round one (8 may - 14 may)

[ex_aroceu318]

TOP LEVEL COMMENTS ONLY

DAY	PROMPT	PUNISHMENT
Monday (May 8)	retroactive title drop	no wip for isy next time; no new fic for aro next time
Tuesday (May 9)	describe light in 50 words or more	not allowed to dm (one/both)
Wednesday (May 10)	femslash	not allowed to dm (one/both)
Thursday (May 11)	use the word “obsequious”	namedrop someone we hate in public
Friday (May 12)	write for a fandom we’ve never written before	not allowed to dm (one/both)
Saturday (May 13)	write a minimum of 4000 words	write 300 words of iwaoi
Sunday (May 14)	aro: describe hands isy: describe eyes	not allowed to dm (one/both)

* feel free to edit/add new comments if more is written on the day; comments are meant to encapsulate everything that is written, not just the part that fulfills the prompt
** clarification - "not allowed to dm" is a punishment for the day after, not a preexisting condition

Comments

sb3 fodder perhaps

[necessarian]

It’s been so long since Percy was able to just, wake up, keep his eyes closed and let the morning light infiltrate the corners of his vision. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept in, lying in bed with the sheets twisted around his legs and the sound of traffic from the street below creeping in through his half-open window. It’s the height of summer but London isn’t a city for heatwaves—the gauzy curtains blow about in a gentle breeze, and there are clouds overhead, a promise of English summer rain later in the day.

The light in London is different when it’s grey. When Percy’s eyes finally open, they’re drawn to the dull yellow glow on his beige walls, elongated swathes of new colour where the morning sun catches the windowpanes, cut across with the moving shadows of the curtains. And in the corner by the window, a rainbow reflection, bright splotches of fiery red and orange, artificial yellows and greens, and indigo and violet so pale they’re barely there. Percy wishes he had a camera. He wishes he could paint. More than anything, he wishes he could stay in bed forever, until the rains come, and watch the way the light changes on the walls.

His therapist tells him to focus on the little things. He tells her he does focus on the little things. He’s always focusing on the little things, making sure he gets out of bed on the same side every morning and stepping around the cracks on busy city pavements. He’s even getting better at eating proper breakfast each morning, at brushing his teeth every night. She says that’s not what she means—it’s about appreciating the details of life, like the way the light plays across your bedroom in the early morning. It’s about realising that work isn’t and never was the be-all and end-all. The goal, she says, is living.

Well, Percy couldn’t go to work even if he wanted to. He’s on an enforced leave of absence. Minister Shacklebolt says he can’t return until November. It feels like years away. Percy had argued, and Shacklebolt had said, “Let me rephrase that. The Minister has no need of a Senior Assistant until November. You may resume your work as soon as I have need of you, and no sooner. Do you understand, Percy?”

He understood well enough. It’s what Shacklebolt doesn’t understand, what Percy’s therapist doesn’t understand, what his family will probably never understand. He never thought work was the most important thing in his life. He didn’t work because he loved it, because he couldn’t do anything else. He did it because it was what he was best at, and there’s never anything he’s loved so much as knowing he’s the one needed for the job.

It’s not so easy to place himself now, adrift with nothing to occupy his time but his own crushing guilt. There’s nothing for him to be the best at around his tiny flat. He can perform the same cleaning spells until there’s not a whiff of dust around, and he treat himself and go to the upmarket Muggle greengrocer around the block, he can come home and cook something he can’t even pronounce. But without anyone around to see it—

He’s never been a dependent person, never needed other people around to bolster his happiness. But he’s always hated being ignored.

At last, he gets out of bed. He walks to the window, and the light shrinks away from him like it’s been hexed, dimming to dull as clouds crowd over the sun. The street outside grows darker and a few drops of rain fall, pinpricks across the pavement. Great, knobbly oaks and sweeping acacias provide some shade to the red bricks and wrought iron. Someone’s car—navy, almost black—draws past, windscreen wipers lashing out harshly and the gentle rain. Passingly, Percy thinks, Arthur would know what kind of car that was.

Not that he’s spoken to Arthur yet. Since the funeral.

Actually, Percy hasn’t spoken to anyone since the funeral. He’s just stayed in bed and watched the light and pretended everything was fine and dandy, thank you very much. Today, though…

There’s a French-owned patisserie a short walk from his flat. Their raspberry tarts are better than any social contact. Percy gets dressed and showered quickly and tucks his wand into the deep pockets of his most faded jeans—passing for a Muggle, he walks out into the rain without an umbrella and he focuses on the little things, the lights that flash by with the traffic and their reflections off windows and the way the colour of the pavement changes when the rain falls, pooling in the cracks grown over with miniscule weeds, as Percy watches and takes care not to step on them, one step at a time.

Re: sb3 fodder perhaps

[ex_aroceu318]

whence will his boyfriend oliver come and give him cuddles
also i really like that his therapist told him to focus on little things and percy's immediate/natural response!!! SUCH AN INTJ
can't wait for u to continue this for sb3 >:)