOOOOO god the flippers are taking me out sfsjdfsf. and the tshirt design?? PLEASEEE the neon pink im dead LOL. yeah he wants u so bad. look at that face, he is so desperate for attention. something something "fine i'll do it myself."

[chairofchaos]

A Comedy of Eris

Pairing: Eris x Azriel; also original female character/original female character Summary: Eris Vanserra is fed up with getting killed. It's about time somebody told these fanfiction authors what's up, right? A short skit, in which Eris encounters a murderer. A fictional murderer, that is. One that's killed him, and his mate, over and over and over and over... (ad infinitum). For Day 6 of @erisweekofficial : AU! Rating: Teen Word Count: 2.8k Warnings: some discussion of violence, a little dark humor, mostly comedy

Read it on Ao3 HERE! Sample Below <3

A major shoutout must be made to @mistandmemories, whose Rhysand Witherspoon post is living rent free in my mind. Thank you. To everyone who voted on character names: thank you for saving me decisions.

(Please forgive me- the reason it's only on Ao3 is that formatting a script on tumblr just does not work, so formatting in the sample below does not match Ao3.)

KATHERINE: Okay, so what stories are you seeing?

ERIS: (seething) Does it matter? You keep killing me.

KATHERINE’s jaw drops, and she slams it shut. She appears to hold in a laugh, glancing to the side.

KATHERINE: Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you were seeing them.

ERIS: Does it matter?

KATHERINE: Uh. I guess to you it wouldn’t, no.

ERIS: There is also the amount of times you’ve killed my ‘mate’. (sneers) And do you even know who my mate is? You seem to relish in pairing me with the most abysmal members of my enemies’ courts. Azris? As if I would ever be mated to the Shadowsinger.

KATHERINE: (coughs amusedly) About that. It’s called a rarepair, okay? I don’t actually think it’s going to happen. But have you considered it? Because I think it might actually help you two to get locked in a room with one be-

ERIS begins to pace in front of the stairs which lead up to where KATHERINE sits on the porch. 

ERIS: (growls) Finish that sentence and I will impale you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @chunkypossum (welcome to the Azris taglist- this is one hell of an introduction, so let me know if you want me to be more specific!) @dusk-muse @ninthcircleofprythian @unanswered-stars @c-starstuff-man0 @lilah-asteria

Give me a shout if you want on/off the taglist(s)!

[d8tl55c]

me: waiting for shoe(s) to drop

Personified Alan Becker YouTube Icon: oh... buddy...

[swissyyroll]

i don’t think anything could compare to opening up your relationships / favourites tags on ao3 and seeing new / updated fics. genuinely there is no other euphoria, it’s so special to have people share their wonderful words about characters you’ve invested into, whether it’s a very active pairing or perhaps an hidden gem that’s not so frequent.

it just gives me serotonin like no other!

[lightyaoigami]

something i see so so often is people lauding and extolling authors in discord servers, private conversations, twitter, etc and while i think this is wonderful, you should comment this publicly or reach out to the person you're complimenting! i see a lot of authors get tons of love privately and then their fics will have maybe 1-2 comments, and i KNOW that people are speaking highly of those same fics incognito. so please if you see this post go to a fic you've recommended to someone and comment on it and say why you recommended it! it's very difficult to maintain momentum for something like fic when all the interaction with your work is out of your line of sight. it's a beautiful thing to speak highly of people when they arent in the room, but it is imho even better to do so directly to them. you could make someone's day, week, month just with a little interaction.

[bidoofenergy]

na dekhi koi aisi girl

(english: never seen a girl like that) “Zomato,” he blurts. “Actually, I’m Gayatri,” she says, smiling at him like he’s funny on purpose and not because he just remembered that he knows her from a freaking billboard. or: Pavitr and Gayatri's first meeting also on AO3

Today is another great day of being Mumbhattan’s one and only Spider-man. It’s also another decent day of being Mumbhattan’s millionth tenth standard student. Even though he’s Spider-man and he could just swing his way to school, Pavitr still meets his friends outside the train station every day. They hang out by the doors, squished together, and ride for a few stops. These are all kids he’s known for years, ever since he moved to Mumbhattan to live with his Maya Auntie. His friend Nikhil, who lives in the same building just one floor down, drapes himself over Pavitr’s back to show them all a cool cricket catch—she catches! And then trips over the boundary but saves it! And then catches it again! They all whoop and applaud appropriately, much to the chagrin of other passengers.

Luckily for the other passengers, they tumble out at the next stop. Pavitr’s school is a short walk from the station and as soon as they leave the station, they’re surrounded by other students. They start splitting up: Nikhil’s a year younger and he finds his classmates, Meera peels off to join some other friends and pretend she’s never talked to a boy in her life, and Pavitr shouts “see you later!” when he spots his classmate Hari.

Hari, who’s instincts rival Pavitr’s spidey sense—or maybe it’s the years of being friends, dodges to the side right as Pavitr tries to throw his arms around him. He laughs as Pavitr stumbles, barely managing to not fall flat on his face in the middle of the road. “Where’s your tie?” he asks when Pavitr recovers.

Pavitr slaps his chest which is where is tie should be—and isn’t. Then his hand goes to his hair because sometimes he ends up using his tie as a hairband—which is a bad habit he really should get out of—and it’s not there either. “Oh shit,” he swears softly and Hari starts to laugh again. Pavitr swings his bag to the front to frantically rifle through it, hoping his tie was just in his bag and not at home or in an alleyway somewhere. “Do we have assembly today?” he asks as he looks.

“Nah, but I can see Mohan sir at the gate.” Hari replies, a little too casual with his delivery of the news of Pavitr’s future demise.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Pavitr chants frantically, searching through his bag with even more fervor. Mohan sir is the worst, their physics teacher, and he loves to check everyone’s uniforms as they walk in. At the absolute best, Pavitr will have to run two laps around the building and then go to class sweaty to get yelled at by his class teacher (and his bench-mate). But if Mohan sir remembers he’s forgotten his tie three times in the last few weeks, he’s truly screwed.

“Just keep your bag in front,” Hari tells him calmly. He looks incredibly calm, hands in his pockets and posture loose. Pavitr knows he’s hoping Mohan sir won’t get annoyed at both of them and check their bags for phones. “And fix your hair.” Hari adds, which is just rude.

“Arre yaar,” Pavitr complains, but he obeys, abandoning his search for his tie to flatten his hair. He’s been pushing his luck for months now because he wants longer hair and Maya Auntie doesn’t care. But Mohan sir cares and thinks he looks like a rowdy and wants him to run laps every day until he cuts his hair, so Pavitr smooths his hair down and hopes someone else will distract sir.

They enter the school grounds, Pavitr rambling about forgetting his Marathi notebook—despite it being two years since he’s had to take Marathi—while Hari nods like he’s speaking sensibly. They’re past the gates, just a few steps away from the entrance to the building, when a tingle passes down his spine. Out the corner of his eye, Pavitr sees Mohan sir turn to focus on him, hawk-like. “Shit,” he whispers and Hari stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Pavitr!” Mohan sir exclaims and Pavitr speeds up, leaving Hari behind to collapse with laughter. He speed-walks away, trying to get far away enough that Mohan sir will give up.

“Pavitr, get back here!” Mohan sir yells after him and Pavitr decides to risk it and starts a light jog, weaving through the crowd to get into the building. The receptionist gives him an odd look and, when Mohan sir shouts his name again, starts to stand up.

Well, that won’t do. Pavitr pushes through the crowd and ducks down the kindergarten wing instead of heading up the stairs to his class. A little down the hall is an alcove that has a sink for all the dishes and messes the little kids produce and there’s a shelf that he can hide behind if he can just get in there without anyone seeing…

Behind him, Hari is saying, “Oh, ma’am, my father wanted me to ask—” with a very dramatic emphasis on father, as if anyone needs to be reminded of who Hari’s dad is. Pavitr is adding another favor to his mental tally (Favors You Owe vs Favors He Owes; Pavitr probably owes Hari his first-born at this point) as he ducks into the alcove and comes face to face with someone else.

Not just someone else. It’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his life. Her eyes are big and dark brown and beautiful and she’s wearing kajal. Her hair is dark and shiny and short, right above her shoulders, half up. She has a nose piercing! And a row of hoops along the edge of an ear! She’s so pretty, even in their uniform, her own shirt untucked and tie loose around her neck in an effortlessly, casually cool way. Pavitr is suddenly incredibly conscious of how sloppy he must look, rushed and hair messy and, oh god his pants leg is stuck in his left sock!

“You hiding too?” she asks, peeking over his shoulder to see if anyone is following. She looks so familiar but she’s not in his class—he would remember—and she must not take Hindi—he would remember—so where does he know her from?

“Zomato,” he blurts instead of answering her question, like a fool. She laughs, and god she’s so pretty.

“Actually, I’m Gayatri,” she says, smiling at him like he’s funny on purpose and not because he just remembered that he knows her from a freaking billboard.

“Pavitr,” he manages. “And yeah, I forgot my tie and Mohan sir already has a case against me.” Gayatri giggles and the single conscious thought Pavitr can manage is that he’s going to do everything possible to hear that again.

And then she’s leaning forward and her hand is on his chest and oh she’s pulling something out of his shirt pocket? He manages to tear his gaze away to look at what she’s pulled out and—oh. It’s his tie. He actually had his tie the whole time. Silently, he takes it from her and pulls it over his head, feeling a little like his cheeks are burning so hot he’s going to catch on fire. Gayatri is still laughing at him, but it’s gentle and she’s so pretty he can’t feel bad.

“He also hates my hair.” He adds, trying to fix his hair without a mirror.

“Mohan sir thinks my earrings are dangerous.” Gayatri tells him, rolling her eyes. Even as she rolls her eyes, she looks cool and classy! Pavitr opens his mouth to respond but. before he can speak, a hand claps down on his shoulder. Slowly, Pavitr spins around to face… their PT teacher.

“Ah, Shubman sir!” Pavitr exclaims nervously. Normally, Shubman sir is nice and doesn’t give Pavitr a hard time for hair but also normally Pavitr isn’t in alcoves with a girl.

“What are you doing over here?” Shubman sir asks, face unreadable.

“Looking for my tie,” Pavitr replies before really thinking through how stupid that sounds. Behind him, Gayatri snorts and then coughs to cover it. Shubman sir’s stern expression cracks a little and Pavitr knows he’s safe.

“Get to class,” he tells Pavitr and Pavitr scampers away, towards the staircase. He can feel Gayatri try to follow after him, but Shubman sir stops her. “I have a form for your dad, come get it.” He tells her. Pavitr feels himself deflate a little. He doesn’t even know what class she’s in!

“Okay sir,” Gayatri says, smiling sweetly. When Shubman sir turns to head to the staff room, she turns to wave at Pavitr. “See you,” she mouths at him, grinning. There’s an explosion of warmth in Pavitr’s chest.

[feelingthedisaster]

i love being an ao3 author

[rockcattomato]

Dear fanfiction writers,

I see you accurate bus timetables I see you knowing the paperwork someone would be doing I see you accurate metalworking I see you researched geography and land formation I see you accurate job descriptions I see you accurate prices I see you accurate education systems I see you areas of expertise I see you lived experience I see you referenced sources I see you attention to detail

[alvfr]

if the next thing I post is 3687 words long I'll have a word count of exactly 1,000,000 on AO3

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

Ot&t

if someone made tiny bombs or another device that creates sparks, put them in energon and a bot drank it. If we activated them would all of the energon inside the bot or con ignite. Slowly melting a person from the inside out.

*Bashing Silas and Morocco with this ask*: THIS! IS! CALLED! USING! YOUR BRAIN!

Ashlyn peering over my shoulder: Could we turn it into an aerosol? Or a nanite capable of burrowing through the thin places of armor? Add something that seeks out the specific chemical composition of the energon and imbeds itself into the bot?

Author: Essentially improving Morocco's nanites and turning it into a ticking time bomb that could be set off at any time?

Ashlyn: Thereby broadening the range. Could use it for interrogation, assignation, sabotage... possibilities are endless really.

Silas: ... I don't know whether to be scared or wonder why I never recruited you.

Ashlyn: I would never work for the idiot whose best idea was basically plagiarizing... and then burning the people who plagiarized for you.

*Optimus Prime crying in the corner*

[welcometoteyvat]

Xingqiu slumps onto his desk, defeated. The deadline for a special volume of A Legend of Sword is scarcely three nights away, and yet he still hasn’t progressed past the first fight sequence. Every word he pens feels inadequate, his characters are becoming more and more crooked, and the sentences are crawling away from him like silkworms off the page—one, two, three, four… Wait—but the next arc… His valiant unnamed hero will claim a narrow victory against the Tai-Shogun’s cyborg samurai, and then—and then…

When Xingqiu’s eyelids flutter open again, the lantern by his window has dimmed considerably. He cannot have dozed off for that long, can he?

At least his father and brother are asleep. It would be best if they never find out about his sleeping schedule.

The shadow of his hand is so sharp against the pages of his lantern-lit draft. Xingqiu traces the ridges of his knuckles, a flickering black silhouette on the page beneath it. From this angle, it almost looks like a dragon’s mouth, one of the Natlan kinds… Maybe he’ll be able to see one in person someday…

He should try to finish this chapter, since it’s almost done anyways… Oh, but didn’t Calx mention something about their alchemy experiments in their last letter? Perhaps they know a potion that could increase his inspiration… it wouldn’t be too late to ask about it, right?

His eyes shut slowly.

“—qiu. Xingqiu. Hey, bookworm. Aren’t you a sorry sight, hm?” Someone is poking his shoulder. He wishes they would stop. He knows that voice. It—

“…Wh— Hu Tao? Isn’t it late? How did you even get in?” Where is she? Xingqiu can only stare blearily in the direction of her voice, strangely disembodied in the pitch-black room.

“The same way I always do; don’t tell me you already forgot? Anyways, there was business at Wuwang Hill tonight. It takes a long time to walk back.” There's rustling, the tap-tap of shoes against the sandalwood floor, and then a crackling of fire as Xingqiu's lantern flickers to life again. It illuminates Xingqiu’s room, his manuscript, and the girl leaning against his desk, idly twirling her hat round her thumb. A smile dances across Hu Tao’s peach blossom eyes, and her merry lips quirk up at the corners, greeting him warmly. Xingqiu is impressed by her liveliness at such an hour; anyone normal would never be in such a good mood in this dead of night. Of course, Hu Tao has never settled for normalcy. And he would be delighted to see her any other time, but…

“Hu Tao, I appreciate your visit, but you should head back to Wangsheng. I need to focus, and you should rest too.” Xingqiu straightens in his chair, and immediately grimaces—his back is aching. Hu Tao’s eyes narrow, and Xingqiu resigns himself. He’s never been able to hide much from her: not his double standards, his avoidance, his fatigue.

“You’ve been in this slump for at least a week, and you’re still putting on a brave face? It’s unbecoming for a chivalric hero to refuse help in dire straits, Xingqiu.” Hu Tao’s voice is rarely so serious, and Xingqiu can feel her studying him, her gaze quietly burning. He looks away. When had she become so adept at instilling that indescribable feeling of shame-guilt in him?

“How long have you been working on this dialogue? You know, inspiration won’t strike you like a lightning bolt in this dead of night, or it would’ve already.”

“I—” Xingqiu looks back at the draft. The last sentence trails off illegibly, and there are ink splatters all over the page—it seems his brush control is no better with less sleep. He sighs.

“Aiya… look at you, already so despondent. Isn’t your deadline still three midnights away? Come on, you’re already turning into a dull and uninspired young master. If you go on like this, soon I won’t have anyone to trade verses with anymore.”

“Hey! I’m not becoming dull or uninspired! I just… I just need a bit more time.” Yeah, that’s it. He just needs to get used to the flow of his story again. After all, there’s never been another way out, has there?

“Hm. Whatever you say, young master. Listen, let me tell you about the hanged ghost mystery that cropped up a week ago; it’ll send chills down your spine for sure. I guarantee it would make for an incredible plot point!” There’s a warm lilt in Hu Tao’s voice—a rare teasing fondness that makes Xingqiu raise his head. She is looking at him expectantly, eyes alight with the promise of a good story, words waiting to spill from her lips like the sweet melody of just-ready rice wine.

Really, this girl. It’s scary how much she understands him.

“Oh? Then, if it pleases Master Hu to continue, my attention is all hers.”

———

notes: i have no idea how hu tao could get into his room tbh i just accept she's better at being a prankster than i am lmao. peach blossom eyes does not just refer to hu tao's pupils, it's an eye shape classification! i thought it fits her <3 (putting this note here since I already described it like that 2x) also just imagine that xingqiu usually has relatively fast reflexes but he's eepy and tired so he isn't as alert against intruders. also, smiles serenely. they could be each other's muses and inspirations (high honor). this is rlly just xingqiu going through The Horrors (writers block) but i hope it's decent i love him dearly. i dont actually know if hu tao was written that well tbh something about writing in limited perspective kinda fucks me up idk. the more i look at this the more things i find wrong with it but i need to be free from it now or it's never getting done

also this is irrelevant to this snippet but i choose to believe in shit eyesight xingqiu who got the teyvat equivalent of contacts and/or lasik eye surgery. he would've needed glasses but he doesn't want to look like an Old Man!!!! (baizhu: ._. )

[grahamophone]

[bluesidedown]

The adventure zone is a podcast?!?!??

.....I may have been operating under some fundamental misunderstandings

[notcoolbutcute]

Normalize author's notes and jokes after every chapter in NORMAL BOOKS!!

I wanna know what the author is thinking when writing. I want to know if they cried or laughed killing the character. I want to see their writing bts!!