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strangelittlestories · 1 year

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It was in the 6th year of the Wars of the Real that the anti-magicians and their Realis project (that all should act in accordance with certain physical laws) were truly challenged. This was due in no small part due to a singular invention from a family of forest witches.

Their discovery was as ingenious as it was stupid. And it radically changed what a disparate collective was able to accomplish in the face of both overwhelming force and abstract certainty.

It also caused a truly historic amount of epic shitfuckery.

From “I Fought the Spore and the Spore Won: a history of Realis and Resistance”

- - -

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” The woman who spoke wore strange armour that looked like it had been grown out of wood. The helmet alone glinted with metal spikes.

“I … uh, I guess? Sorry, I’m kinda new to this whole ‘magical kingdom’ deal you’ve got going on here…” The recruit in question was wearing dull red overalls and a ‘what-the-fuck’ expression.

“No worries, kid. We put out a multiversal call for aid - so anybody with a latent magical destiny or a strong subconscious hero fantasy got pulled in. Very much a ‘To Whom It May Concern’ type of spell.”

She patted him on the shoulder. Up close he could see that the spikes on her helmet were actually the shards of a broken crown.

“So, uh, do I get any kind of training?”

“You already did, buddy. The spell should’ve planted a ‘potential seed’ inside you. When you’re exposed to trauma, then just in the nick of time it’ll suddenly sprout into the skills you need to survive. Very dramatic.” She paused for a second. “Or you’ll die. Also very dramatic.”

“So … either I’ll be awesome or I’ll die?”

“Well, you would die … unless you have one of these.” She threw him a small vial. He fumbled the catch, but grabbed it on the second try. Inside the vial swirled a glowing grey-green mist. “You catch a mortal wound, drink it. Or smash it on the injury. The fungus inside will patch you up.”

“Fungus?” The man was a pretty even split of horrified and fascinated. He simultaneously wanted to throw the vial away like poison, or guzzle it like forbidden candy.

“Yeah, you ever hear of ‘ophiocordyceps unilateralis’?”

“The weird zombie ant mushroom? Yeah, I saw it on a documentary!”

“Well, a family of witch-mycologists - real wyrd scientist types - they brewed up this variant in their forest. They turned it from a parasite to a symbiote. If it knows who you are, it’ll heal your wounds, get your heart pumping, even move your limbs for you.”

“How do I get it to know who I am?”

“You feed it.” She grinned ghoulishly. “Chuck in some hair, some blood, whatever bits of you are going spare. Anything to sync it up to your DNA. Think of it as your very own cannibal sourdough starter.”

“And people actually use this?”

“Oh yeah. Folks swear by the stuff. They even had an argument over what nickname it should have. The winner was the truly cursed phrase ‘resurrection juice’.”

“...really?”

“Oh yeah. The juice brigade are pretty smug it caught on. Some smart alec tried to give it a mushroom name, but they got one-upped by the juice thing.”

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of sharing my body with a fungus.” He tried to find the right words to articulate the niggling philosophical nuances of the idea and failed. “It feels like, I dunno, a bad idea?”

“Oh, it’s a terrible idea. A real crock of stupid. Pure idiot-fuel. But sometimes, when the world’s against you, the truly bad idea is the only one you have.”

“But, I mean, once the fungus takes over … would I still even be me?” The urge to gobble up the taboo canape had begun to be edged out by the existential dread.

“Look at it this way: you’d be mushroom food anyways, right? Why not let it be mushrooms who think they’re you? I think it’s kinda comforting that when the time comes, I can just relax and let fungus take the wheel.”

The man paused for a second, pondering the nature of life, decay, and resurrection.

“Anyways, they’ll be summoning the portal to pipe us out on our first mission soon. So best get ready.” The princess (for that’s what she was) thought for a second, then asked: “By the way … what did you do before you got sucked up into this particular asscrack, anyhow?”

The man gulped.

“I was a plumber.” He said.

#a long one but hopefully worth it #writing #flash fiction #I realised halfway through writing that this read like a grimdark mario bros fic and I just leant into that #still contains at least two puns for those keeping count

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whumpbby · 6 months

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Thinking that because it seems that the Demonic Cultivation was mostly something that Jiang Cheng took care of - either as a way to unload his grief or as taking responsibility of his shixiong's mess - it's possible that the Jiang disciples were the ones that were the best versed in dealing with DC.

Now I am headcanoning that - because JC seems like a man that has shit in hand and runs a tight ship - there's a group within the Yunmeng Jiang trained and experienced specifically to deal with Demonic Cultivation specifically. Like their Spec Ops. They are prepared to come in fast and hot, deal with the issue asap and start the clean-up - armed with talismans made to deflect DC, tame the corpses and help send them on.

So, like, one day WWX hears that there's some Demonic Cultivator causing problems in the area he's hunting with the Lan juniors and goes to deal with it. It still pisses him off that his only lasting legacy is not about his genius or his heroics (or even his good looks), but it's this thing he invented out of horrific desperate need and that's now used to cause chaos and hurt people. So, he feels it's his duty to go there and talk some sense into the person in question.

Except, as soon as he arrives at the scene and ascertains that yeah, the issue is serious and maybe it's better for him to send the disciples back home and call in reinforcements (Lan Zhan), because he can take the DC down, but the clean-up will be immense - when suddenly a group of cultivators land in front of them with a swish of purple robes and gets to work.

The battle is almost sad. In no time at all the fierce corpses are tamed, the cultivator thrown down and bound with talismans, and the cultivators are dispersing across the area to set up burials for the corpses and arrays meant to send the ghosts onwards.

It's all precise and quick, sure steps and short commands. A well-oiled machine with soldier-discipline cleaning the area of resentment. So unlike the usual exuberance and free-style of the Jiang.

Wei Wuxian is kinda stumped. How are these people, and why are they getting in his way? He didn't even manage to get any fun! You, baby Lan disciple, explain!

"They're the Red Brigade", the disciple explains in a hushed voice. "Jiang-zonghzu's personal guard. They hunt Deminic Cultivators."

Red? Ah, their uniforms are adorned with a red ribbon on the shoulder. How sentimental of Jiang Cheng. His shidi really missed him! (or wanted him dead, there's also that option). But no time to contemplate that, because these guys are super efficient and if WWX wants to do any investigation of his own (translate: being his nosy self) he has to haul ass before they clean up everything!

So, he goes to the leader of the pack with an intention of comparing notes! The guy is respectful, but so cold! Eh, is he even a Jiang? So much like A-Cheng! Well, he knows how to deal with people like that - everyone will fold when bothered for long enough!

So, he keeps following the leader and talking bullshit, as his brain takes notes on everything he can see around. The talismans they use, the arrays, the spells - that's all pretty high level and super interesting. Huh, even their clothes are embroidered with talismans (a page out of the Lan book, maybe? Sneaky, Jiang Cheng, sneaky!) and their they use ghost flags...

But something is strange. He can see traces of his own work here and there - and he's used to seeing is tools ironically used across the cultivation world, but these are... kind of not? There are traces of his work, but the sigils are not his, the flags are not his, the talismans are not his. Like someone engineered his work backwards and created something that was similar, but entirely different.

As if someone wanted or needed tools to deal with Wei Wuxian's creations specifically, without the risk of being used against them in the heat of battle. One of the cultivators has a qinqin strapped across her back - the strings are made from metal, so it's not for musical cultivation (huh, so that's how Jiang Cheng came up with the idea of disrupting Su She's music in the Guanyin Temple, it wasn't coincidence.). They came in prepared to counter anything a Demonic Cultivator would throw at them.

Hell, he can admit that going through them on his own wouldn't be easy (because he was always helplessly optimistic about his own skills)...

Oh, Jiang Cheng did his homework.

"Wei-gongzi, can I help you with anything? Shouldn't you be taking the Lan juniors home?"

Uh-oh, he was getting on someone's nerves. Better retreat for now.

But he wasn't about to drop the matter.

The Jiang Sect had a SPECIAL OPS! how was he supposed to leave that be?

He was invested, he wanted to discuss! He needed to compare notes!

#headcanon #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #mdzs #yunmeng jiang spe cops #XD

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the-griffons-saddlebag · 4 months

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⚔️ 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Fire Brigade Staff Staff, rare (requires attunement) ___ This staff is encircled with dangling strips of paper. At its top is a special reservoir of water; the reservoir holds 10 gallons of water. It regains 1d6 + 4 expended gallons of water daily at dawn, and it can’t be refilled by any other mundane or magical means. Regardless of the amount of water inside, the staff always weighs 4 pounds. While holding the staff, you can use an action to use one of the properties below, expending the respective number of gallons of water for each one: 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙨. You can cast one of the following spells from the staff: “control water” (4 gallons), “create or destroy water” (1 gallon per spell level, up to 9th), or “protection from energy” (fire damage only; 3 gallons). 𝘿𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚. (1 gallon) You extinguish all nonmagical flames within a 30-foot square, centered on a point that you can see within 60 feet of you. Alternatively, you can use a reaction when a creature that you can see takes fire damage. Choose a number of gallons to expend: you then reduce that fire damage by an amount equal to 5 times the number of expended gallons. 𝙁𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙. (3 gallons) You can sweep the staff in front of you to create a wave of crashing water. Each creature within a 30-foot cone, originating from you, must then make a DC 15 Strength saving throw. On a failed save, a creature takes 6d6 bludgeoning damage and is knocked prone. On a success, a creature takes half as much bludgeoning damage and isn’t knocked prone. 𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝘽𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙚. (3 gallons) You surround a creature that you can see within 60 feet of you with a bubble of water that’s filled with air. The bubble lasts for 1 hour and moves with the target, remaining centered on it. For the duration, the target has resistance to fire damage and is under the effects of the “water walk” spell. When a target surrounded by a bubble takes fire damage, the bubble pops and evaporates, creating a ring of steam. The ring of steam is a 10-foot-thick wall of fog in a circle around the target’s location. The fog heavily obscures the area. If a target.... ...Continued in the comment below! ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

#illustration #digital art #dungeons and dragons #dnd #d&d

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petermorwood · 1 month

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How on earth did these goats get there?

*****

In reality the goats are lying on their sides on rocky ground, looking up at a crane-mounted camera. The photograph was taken some years ago, part of a series reconstructing Central European folk customs and traditions which have fallen from favour or are now prohibited.

This old-fashioned rural blood-sport was originally practiced in parts of Anatolia, Turkey, where the game was called keçi fırlatmak, and also in the Carpathian Alps of Romania, possibly imported during the Ottoman conquest. The name there was aruncarea caprei.

*****

The goats would have been coated in a strong adhesive traditionally distilled from pine resin.(represented pictorially here by darker patches of dye on the flanks) and were then thrown upwards towards a cliff or rock-face with makeshift catapults, often a primitive form of counterweight trebuchet assembled from wooden beams and weighted with rocks.

The game ended when the glue dried and lost adhesion, and the goats fell to their deaths. They were then cooked and eaten, their meat being valued like that of Spanish fighting bulls.

The meat of the last goat to fall (başarılı keçi or cea mai durabilă capră) was prized as a special delicacy and selected cuts from the legs of this particular “winner” goat were often smoked and dried into a kind of jerky.

*****

In his “Grandes Histoires Vraies d'un Voyageur le 1er Avril” (pub. Mensonges & Faussetés, Paris, 1871) French folk-historian, anthropologist and retired cavalry general Gilles-Etienne Gérârd wrote about witnessing a festival near Sighișoara, Transylvania, in 1868.

There he claims to have seen catapults improvised from jeunes arbres, très élastiques et souples - “very springy and flexible young trees” - which were drawn back with ropes and then released.

Bets were placed before the throw, and marks given afterwards, according to what way up the goats adhered and for how long. The reconstruction, with both goats upright, facing outward and still in place, shows what would have been a potential high score.

The practice has been officially banned in both countries since the late 1940s, but supposedly still occurred in more isolated areas up to the end of the 20th century. Wooden beams from which the catapults were constructed could easily be disguised as barn-rafters etc., and of course flexible trees were, and are, just trees.

*****

Gérârd’s book incorrectly calls the goat jerky “pastrami”, to which he gives the meaning "meat of preservation".

While pastrami may be a printing error for the Turkish word bastırma or the Romanian pastramă, both meaning “preserved meat”, at least one reviewer claims that Gérârd misunderstood his guide-translator, who would have been working from rural dialect to formal Romanian to scholarly French.

Since this jerky was considered a good-luck food for shepherds, mountaineers, steeplejacks and others whose work involved a risk of falling, Gérârd's assumption seems a reasonable one.

However, several critical comments on that review have dismissed its conclusion, claiming "no translator could be so clumsy", but in its defence, other comments point out confusion between slang usage in the same language.

One cites American and British English, noting that even before differences in spelling (tire / tyre, kerb / curb etc.) "guns" can mean biceps or firearms, "flat" can mean a deflated wheel or a place to live, "ass" can mean buttocks or donkey and adds, with undisguised relish, some of the more embarrassing examples.

This comment concludes that since the errors "usually make sense in context", Gérârd's misapprehension is entitled to the same respect.

*****

The good-luck aspect of the meat apparently extended to work which involved "falling safely", since its last known use was believed to be in ration packs issued to the 1. Hava İndirme Tugayı (1st Airborne Brigade) of the Turkish Army, immediately before the invasion of Cyprus in July 1974.

Nothing more recent has been officially recorded, because the presence of cameras near military bases or possible - and of course illegal - contests is strongly (sometimes forcefully) discouraged, and the sport’s very existence is increasingly dismissed as an urban or more correctly rural legend.

The official line taken by both Anatolian and Carpathian authorities is that it was only ever a joke played on tourists, similar to the Australian “Drop-bear”, the Scottish “Wild Haggis” and the North American “Jackalope”.

They dismiss the evidence of Gérârd’s personal observation as “a wild fable to encourage sales of his book”, “a city-dweller’s misinterpretation of country practices”, or even “the deliberate deception of a gullible foreigner by humorous peasants”.

And as for those paratroop ration packs, Turkish involvement in Cyprus is still such a delicate subject that the standard response remains “no comment”.

#goats #mountain goats #climbing #falling #good-luck food #rural myth #pinch of salt #A day in April

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essektheylyss · 1 year

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So, we know now that the Apogee Solstice is perpetual. To no one's surprise, I've got thoughts.

First, I don't think this was an intentional effect of the Malleus Key. It's a massively wide-reaching effect. We know that the destruction of Domunas was a large effect, and more active, but it only took a single moment of power. Actually holding the leylines and planar boundaries in alignment seemingly across Exandria (which we can infer is happening, on a meta level) for this long is well beyond that single moment of power.

My guess is that Ludinus intended to shatter the prison in one massive blast, like destroying Domunas to destroy the primordials, and he didn't quite get it right due to the sabotage from the Hells and Beau and Caleb.

That being said, we know also that a number of magical effects aren't working. Anything that travels across a distance or among planes fails, including, as we've learned, the retrieval of souls. Spells that are working are ones that happen instantly and locally, and ones with ongoing effects have been failing over time.

Teleportation circles were suggested to have been destroyed pretty rapidly, whereas long-term wards and transmutations are eroding over time. (Has anyone checked on Lionel of the Darrington Brigade recently?) These longer-term passive magical effects may get some amount of phantom power from the weave/leylines, enough to maintain the effect once the effect is in place.

We also know that the gods are still there, but they feel more distant, less present. However, we know that the leylines are stuck in their aligned state, that the planes should be in fact more easily accessible, because we know what great workings of planar magic can be achieved during an Apogee Solstice.

And, to return to the beacon, we know that there was spatiotemporal magic involved in whatever effect presumably both scattered the Hells (and possibly everyone else in that cavern) and froze the leylines in their aligned state, which is in essence all that an Apogee Solstice is. And the beacon is an artifact that has a great deal of magical power, which is often beyond the capabilities to control of even the mages of the Age of Arcanum, if the notes from the T-Dock in Aeor were any indication.

My thought, then, is that perhaps the Material Plane is out of sync temporally with the rest of the universe. Whether this is a semi-conscious action of whatever the entity of the Luxon is, or a passive effect of the beacon, it's possible that magic is fizzling out into static not because there is no magic to be had, but because any magic that has to travel across the leylines to create an effect, or draw magic from the leylines, finds itself in a temporal morass.

#critical role #cr spoilers #cr meta #this is fully speculative but as i am both a luxon stan and too interested in magical experimentation i had to write out my thoughts #i also did not get into the REALLY speculative side of things wherein i talk about my theories regarding demiplanes and pocket dimensions #but I've got further thoughts on that and i may elaborate. this is just evidenced speculation tho.

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galderthefuzzy · 1 year

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The Blood Mender

The Brigade's war on the Cruor Sanguis Blood cult has been going on for more than a decade now. While undeniably costly and with mounting casualties on both sides, it has not come without its benefits. One of them is understanding of the Blood magic and various rituals that can be used both to cause harm and mend even the most grievous injuries. The Brigade has captured a few cultists at the very beginning of the conflict and managed to free them from the cult's influence. Some of them left, never to be heard of again, but some stayed and joined in the fight against their former captors. One of them is Borgia, the veteran leader of the Brigade's Blood priests. A small, secretive unit comprised mostly of former cultists who seek redemption and some of them most likely revenge. While not as formidable as Octavian or Alanna Vex, the feared Blood Countess, Borgia is a powerful spellcaster in her own right. Over the years, she has managed to mend injuries that resisted the efforts of the more conventional healers at the Brigade hospital, and has proven to be an invaluable instructor to those few who attempt to master the crimson arts. I have finished this piece some time ago, in an attempt to bring back Borgia in a more stylish and 'modern' fashion - opting for the stained glass I've recently fallen in love with. The last piece I've done of her was back in 2017.. 6 whole years, unbelievable.

#sindorei #blood elf #warcraft #world of warcraft #warcraft art #fanart #oc #original character #fantasy #gaming #the brigade #blood magic #magic #spell #stylized #digital #digital art #stained glass #female

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quotesfrommyreading · 11 months

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In the terrible winter of 1932–33, brigades of Communist Party activists went house to house in the Ukrainian countryside, looking for food. The brigades were from Moscow, Kyiv, and Kharkiv, as well as villages down the road. They dug up gardens, broke open walls, and used long rods to poke up chimneys, searching for hidden grain. They watched for smoke coming from chimneys, because that might mean a family had hidden flour and was baking bread. They led away farm animals and confiscated tomato seedlings. After they left, Ukrainian peasants, deprived of food, ate rats, frogs, and boiled grass. They gnawed on tree bark and leather. Many resorted to cannibalism to stay alive. Some 4 million died of starvation.

At the time, the activists felt no guilt. Soviet propaganda had repeatedly told them that supposedly wealthy peasants, whom they called kulaks, were saboteurs and enemies—rich, stubborn landowners who were preventing the Soviet proletariat from achieving the utopia that its leaders had promised. The kulaks should be swept away, crushed like parasites or flies. Their food should be given to the workers in the cities, who deserved it more than they did. Years later, the Ukrainian-born Soviet defector Viktor Kravchenko wrote about what it was like to be part of one of those brigades. “To spare yourself mental agony you veil unpleasant truths from view by half-closing your eyes—and your mind,” he explained. “You make panicky excuses and shrug off knowledge with words like exaggeration and hysteria.”

He also described how political jargon and euphemisms helped camouflage the reality of what they were doing. His team spoke of the “peasant front” and the “kulak menace,” “village socialism” and “class resistance,” to avoid giving humanity to the people whose food they were stealing. Lev Kopelev, another Soviet writer who as a young man had served in an activist brigade in the countryside (later he spent years in the Gulag), had very similar reflections. He too had found that clichés and ideological language helped him hide what he was doing, even from himself:

I persuaded myself, explained to myself. I mustn’t give in to debilitating pity. We were realizing historical necessity. We were performing our revolutionary duty. We were obtaining grain for the socialist fatherland. For the five-year plan.

There was no need to feel sympathy for the peasants. They did not deserve to exist. Their rural riches would soon be the property of all.

But the kulaks were not rich; they were starving. The countryside was not wealthy; it was a wasteland. This is how Kravchenko described it in his memoirs, written many years later:

Large quantities of implements and machinery, which had once been cared for like so many jewels by their private owners, now lay scattered under the open skies, dirty, rusting and out of repair. Emaciated cows and horses, crusted with manure, wandered through the yard. Chickens, geese and ducks were digging in flocks in the unthreshed grain.

That reality, a reality he had seen with his own eyes, was strong enough to remain in his memory. But at the time he experienced it, he was able to convince himself of the opposite. Vasily Grossman, another Soviet writer, gives these words to a character in his novel Everything Flows:

I’m no longer under a spell, I can see now that the kulaks were human beings. But why was my heart so frozen at the time? When such terrible things were being done, when such suffering was going on all around me? And the truth is that I truly didn’t think of them as human beings. “They’re not human beings, they’re kulak trash”—that’s what I heard again and again, that’s what everyone kept repeating.

— Ukraine and the Words That Lead to Mass Murder

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petite-phthora · 8 months

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Nova... after a supernova

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first... murder? - part 7]

<< Prev | Next >>

Part 1

Ao3

---

In-chat nicknames:

OGnerd = Jason

BatDad = Bruce

Discowing = Dick

BloodSon = Damian

TheHotOne = Steph

TheCuteOne = Cass

Omnipotent = Babs

Flashlight = Duke

---

Clockwork watches as the scenes unfold from the screen in front of him, a fond smile on his face.

He chuckles at the awkward farewell young Danny leaves one of Gotham’s Knights with.

However, as his gaze turns to one of the other screens, his expression switches from amused fondness to one of contemplation.

As he watches the recently deceased manic clown cackle his head off at the revelation of his newly ghostly existence, Clockwork can do no more than let out a weary sigh.

As much as he would like to interfere so young Danny would not have to deal with this endeavor, alas, he is not allowed.

Regardless, he muses, Danny will be able to handle it quite well on his own. Clockwork has complete confidence in him, as he gazes at the many timelines that may yet come to pass.

It will all work out in the end...

---

After taking some deep breaths to calm himself somewhat, Jason puts his glove back on before getting back on his motorcycle and leaving the apartment building behind.

He should probably use the rest of the night to sleep, as it’s already quite late.

However, not too long after he leaves he starts feeling eyes on him. He's being watched, and he has a pretty good guess of just who it could be...

And that guess is confirmed when he sees the shadows moving across the rooftops.

Of course, they followed the tracker to find out what he's up to even after he told them not to follow

He lets out an irritated sigh as he revs the engine and makes his motorcycle pick up more speed. At this point he’s most likely going way over the speed limit but, it’s Gotham, so no one’s gonna care.

At least they only just found him and started following him, rather than when he was still with Danny. Small mercies…

Though, he notes with mild curiosity, interestingly enough Replacement doesn’t seem to be with them.

Jason decides not to jinx his luck by questioning it, for now. Tim’s probably just overworking himself on a case again while doped up on so much of his awful Red Bull, Monster, and coffee mixture monstrosity that he should’ve had a caffeine overdose by now 3 times over.

Either way, Jason’s so not in the mood for their questions

Jason wants to keep his family as far away from Danny as possible, for as long as he can. And not just because of their not date, but he wants to help Danny keep people off his back about the murder of the Joker.

While, as he has mentioned to Danny before, most people will probably celebrate his death more than anything, he wants to spare Danny from B’s disappointment and his 5 hour long morals speech at the very least.

At that point, Jason decides to try to throw his stalkers off by making some unexpected, sharp turns and using a lot of alleys. He avoids the cameras and makes a point to also disable the cam and tracker the Bats ‘sneakily’ left in his helmet, again.

…

After spelling out ‘Fuck off’ with the tracker’s path on the map.

Luckily for him, Jason has just made it to Crime Alley, which is his turf. He knows his way around better than the furry brigade that's still following him does and he’ll gladly use this to his advantage.

With a small grumble that's muffled due to his helmet, he decides to try another more blunt method to try and dissuade them from following him.

Or, at the very least, distract them so that he has an easier time getting away.

---

0 days without the Joker breaking out of Arkham

OGnerd: Stop stalking me.

BatDad: Don’t text and drive.

OGnerd: It's speech to text. Dumbass.

Discowing: Jason!! 😃 What’s up, Little Wing? 🐦 Sooo, why didn’t you patrol tonight?? 👀

OGnerd: That's none of your business dick wad. Fuck off.

OGnerd: What part of don’t follow me did you not understand.

Discowing: I just wanted to catch up with my little brother!! 😁 Is that too much to ask? 🥺

BloodSon: Todd. Who are you courting?

Discowing: Dami!! 😠 I wanted to ease him into it before bombarding him with questions 😩

TheHotOne: no damian id rite

TheHotOne: we ned a more direct aproch >:)

TheHotOne: so jayyyyyyy, whos ur mystery boo ;)

TheHotOne: dont worry u can tell m privtely ^-^

TheHotOne: i wnt tell, scuts honor o7

TheCuteOne: scuts

Omnipotent: scuts

Discowing: Scuts

Flashlight: scuts

Flashlight: Wait, you were a scout??

TheHotOne: no <3

OGnerd: I was just following up on a lead on a case I’ve been working on.

OGnerd: Besides, shouldn’t you all be focusing on finding that clown freak instead of stalking me after I explicitly said not to.

Omnipotent: Do you buy flowers for all of your ‘leads’ or are those just for the cute ones? 🤨

Discowing: Oh!!!! 😲 He got them flowers?? 🌼 That’s so cute! 🥰 I didn’t take you for such a romantic, Jay 😉

BloodSon: Considering Todd’s reading material it should not have come as much of a surprise, Richard.

BatDad: Red Hood, what do you know about the disappearance of the Joker?

BatDad: Is the person you were meeting with involved?

OGnerd: Nothing and no. Now leave me alone.

OGnerd: Middle finger emoji.

~ OGnerd changed the name of BatDad to WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl ~

~ OGnerd locked the name of WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl ~

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: Red Hood, this is extremely immature.

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: Change my name back and come to the cave for a meeting, now.

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: That was a misunderstanding and you know it.

---

Jason turns his phone back off and mutes the chat once again. He managed to throw them off of his trail a bit ago and just now reached his apartment.

They know where he lives, yes, but it seems that they had finally noticed how not in the mood he was and decided to make the smart decision to give up and leave him the hell alone. For now at least…

Jason wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up at his apartment tomorrow anyway. But the metal baseball bat by the door and the gun in his holster should help.

After getting inside he changes out of his clothes and takes his time taking a shower. After getting out, drying off, and putting on something comfortable he practically collapses onto the couch.

His eyes fall onto the faded number sequence still scribbled on his hand. With a small smile on his face, while thinking of the person who wrote it, he takes his phone back out again and makes a new contact.

While he’d love to call it some sappy shit like ‘Danny <3’, he knows his family and it has enough hackers in it that he’d rather make the contact name a bit less obviously stand out.

It takes a while, but after thinking back on Danny’s space rambles earlier that evening in the observatory, Jason settles on a contact name.

He names it Nova, after a supernova.

He doesn’t know how right he is.

---

Taglist:

@i-always-say-yea @uraniumwizard @why-must-i-be-like-this @griffinthing

#dp x dc #dp x dc fic #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dead on main #dead on main ship #sorry for the awfully long wait #got busy with college #and then i got a bit of a writer's block #but!!! this is not abandoned!!#uploading will just take me a bit long #to make up for the last long wait #im posting like 5-6 chapters in a row #also by now oracle has hacked the cams from before equipment around jason had gone crazy #and so she saw footage of him getting the flowers #steph is the one who gave herself and cass matching nicknames :)

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 8 months

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KINDRED — 09

It’s your final year of highschool, and your only goal is to graduate top of your cohort, as usual. Except as student council president, your advisor can’t seem to leave you alone. What happens when you take Decelis Academy’s top student, their star athlete and put them in front of a camera?

smau + written (2.4k words)

❥･• episode 9 — operation we-don’t-really-hate-each-other

As the production crew ushers you into the room, your heart races with excitement. The once-deserted classroom has undergone a remarkable transformation, now standing as a confessional studio bathed in the warm glow of overhead lights. An intricate web of cameras and meticulous lighting equipment encircles two inviting stools, positioned neatly right next to each other. The aura within is electric, humming with a blend of excitement and tension.

Amidst this carefully orchestrated symphony of activity, the leading producer paces about, her brows furrowed in concentration, as she meticulously scrutinises the script clutched in her hands for what you assume is the nth time. Nearby, a small brigade of cameramen work with precision, each minor adjustment made to capture the most exquisite angles. And it hit you—this is really happening.

You nod attentively as you receive instructions from the crew that they will be filming the opening sequence to the documentary today, asking only a few questions to you and none other than Yang Jungwon.

Fully embracing the captivating allure of reality TV, complete with its intriguing and heart-pounding suspense, the producer resolutely quashes your hopeful plea for a sneak peek at those darn interview questions.

Frankly speaking, you are a bundle of jitters. It was known to the whole school that you were the embodiment of preparation; concepts securely etched into your mind, and meticulously crafted notes that served as your guide through yours exams. But now, standing right smack in the middle of the room, you're like a lost puppy wandering into uncharted waters. Yet, determined to guard your vulnerability from prying eyes, particularly those of Yang Jungwon's, you employ a carefully constructed façade of coy self-assurance.

And then, as if on cue, he materialises—a figure cast in a demeanour that is both effortlessly casual and frustratingly unperturbed. A pang of annoyance mingles with the surge of nerves as he nonchalantly strolls into the room (just five minutes late, as always).

"Yang Jungwon?" The words cut through the air, tinged with a hint of impatience. "Take a seat, would you? We're on a tight schedule." The crew member ushers him with practised efficiency toward the vacant stool at your side. A sharp, involuntary cringe tugs at your features as your gazes inadvertently lock for a fleeting moment. It's like this weird mix of nerves and irritation—a little tug-of-war playing out in plain sight.

"Shall we begin?" The authoritative resonance of Producer Choi's voice cuts through the room, casting a spell of anticipation over the set. Settling gracefully onto her stool, she assumes a poised stance behind the camera. You offer a subtle nod, a silent testament to your readiness that doesn’t escape her notice. Jungwon's eyes, however, roll in a gesture that practically screams his disdain for what he perceives as your pretentious façade of a good-girl persona.

"Alright, let’s kick things off." Producer Choi declares, her tone dripping with intrigue. Her gaze sweeps over you both, the opening chord of this unforeseen duet. "We've got a series of questions lined up, and all you need to do is answer them as best you can."

“First off, let's get those introductions going." With a pointed gesture, Producer Choi directs her attention toward Jungwon, signalling for him to lead the charge.

"Yang Jungwon, age nineteen, Taekwondo athlete," he utters, his words a blend of confidence and haste. He concludes with an almost reluctant scoff, a rebellion against formalities he can't entirely suppress. The edge of his scoff doesn't go unnoticed; his message is clear even as he chooses to ignore your presence. You, however, are not one to be silenced. Rolling your eyes with a mix of exasperation and amusement, you address the cameras with a poised smile.

"Greetings, dear viewers. I am Park Y/N, a final-year student at Decelis Academy and student body president for the Decelis Student Council. It’s an honour to be here.” Your words hold an unspoken challenge, one pointed towards Yang Jungwon and the inexplicable sense of rivalry the two of you built up.

The camera falls silent as Producer Choi brings her decisive hand into play, her frustration tangible. "Jungwon, I need more enthusiasm, and Y/N, this isn't a grand ceremony; there’s no need for the formalities." The faint sound of a stifled laugh brushes against your ears, a reaction you steadfastly choose to ignore. "Let’s try that again."

"Moving on to the next question, could you each briefly describe your after-school curriculum?”

"For me," you begin with a candid note in your tone, "if there's no student council business demanding my attention, I’ll usually be in the library, my unofficial second home. I catch up on lectures and assignments there." You let out a small, self-aware chuckle. "I guess everyone in the school knows where to find me if they need something-"

"Oh, absolutely, she's practically a monk. Always got her nose in a book and apparently, other people’s businesses." Jungwon's voice cuts in with the precision of a finely honed blade, his words tinged with an undercurrent of amusement. The interruption draws a sigh of irritation from you, but you forge ahead. You're quick to retake the spotlight, your voice a dance of resolve and exasperation.

"I suppose you could say that. With free time on my hands, I've come to believe in putting it to good use." A casual shrug punctuates your response, and you cast a sidelong glance at the boy seated beside you, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"I mean, why not, right?" You continue, your words a challenge woven in playful nonchalance. "If there's time to spare, I'd rather channel it into something productive." The tilt of your chin conveys an invitation for his response—an unspoken duel of words and wits. You throw him an artful smile, a silent promise of your tenacity to match his.

"If we're talking productivity," Jungwon retorts, his words a measured challenge, "I'm an athlete. So, after-school training is a part of my routine. Not everyone's got their head buried in books.” His gaze locks with yours, and the tension between you is palpable.

It's like a duel of wills—a silent battle neither of you intends to back down from. The intensity is so thick, it's as if you're caught in a staring contest, each vying for the upper hand. The world around you fades into the background, leaving only the simmering tension that crackles like electricity.

The only interruption is a slight cough, and the reality of the situation rushes back as awareness dawns that you're being captured on camera. Reality snaps back into focus, and you're acutely aware of the weight of expectations resting on your shoulders. The watchful eyes of not only the production crew but also the prestigious universities, the very ones your mother has been weaving dreams of, are watching your every move.

Your glare softens, your defiance tempered by a reminder of your surroundings. With a subtle adjustment of your posture, you manage a quiet apology under your breath, a concession to the circumstances.

Jungwon, on the other hand, wears a triumphant smirk, his victory achieved by stirring a reaction out of you, evidently content that he managed to get under your skin.

"There seems to be some tension lingering between you two. Care to elaborate on your relationship?" Producer Choi's inquiry comes with a raised eyebrow and an undercurrent of curiosity clearly dancing in her eyes. The unspoken rivalry that simmers between you and Jungwon has clearly captured her attention.

Unbeknownst to her before casting the two of you, this uncharted territory has presented itself as a thrilling discovery, painted across her face in a delighted smile. The promise of raw content and untamed drama is endless—the very essence of what a reality TV show thrives upon.

"We're exactly as you see it," Jungwon answers, his voice cool and his words laced with a mix of indifference and disdain. He rises from his seat with an air of defiance, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "No relationship, just mutual detestment." His tongue clicks with emphasis, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. "Are we done here? I've got places to be."

Producer Choi concedes to his request, her words are a concession to the present circumstances. "I suppose that’s enough for today. We'll reconvene after school at your respective activities." Her tone takes on a breezy cadence, but it's clear that her expectations won't be sidestepped.

"As we discussed, Mondays will be separate shoots, but to uphold our end of the bargain, we need both of you together for the rest of the week. Agreed?" Her assumption of authority, coupled with her audacity to steer the situation, is a stark contrast to the formality she adopts when conversing with your teachers. While annoyance simmers within you, you refrain from voicing your thoughts.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be an isolated thought when your gaze shifts to Jungwon, finding his eyes locked on yours. The unspoken words that sit on the tip of his tongue threaten to escape, his teeth grazing his lower lip in contemplation. However, he brushes off the impulse, and his exit from the classroom is marked by a subtle tension, with the cameras following closely behind him—a testament to the intricate predicament you've found yourselves in.

You, on the other hand, leave the classroom after wrapping up a few more questions. Missing your first period was already stressful enough, but there's something about Producer Choi that sets off alarm bells in your head, reminding you of those bossy characters you thought only existed in dramas.

Lost in thought, you walk down the deserted hallway, quickening your pace to make it to second period on time. Your distraction becomes even more apparent as you inadvertently pass by Yang Jungwon, leaning casually against the lockers.

"Park," his familiar voice halts you in your tracks, and you glance back to find him looking straight at you. Was he... waiting for you?

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have places to be?” You mock him, recalling his cold demeanor in the classroom. He scoffs in response, rolling his eyes, “Can we talk?”

"Depends. If you're here to lecture me about Taekwondo again, save it."

“As much as I would love to annoy you with my apparent obsession with my own sport, but no, it’s about the documentary.” Jungwon pushes himself off the lockers and walks over to you. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he spots the production crew turning the corner, and in a fit of panic, he grabs your hand and pulls you away from the building. Before you could even process it, he was already dragging you half-way across the campus.

“Let go! What is it that you can’t just tell me over text?” You manage to yank your hand free, irritation simmering. “It’s already bad enough that I have to put up with that tyrant of a producer; I really don’t need you adding to it.”

"Normally, I'd disagree, but thank fucking God you find that woman as irritating as I do."

“The way she spoke to us? Sure, I signed a contract, but I’m not her puppet.” He places a hand on his hip, an action oddly reminiscent of your grandmother when she would scold you for not visiting her more often. The image loiters in your mind as you stifle a laughter that unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Jungwon.

“What’s so funny?” He raises his eyebrows, and you shake your head to brush him off, but it only fuels his curiosity even more. “I’m assuming you dragged me all the way here to discuss Producer Choi?” His annoyance is evident, as he nods vigorously. It's an unexpected sight—Yang Jungwon, the epitome of nonchalance, riled up by a woman not much older than him. It's kind of endearing, but you would rather die than admit that out loud, so you bury that atrocious thought in the back of your head.

“Speaking of which, she couldn’t even hide her delighted expression when she found out we practically hate each other-”

“Whoa, ‘hate’ is a pretty strong word. If that's your opinion of me, okay, but I definitely don't hate you. Just a minor difference." You spoke without thinking yet again, and although Beomgyu would be very disappointed if he were here with you, the sentiment is out there now.

Jungwon seems taken aback by your confession, hurriedly clearing his throat. "As I was saying, she's clearly trying to stir up drama, as if I'd willingly play along." He scoffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his tongue poking the insides of his cheeks.

“I know you’re taking a risk on this documentary, and don’t even bother denying it because I know you’re trying to gain publicity and favour.”

"How did you—did Sunoo tell you?"

"That's not the point; the thing is, I am too."

"And what university would even take YOU?" He rolls his eyes at your teasing, not bothering to argue.

"I'm an athlete, remember? A Taekwondoin on top of that. I have a really important competition next month, and God forbid that I be shown on national television as someone who picks fights with girls. It goes against the sport's values." He explains, trying to get his point across. Sadly, it flies over your head.

"Seriously? My point is that we need to act as if we don't hate—well, dislike—each other. I know we said we'd ignore each other, but now she's making you sit in for my trainings and me study with you in the library. It's physically impossible." He shudders at the thought of having to even step foot into that place, and though you really wish you didn’t have to be around him, Jungwon is right—there's no escaping this situation.

You sort of know you're heading down the deep end when Producer Choi insists on having you and Jungwon sit side-by-side in class, despite the documentary's official filming schedule commencing only after school. The array of cameras meticulously arranged around your classroom, ostensibly to capture mundane "B-Roll" footage, fuels your suspicions. Deep down, you're well aware that their true purpose is to capture any moment of vulnerability or connection between you and Jungwon.

It doesn't require a genius to discern their ulterior motive—they're determined to exploit your relationship for the camera's sake. The bizarre part is, this isn't even a dating show. The intention behind it all remains an enigma, leaving you to grapple with the looming uncertainty that now defines your academic life.

I guess you can say that ‘Operation We-Don’t-Really-Hate-Each-Other’ is a go.

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sheeple · 1 year

Text

Miracles don’t exist | 4: The tri-wizard tournament

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): None this chapter [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

It took around a week and a half before the three champions were chosen.

You sit sandwiched between Theodore and Draco as the names of the champions get called out. Draco cheers as Krum gets chosen to represent Durmstrang and you clap loudly for Fleur and Cedric.

But the Great Hall falls silent as a fourth piece of paper flies out of the fire. And when Harry's name gets called out by Dumbledore, you jump up from your seat in search of Harry.

How's this possible? He's not even of age!

Blaise scoffs, folding his arms over each other. "Of course, bloody Potter has to steal the spotlight."

"I can't imagine he wanted this. Didn't you see the panicked look on his face?" You glance over to the Gryffindor table and make eye contact with Hermione. You share a panicked look, thinking the same.

"Are you seriously concerned for Potter?" Draco grimaces, pulling his nose up in disgust.

Rolling your eyes, you turn around and get up. You see no point in staying around any longer around the sour brigade.

"Black! Wait up!"

You turn around and arch a brow as you see Theodore briskly walking down the hall. He catches up with you in no time and he pulls you to continue walking towards the Slytherin dorm.

Theodore chews on the inside of his cheeks in a nervous-like manner. Theodore? Nervous? Since when? "Do you want to grab some breakfast together tomorrow?" He glances at you as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

You furrow your eyebrows. "Sure..."

"Great. See you tomorrow", he says as turns to go to the boy's dormitories.

What in the name of Salazar's saggy eye bags was that?

You let yourself fall face-first on the four-poster bed, closing the curtains with a flick of your wand.

A bad feeling about the whole Harry and the Triwizard tournament thing-y grows in the pits of your stomach. There is no way he would ─ or could ─ enter the tournament by himself. Not even with an ageing spell. Fred and George Weasley already tried that, and it ended with them being hexed old and greying.

Sleep does not come easy, but morning does eventually roll in. Flicking open the curtains, you stretch your back ─ popping a few joints ─ before you get washed and dressed and ready for the day.

As you walk into the common room, a sigh leaves your lips as you spot Theodore, Lorenzo, and Draco (plus his minions) sit on the couches, conversing in a hushed tone.

With another sigh, you make your way over to them and awkwardly stand in front of the boys, dropping your book bag on the ground. "Ready to go?", you ask Theodore, who jumps up from the cough.

He wordlessly grabs his own book bag and yours before making his way up the stairs to get out of the common room.

You shoot an exasperated look at Draco before following behind the brown-haired boy. He's already out the door once you catch up to him.

"You don't have to carry my book bag, Theodore." You huff and puff out of breath as you walk next to him. Damn Hogwarts — and Slytherin — for the ridiculous amount of stairs in the school.

"Well... get used to it", he answers gruffly. His grip on the traps of your book bag tightens as you try to pry it out of his hands.

You hear a scuffle behind you and look over your shoulder. Draco, Lorenzo, Blaise and the others of your cousin's lackeys try not so subtly follow after the both of you from a distance.

A hand on your shoulder makes you turn back around and look up at Theodore, who glares at the group of boys behind. "Don't mind them. They're idiots."

"Tell me about it", you grumble, making a small smile form on the boy's face.

Not much else is said as you reach the Great Hall. You shrink under the many curious eyes that follow Theodore and you. Theodore clears a bunch of First-years from a spot with a glare and offers the now-empty space to you.

"Thanks", you say softly, awkwardly sitting down. "Juice?" You hold up a pitcher.

As you pour the pumpkin juice into two cups, your eyes catch Harry's. He looks at you with all sorts of questions written on his face. You shrug and give a cup to Theodore.

After a couple of moments of eating in silence, Theodore clears his throat. "So... what do you like to do in your free time?"

You're halfway a piece of toast when he asks that. With a big gulp of juice, you force the bread down. "I like to fly. I also like to read."

Theodore nods slowly, urging you to go on.

"Back home, at the Manor, has a big library with all sorts of wizardkind literature. I bet I read ninety per cent of all the books in there. It is a shame it doesn't have muggle books and stories."

Theodore gasps dramatically. "A Black? Wanting to ready muggle books? How scandalous!"

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, and you push against Theodore's shoulder. "Shut up. They're good writers, okay!"

He smiles. The first genuine smile you've seen Theodore Nott smile in all your four years at Hogwarts. Deep inside it feels good to know you are the reason he smiles.

"And you?", you cock your head to the side, "what do you do when you're not up in the sky practising for quidditch?"

Theodore runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it up slightly. "I would be too busy for any hobbies if Dumbledore hadn't cancelled the Cup this year because of the tournament. You said you liked to fly, right?"

You nod.

"If you would like, we could fly around the pitch sometime. Then I can see how well you hold up against a quaffle." Theodore leans closer, his eyes shifting from one of your eyes to the other.

A smile grows on your face as you nod. You're not good, but you can make some speed on Draco's broom you borrow at home. "I would like that."

"Great", smiles Theodore. "Let's finish breakfast so I can walk you to your first class. What's on your schedule?"

You stare at the letter you got from Sirius Black, re-reading it time after time, making sure you're not imagining things. The house elves flock around the kitchen as they are preparing the breakfast for tomorrow morning ─ which is actually in just a few hours.

The door to the kitchen swings open and in stumbles Harry, sweat lingers on his brow and he's as pale as a sheet. He doesn't seem to notice you sitting in one of the built-in niches as he walks toward a house elf and asks him for hot milk.

"Are you okay?" Harry jumps a metre in the air and he turns around towards you, his eyes big. But once he notices it's you, he relaxes.

"Ye-yeah. What are you doing up so early?"

You shrug, "never went to sleep, to be honest. What are you doing up so early."

Harry sighs. "Nightmares..."

With an understanding nod, you pull up your feet from the wooden bench so he can sit. "How are you holding up? With everything that is..."

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest, gripping the mug with hot milk. "To be honest... I don't know. They... the ministry has decided to let me compete."

You sit up straight. "They can't be serious?! Someone obviously put your name in!"

"The rules are rules", he shrugs, taking a sip.

Slumping down, a huff escapes your lips. "It's all a bunch of bull. It's like someone has it out for you."

Your comment makes the both of you stop and look at each other before giggling. Obviously, someone is after Harry. He's Harry Potter, after all.

"Ron's angry at me", he mumbles after a moment of silence between you two. "He thinks I've put my name in without me telling him."

"He's being a bonehead, that's what he is. And a bloody idiot."

Harry raises his mug to that and finishes it in one go. "I'll go back before the first professor wakes up. See you later, Black."

"See you, Potter." You wave him goodbye and watch him disappear behind the painting. You yourself also decide to go back to bed and thank the elves for the tea before going to the Slytherin entrance.

Taglist (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry @choppedpartymuffinwinner @dianaswanda @literallyobessed

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