Holy Fuuuuuuuuck - Tumblr Posts
yeaaaahahhhhh i have..,
okay so i don’t WANT a locked tomb au for the owl house, but hoo boy does my brain try to lump all my most recent fixations together. so, a few details
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The Last Bout
Over the past week, Loveday Heptane had taken to wearing her bladed gauntlets wherever she went.
She understood that this was off-putting.
She did not particularly care.
After Anastasia had repaired her thirteenth phalangeal fracture in a fortnight, she realized she cared more for her gear than she did for herself. The presence of those knuckle knives was just enough to give her pause before she let loose and punched the wall.
In those moments, she thought of Annabel with an envy that was greener than roses in the bud. She longed to rend flesh and scream. It was difficult to stay soft while wearing gauntlets.
Her new habit meant that she was already armed when John strolled into their bed chamber with sickening nonchalance, clearing Cytherea’s saturated chest with a single, citrus-scented gesture. Prior to that moment, she had been frightened, boiling water and relying on base instincts. She was terrified that Cyth would drown in a dry ocean of whisper-soft sheets while she stood there like an incompetent idiot. And, because she’d grown up devout, she’d prayed.
Why was she furious that God had answered?
She hadn’t meant to punch him the first time, but the second time gauntlet met bone, it was on purpose. She’d launched herself bodily atop him, straddling his hips like a lover, tearing into his skin over and over to no avail. If Cyth hadn’t come to, she might have kept going for eternity like a starved, mad ouroboros.
Instead, she bore down on his chest and pushed off, tearing down the hall, her anger like a torrid cloud of steam with nowhere to go. She peeled off the gauntlets, ashamed. They made an awful sound as they skidded against the stone, falling limp and bloody in a corner.
Violence didn’t feel good unless there was feedback—it had to be tangible, it had to take. And so, she found herself facing off against her old friend, the corridor wall.
“Anastasia isn’t here,” came a calm voice from behind her, catching her off-guard before she could strike.
“I know,” Loveday responded with a shuddering breath, still facing the wall, head bowed, vision spotty with rapidly dispersing rage.
“Alright, then. If the wall’s offended you, by all means.”
Loveday leaned forward, pressing her blood-hot forehead into the cool stone. She shut her eyes tight.
“Come here.”
“I’m fine here,” Loveday hissed.
“Then I’ll come to you.”
Despite her pristine, all-white training ensemble, Cristabel sat on the ground, leaning up against the stone. She was the only person at Canaan House who’d never seemed to fear her. Everyone else was smart enough to back away when faced with a feral creature, but Cris took her chances—she was convinced she could tame anything.
In their current configuration, they could have been two little girls playing hide and seek. Cris sat quietly as Loveday worked through her moment, sniffing and huffing like a distressed animal.
When it was reasonably quiet, Cristabel reached up one hand and caught Loveday’s in her own, massaging the knuckles in a practiced gesture. Loveday had spotted her doing the same to her necromancer beneath the supper table when the dinnertime conversation became particularly contentious.
“Pretty nails,” Cris remarked. Loveday merely produced a noncommittal hum. Cytherea had never been allowed to paint her nails. Her army of caretakers worried they’d miss out on the signs of cyanosis. The necromancer loved those tiny colorful bottles of varnish, however, and had been subjecting Loveday to weekly manicures from the age of nine.
It took longer these days. Cyth’s hands were rarely steady, though neither of them commented on it. If Loveday’s nails went bare for too long, she began to feel naked.
She wondered if she’d get used to it one day.
She hated herself for wondering.
“I punched Teacher,” she blurted out after a few moments of oppressive silence. In a rare turn of events, she found that she preferred existing in the present to dwelling in the abyss of endless anger—and anything was better than launching herself into the future.
“How’d that go?”
“He liked it.”
Cristabel burst out into a whole-body laugh that echoed through the halls, floating and bouncing like chamber music, like bubbles.
“It isn’t funny.” “It is, a bit. ‘He liked it,’ she said,” the eighth cavalier wheezed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why do you think he liked it?”
“I don’t know. He took it. He leaned into it. When someone’s throwing a duel, you can tell.”
“I meant, what do you think would make him like it?”
The only thing to pop into Loveday’s mind in response was the image of Annabel.
“That’s none of my business,” she replied drolly. She’d grown up with Cytherea, after all, and in fairer weather, they shared the same inoffensive brand of Rhodian wit. Cris grinned in return.
“We all like things that aren’t good for us. I’ve fallen in love with plenty of things that scare me.” “I’m not interested in talking about Mercymorn.” Again, Cris laughed. “Other things,” she amended, “Will you sit?” Loveday acquiesced, plopping down on the ground beside the older cavalier, one knee propped up. She hugged it to her chest.
“What do you need?” Cris asked, finding it easier to speak earnestly when she could look into her face. “If you need to hit something, we can spar. If you need to talk, I have nowhere else to be.”
“Cytherea might need—” “John’s got her. What do you need?”
“If she’s feeling better, she won’t want to be in bed.”
“And she’s an adult and capable of expressing as much. Let him handle it. He can use the exercise.”
“It’s my job,” Loveday shot back, a bit more aggressively than she’d intended. “You asked what I need? I need to do my job.”
“What’s your job?” Cris asked. Loveday looked back at her like she’d produced a series of high-pitched squeaking noises rather than words.
“We have the same job,” Loveday replied slowly, in case the incessant trepanning had finally taken its toll.
“I don’t disagree,” Cris replied, her tone flip, “I only wonder why honoring God and His resurrection means obsessing over her, punching Him, and thoroughly ignoring yourself.”
Loveday huffed incredulously, rising to her feet, her jaw set. She began stalking away, unsure that she wanted to go back to the bedroom. Teacher might still be there. He’d either mention her murder attempt casually or never bring it up again, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“Are you angry because I’m right?” Cristabel called after her, her voice filling the hall.
On another day, Loveday might have kept right on walking—not pausing, not flinching. Today she turned around.
“No,” she spat decisively. “I know what I need. And I’ve already asked for it.”
“Good,” Cristabel said. Loveday snorted as if to say, ‘not good.’
“Have you ever asked a question, not because you weren’t sure of the answer, but because you needed to hear what you already knew spoken aloud?”
“I’m sure I have.”
“I asked him, and he gave the wrong answer.” Loveday's voice was too sharp and shrill in those desolate halls, desperate in a way that the kilted mountain of a woman rarely allowed. “I’ve asked for one thing. One thing, for her, not for me, and he said no.”
Cristabel did not balk, and her voice remained true, even as the blue-eyed goliath fell apart before her. “You know he loves you. Both of you.”
Loveday said nothing.
“What did you ask?” Cristabel prompted tentatively.
For a long moment, Loveday didn’t speak. She swallowed, working her throat.
“If we don’t finish the work before…” she paused, “...before Cytherea succumbs—” she struggled, hating each word as she said it, “I asked if he’d bring her back. I don’t see why he couldn’t. He resurrected humanity, all of humanity, and she’s so small. I’m not a necromancer, but shouldn’t that be easy? One soul? I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be God.”
“Loveday, he resurrected humanity so that each of us could die on our own terms.”
“These aren’t her terms.”
“It’s a gift to die again.” “Do not say that to me.”
“And to die for Him and His empire—”
“She isn’t dying for him! She’s done enough for him! She’s just dying!” the cavalier roared, pacing as if caged, “She’s dying from a cancer that he resurrected, that our house believes was ordained. I could accept that the cancer was a mistake, but I cannot accept letting the mistake win.”
“Do you think death and loss are the same?”
“They are.” Loveday knew what it meant to lose, in every sense of the word. She was the Seventh’s show pony—a gifted swordswoman unaffiliated with a cavalier line, unlikely to ascend to any rank or title. Rather than wasting her, they sent her off to compete, so she could win trophies on behalf of Castle Rhodes. After some years, she’d grown bored of dueling and had begun training in new weapons, showing off her superlative skills in demonstration categories. She might’ve gone on like that forever, collecting big swords and measuring her life in wins and losses, if Cytherea hadn’t risen in the house’s esteem so rapidly. They’d promised Cyth a cavalier so she could focus on her work in the limited time she had—a nursemaid more than a sword hand. She’d asked for Loveday.
From that day on, she’d measured her life in grins, in giggles, in long afternoons basking in the colorful stained-glass light of the orangery.
At Canaan House, the rules were different. She didn’t want to play anymore. This time, win or lose, the outcome would be for good.
“Have you considered—”
“I don’t want your advice. It means nothing. You’ve lost no one.”
“Loveday.”
“I assure you, whatever you were going to ask, I’ve considered it. I considered it when I lost my father. I considered it when I lost the woman who raised me. I consider it each time I think about my mother, who I’ve never met, and the child my house desperately wants to create using my genes and hers. I cannot close my eyes at night without considering it all over again.” “Then you’d look your necromancer in the eye, on her deathbed, and call her a loser?”
“Did I say that? Would I ever say that? No.”
“Then, forgive me, but who’s the loser in this scenario?”
Loveday took a deep breath in through her nose. She opened her rough-palmed hands. She closed them. She ran one over her hair and exhaled. “No one,” she said as she turned on her heel and walked down the hall. This time, when Cristabel called out, she did not turn around.
Instead, she walked straight past the bloody pile of abandoned gauntlets in the corner and straight into her necromancer’s rooms.
She wrapped Cyth in blankets, grabbed her hat, and wheeled her into the conservatory.
She adjusted the chair. She found the perfect patch of sunlight and the perfect strip of shade. She sat back and listened to the woman who was her world prattle on about nothing while touching up the chipped, sea-green varnish on her fingernails. She rested her unbroken fingers atop her knees as they dried. Somewhere, a bird sang. In cells, in bones, in hearts, the war raged on.
Loveday Heptane knew what her duty was, and she’d win this bout if it killed her.
Hob Reincarnates AU
Ok I'm making this to get it out of my head because I already have four wips gdi. If someone else wants to write this, go ahead! Just make sure to tag/mention me.
Basically I was thinking about an au where Hob doesn't get granted immortality, so what if he finds a different way to keep showing up?
So first off we need a reason Dream shows up in the Waking regularly. I'm inclined to think he lost a bet with Death. And she decided her winnings would be to force Dream to interact with people.
"Once every hundred years, little brother, I want you to spend a day in the Waking. And make a meaningful connection with someone, you can't just hide in a corner and glare at people."
He goes to the White Horse on her suggestion and isn't impressed. It's all very loud and smelly. He has to talk to someone? Ugh.
He's drifting towards the storyteller when he hears someone loudly declare death stupid. And well, Death never said it had to be a positive interaction.
So now he has his victim target in sight. He walks over, intending to start an argument or offer some disparaging commentary. But he doesn't take the bait? His friends are either snickering or glaring at Dream, but Robert Gadling just smiles. He's charming, friendly, and more thoughtful than Dream would expect someone of his stature to be.
Hob's friends eventually lose interest and leave, but Dream and Hob end up talking late into the night. It's more enjoyable than Dream would dare admit. And when it drifts into flirting and suggestive looks, he thinks why not? It would certainly count as a connection.
(Dream knows his tendency to fall hard and fast. But surely one night could do no harm? It's not as though he ever intended to see him again.)
Dream rents a room and they spend the night together. He intends to leave right after, obligation satisfied, but Hob grabs his wrist.
"Is that it? Will I see you again?"
Dream looks down on him. "I have no intention of returning here any time soon." He should tear his wrist away but he hesitates.
Hob looks sad and desperate. "Soon. But you will return?"
"I will be back in one hundred years," he admits, not thinking Hob would take it seriously at all.
But Hob sits up. "Here in the White Horse? On this day?"
"Yes."
He smiles. "Then I'll be there. In 1489. Somehow."
Dream scoffs but he's a little charmed by this foolish man. "We'll see."
Time skip Hob dies a few years later, he was a mercenary after all. Dream may have have been checking in on his dreams occasionally. He pushes down any disappointment he may feel.
Little does he know his sister is having a bit of trouble with this soul. He's very adamant that he needs to go back, he needs to meet someone. I'm torn about whether she helps him or not, but I think he's just stubborn enough to bully his way into the reincarnation cycle early.
Dream arrives at the White Horse even though he knows he has no real obligation to go there specifically. But it feels appropriate.
He's looking around to find a way to satisfy his sister's rules when a young man approaches him and says "There you are."
He's a shorter man, black hair and dark eyes. But there's a sparkle in them that seems familiar. It's the fond smile that makes the connection.
"Hob?" He looks closer, deeper into his dreams, past those of books and ink, to warfare, to vague recollections of a stranger in black, into his soul. It shouldn't be possible, not so soon, yet...
"Was that my name?" the man asks with a smile. "Can't quite remember the details. You can call me that, though. Feels right."
"But you remember me?" he asks as the man sits across from him.
He shrugs. "Honestly, I only knew that I needed to be here today for some reason. Something important." That grin is different and yet so similar. "Wasn't until I saw you just now that I remembered why."
More flirting, they probably sleep together again, and when he promises to be back in another hundred years, Dream wonders if it might be possible. He might be a little more in love.
This is where the au could get mean. Because Dream might be in love enough to call tragedy down on Hob and cause his death. It would be the cause of every death after. Or I could be nicer and he just lives a normal lifespan idk. (Or however length needed that he's an adult again in 100 years.)
I think 1589 Hob should be Eleanor. With the time and her standing, she's had to marry and still has Robyn. But she manages to get to the White Horse unaccompanied.
Dream is impressed to see her, but I think the married with a kid thing still gets to him like in canon. So poor Eleanor watches him walk off with Shaxberd. I don't know whether she lives to see Robyn die first or not.
1689 Hob has an extra layer of desperation as he tries to get into the White Horse. Because he can die, he's starving, and he's not certain why he needs to get inside so desperately. Not until Dream calls out at least.
He has a different but equally tragic backstory and Dream is devastated that this life has treated him so poorly. He asks if this will be their last meeting, if Hob will give up risking such hardship in his next life. Choose an afterlife instead.
He gets the same denial as in canon. "As long you're here every hundred years, so will I."
Dream is beating his heart back with a stick at this point. Because it would certainly be taking advantage if he were to bed him this time, right? But he definitely sets him up with a room and coin. Keeps a closer eye on his dreams.
1789 is the one that makes me hesitate on changing Hob's race during any of his lives. Because I think he would still be a slave trader, maybe even a bit worse and set in his ways than in canon because he's not as old or wise. But he still takes Dream's advice in the end. Or maybe he lives a different life entirely idk.
Lady Constantine still shows up, but the rumor doesn't have anything to do with Hob specifically. He still makes the "Is that me? I look terrible" comment of course.
Does he recall his past lives enough to fight the goons? Not sure, but I think he still tries at least. Still have the "you need not come to my defense" bit.
But they definitely go and fuck afterwards. I mean, come on. Dream barely resisted last time.
This is where if Dream hadn't been in love enough to break the rule before, it's enough now. I'd like to think he gets enough time to make some amends, but then he dies tragically. It's bad enough that it haunts him a bit in his next life.
Things come to a head in 1889. Because Hob mentions love, has been in love for centuries even if he didn't always remember. And somehow Dream finds out how he died last time. That it's his fault for falling in love with a mortal, even one that keeps coming back.
So he decides to cut things off there, before they can get worse. Tells Hob he won't be back, that he should live his life, don't bother coming back if he chooses to live again.
Hob says fuck that, of course. He'll still be there. The fates get him soon after, Dream feels his dreams cut off yet again.
He has a lot of time to think about that, trapped by Burgess for decades. That at least being sealed away may protect Hob's latest lifetime. That if he never shows up in 1989, Hob won't remember his past lives. May not know to choose to live again. It's probably for the best, he thinks. Doesn't stop him from mourning.
He sits in the White Horse, feeling antsy without knowing why. He knew he needed to be here, that something should happen. But the longer he lingers, the more something feels wrong. That something should be happening that isn't. It feels like his fault.
Someone stops in front of him. "Hello Hob."
"My name isn't- oh." He cuts off, suddenly remembering something. "I've met you before."
"Many times," Death agrees, sitting. "Do you know why you're here?"
Her presence is enough for some things to start trickling back. "I'm... I'm supposed to meet someone, aren't I? Someone... someone I love."
Her smile is sad. "That's right. I want to offer you a deal, Hob."
The name is suddenly more comfortable than the one he'd been born with this time around. "What deal?"
"If you do me a favor, I'll give you immortality. No more dying and being reborn."
He's certainly interested. Anything to stay with his love, to not hurt him again. "What favor?"
"Have you heard of Fawney Rig?"
And then of course there's a rescue, Dream finally can love Hob without fear, and they live happily ever after.
BRO…😩
I don’t even know where I am right nowww- YUTA NAKAMOTO wtf 😭😭
(Idk if this went through BUT-!!)
👀!!! Uhhh these pants????
I couldn't stop watching his parts in the performance video 🙇🏻♀️
HOLY SHIT..🫠
What the fuck does he want from me bro?! He’s tryna kill me fr 😩
Thank you so much…🙏🏾🥵
Xu Minghao 🫶🏾
Shut the fuck up right now 😭🤤
HIS HANDS-
Are u serious rn Junghoon 😩🥵
JUNGHOON WTF 🥵😩😩
Vid credit: @ channelx__svt on Twitter
wish I was the one that got hit in the face with Yuta’s ball…lucky bitch
pls mingyu im not your strongest soldier 🫡😭
