#bowl cut witchcraft

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked. 

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents. 

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets. 

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense. 

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight. 

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications. 

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would. 

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen. 

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you. 

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice. 

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog. 

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat. 

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal. 

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal. 

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness. 

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash. 

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum. 

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.” 

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves. 

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink. 

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found. 

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his. 

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots. 

“Sit.” He commands. 

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you. 

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth. 

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone. 

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery. 

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men. 

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes. 

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers. 

Rot. 

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.  

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity. 

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace. 

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it. 

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine. 

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words. 

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more. 

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them. 

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood. 

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time. 

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle. 

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences. 

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax. 

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper. 

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots. 

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down. 

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table. 

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling. 

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest. 

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.” 

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed. 

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more. 

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger. 

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks. 

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile. 

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin. 

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off. 

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips. 

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails. 

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck. 

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him. 

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place. 

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding. 

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock. 

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet. 

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb. 

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve. 

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns. 

“Chaos magic?” He questions. 

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin. 

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain. 

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon. 

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort. 

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes. 

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct. 

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent. 

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly. 

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy. 

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs. 

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things. 

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before. 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him. 

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look. 

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders. 

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive. 

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull. 

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon. 

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol. 

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull. 

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours. 

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest. 

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap. 

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh. 

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants. 

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm. 

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. 

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt. 

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him. 

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady. 

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles. 

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted. 

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk. 

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips. 

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully. 

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock. 

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you. 

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers. 

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation. 

“Please—” you gasp out. 

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place. 

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit. 

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin. 

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath. 

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy. 

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.  

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased. 

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual. 

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre. 

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp. 

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt. 

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain. 

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

[honestlyboringperson]

The mean gay and the even meaner bisexuals. And Pearl. (Persona 5 AU)

Also I just realized that Scott’s yellow eye is in the wrong socket. Eh, too late.

Southlanders

Team B.E.S.T.

Fairy Fort

Magic Mountain + Cub

More Information Below!

Scott - “Prism” - The Star Arcana - Dionysus/Sigyn

Sarcastic yet intensely devoted and loyal, Scott is known for his business “Chromia”. He sells dyed goods along with one of a kind clothing, along with the actual dyes themselves. He’s relatively well known throughout town due to his social media presence, and helps the Phantom Thieves with a calling card utilizing social media. Pearl and Scott are notable for their distaste of each other, which differs from their closeness a few years back. According to him, Scott only really joined the Phantom Thieves for his own amusement rather than agreeing with their goals.

Dionysus is Scott’s persona. Dionysus is the god of wine, revelry, orchards, and madness. I mean, Scott did join the phantom thieves for his amusement, so his persona is one of festivities. Another aspect of Dionysus is his Orphic version known as “Zagreus”. If you played Hades, you probably have an idea of who he is. He is the son of Hades and Persephone, and is the god of rebirth. The “rebirth” aspect of Zagreus can refer to the amount of times Scott barely escaped death from SEVERAL people.

Anyways, Scott’s Ultimate Persona is Sigyn, the norse goddess of mercy and compassion, and wife of the trickster god Loki. When Loki was caught and punished after he killed Baldr, he was sentenced to be tied under a venomous snake and have it’s venom fall into his eyes, Sigyn shirked his punishment by placing a bowl or basin above him to catch the venom before it falls into his eyes. However, some venom does get in his eyes when Sigyn goes to empty the bowl and Loki’s pained squirming causes earthquakes.

Pearl - “Carmine” - The Moon Arcana - Little Red/Diana

Pearl is a journalist, who often pulls all-nighters and stake-outs to get her scoops. Although chill and laidback during the night, during the day is a ball of feral neuroticism from the lack of sleep. She often finds herself in odd situations to find her scoops, usually seeking out seedy parts or town to report on the criminal activities. This also led her to meet a strange man covered in sunflowers saying she resembles his god in his religion and some oddball bar performer claiming she pushed him out of some godly realm. She is also one of the Pupil’s victims with false memories implanted in her. In this case, she believes Grian is her younger brother. She owns a little dog named “Tilly”.

Her Persona is Little Red, as in Little Red Riding Hood. More specifically, the version she and the huntsman along with her grandmother feed the wolves rocks after the huntsman cuts them out.It then dies either by drowning in a well where the rocks weigh it down or where the weight is just too much for it to handle and it dies. I mainly chose this for the ✨aesthetics✨, with a red cloak and giant terrifying wolf. I suppose it could represent the two sides of Pearl; the chill and laidback Pearl during the night and the feral (albeit kind of sad) and sleep deprived Pearl during the day.

Anyways, her Ultimate Persona is Diana, the Roman goddess of nature, hunters, wildlife, and the moon. She’s often equated with Artemis, but also has an association with Hecate, god of witchcraft due to both of them having crossroads under their dominion. Pearl could theoretically have any of these goddesses, due to their themes aligning with Pearl during Double Life where she goes kind of stir crazy and lonely. Heck, Hecate is even accompanied by a procession of dogs.

Cleo - “Ghoul” - The High Priestess Arcana - Bloody Mary/Durga

A sculptor known for her ornate, detailed, and beautifully haunting sculptures. She was one of the first people that managed to befriend Etho, most likely due to her similarly intimidating aura. She is roommates with Joe Hills, a strange man who often speaks through a puppet on his hand. She had to become more intimidating due to people with less than favourable intentions often flock to prodigy artists. However, if you have her back, she’ll have yours and will always make sure she fulfills a promise or repays a favour.

Her persona in the metaverse is Bloody Mary. She’s most known for her urban legend, where you can summon her via going into a dark room (usually a bathroom) with only a candle and reciting her name three times. Although there are several different origins she may have had, this version is specifically Mary Worth. She was a woman who lived in the woods who was accused of witchcraft. She was burning on the stake when she cursed the village, resulting in the vengeful ghost we know today.

Durga is the Hindu goddess of protection, strength, motherhood, destruction, and wars. She has the ability to unleash divine wrath on those who oppress and is often depicted riding a lion or tiger wielding multiple weapons and fighting demons. Cleo is both someone able to intimidate those into avoiding her and protecting her allies, represented by the combination of the aspects Durga represents. Also the motherhood aspect is calling back to when she was part of the c(l)ockers as the “mom”.

Gem - “Satyr” - The Strength Arcana - Atalanta/Freyja

Gem, although she may not look or act like it, is a former mercenary. She is retired, but not after making herself known through her feats of strength and her near inhuman fighting abilities. As of today however, she spends her days working as a lyricist and LARPing with her friends, as well as regularly bugging Etho. She can crush apples with her bare hands and is both well liked and feared by the rest of the phantom thieves.

Her initial persona is Atalanta, a famed hunter from Greek mythology. She was raised by bears and is the slayer of the Calydoanian Boar after Artemis wasn’t honoured with a sacrifice. She was also possibly a member of the Argonauts, where she fought along side them at the battle of Clolchis. She was a rare example of a female Greek hero in the frat house of the rest of the Greek heroes.

Her Ultimate Persona is Freyja, the Norse god of love, beauty, fertility, war, and gold. She and Odin equally spilt the soldiers who died in war into two halls, one belonging to Freyja. She wears a necklace called “Brísingamen”, obtained through trickery but was broken when she got so wrathful, the hall shook. Thor utilized said necklace to disguise as her to steal back his hammer Mjolnir.

[meadowtwins]

Tips for broke witches with a budget of 10$/€:

As someone who started with their craft when they were younger, living in a poor household with little to not money for me available, I know how how it is with a budget so low, that being a "true witch" seems impossible.

Well, I just need to remind you all that for practicing witchcraft, you do NOT NEED everything expensive. In fact you only need so little. Sure, the whole witch aesthetic with all the decorations, the cauldrons etc. looks lovely and most of us would really like to achieve that level of perfectionism, but Witchcraft is much more than that. It is a predominately Pagan practice. Nature is one of the biggest, if not the biggest aspect in it. Sometimes you just aren't really knowledgeable about all the options you're available to.

Tip 1: Nature walks:

As mentioned above, Nature is a big aspect. Almost every ingredient and spell componement is seen outside. Take a walk, go into the woods, get off path, you'll find herbs, fruits, flowers, all kinds of decorations. You can find sticks, bind them in any shape and hang them onto your wall. You can cut off (with Natures permission!) Ivy wreaths and hang them up. Pinecones, pineneedles, treebarks, hazelnuts, feathers, wheats all kinds of grass, everything is out there! Take a look on the ground and maybe you'd be lucky to find a few gemstones (yes, they're just out there!) or if animal bones are something for you even that!

Tip 2: Grimoire/Book of Shadows:

Your witchy journal does NOT have to be that expensive leather bound, old journal that the old antique shop sells for 60 dollars because it has a "magical aura". Yes, how can someone pass on that aesthetic, but your book isn't magick by itself. YOU first put the energy into it and make it something magical to you. Without your journaling and time you've spent, it is JUST a book! Therefore a simple notebook that costs like 1.50 max works completely fine! Mine is a notebook if found in my drawer that has a rainbow reflecting surface, trust me, the aesthetic is the thing you should be least concerned about.

Tip 3: Divination Board:

Self-made is always the cheapest option! Again, like your Grimoire, the board isn't the one with with the magical attributes. It's all you! My first divination board was made out of cardboard paper. You have all the options open, it can just be paper or you could even print one out. The material does not devalue the magical properties.

Tip 4: Pendulum:

A pendulum itself is cheaper than you think, look in the right places and you'll see. But if that is too much you can always make one yourself. You have to keep in mind that the item doesn't come with the magic! You're the one making if something magical. Find a pretty stone on the ground (with luck a gemstone!), tie it to a string and wear it as necklace. There you have it!

Tip 5: Cauldron:

A fire bowl, a normal bowl, a plastic bowl etc.! You can use anything. It depends however on what you do with it. Make sure not to use fire irresponsibly if you plan on burning something in it. Keep a window open and don't burn something in a not substitutional material. There's a reason a fire bowl is differencated from a normal bowl.

Tip 6: Gold, Bronze, Silver etc.

This goes for jewelry, tableware, bowls etc. For example in spells/rituals or offerings to a deity. A plate to put your offerings on or to set the spell on. Look into your cupboards! A glass bowl is a popular one to use since it's neutral in it's symbolic and easy to clean. If you'd prefer something golden or any other other material, ask a grandparent or maybe even parent. They usually have some sort of old tableware that is golden or bronze or anything else. If asked (and you're a closet witch!) tell them it's for decoration or putting a candle on it. The same goes for jewerly. Grandparents (or aunts!) usually have old necklaces and earrings they don't need anymore. Or even brooches with imagery you can connect to a deity maybe.

Tip 7: Tarot Cards:

It depends if you believe in the rule that says you cannot buy yourself a tarot deck. I do! Therefore what I did, was make my own one. It took lots of days but in the end I had a full deck! It's lots of work so if you don't want all that from the start, make yourself only the major arcana. Again it can be made out of cardboard, paper etc. The material really doesn't matter. If you're not familiar with the rule, it says your first tarot deck has to be gifted to you, found, or made by yourself. Infact in my case, all three happened to me!

In conclusion, Nature has ALL kinds of componements. You can find so many things all around you if you just look close enough!

But don't forget, cleansing is important! If you take items off the ground out and about, cleanse them off any negative energy before putting them into your household. If anything you need to know I haven't mentioned, just ask.

Happy witching!

[zzz1gzag]

4ggravate author au where haikaveh are poets who write poems about each other (beefing)

Au dashboard simulator under cut

🪻paradicing-onions Follow

The huge overlap between kaveh fans and mahaseudo fans is so funny because both works require you to memorise random made up words but only mahaseudo writes majority fantasy

🌅 heeyythams-pen Follow

True fans keep dictionaries in their house. Ok but fr though kaveh's so lucky his works are popular because can you imagine reading the words "cynic" or "lonely" for the first time when it's not mainstream

🐺 mahaseudo nym 🔷 Follow

Real

🪻paradicing-onions Follow

HUHHH??? HELLO SIR HALF AN EYE REVEAL???

🌫️ PartiesDyhai Follow

Mahaseudo fans are like victorian gentlemen seeing a hint of ankle

800.4k notes ♥️🔄

💟 Al-almar-will-rise Follow

I cannot reblog this post anymore. Am i blocked? Pls help

900 notes ♥️🔄

❣️ KavehScribbles 🔷 Follow

@mahaseudo-nym @ForestWatching

Thanks for the pottery date!!!! Lobe u smmmmm

Mas would want you to think his first bowl is on purpose but he needs to be exposed for his lies. And witchcraft. He managed to make a whole other bowl by the time we finished painting and it turned out so well until he ruined it

30 060 notes. ♥️🔄

☠️ sea-yar-har-har Follow

The character designs in mausoleum is genuinely! So! Good! But lets not ignore how whenever Mas has to draw a background character as attractive its the exact same face, and its not even according to conventional beauty standards??

This has been going on for a WHILE now the last one is from his superhero comic days

Who is this man lmfao

💌haikaveh-love-letters Follow

Its like when ancient greek sculptures base their sculpture of aphrodite on their lover/j

🌌 marrysoulem Follow

Hey.. hey letters remember this post

💌haikaveh-love-letters

HUHBBWHAT. OH. OH WHAT. WHAT

🌌marrysoulem

🐢 KavehDarling Follow

Guys we shouldnt speculate about his private life. It's kind of weird that people make these jokes about a straight cis man honestly

💌 haikaveh-love-letters

Booooo its pride month throws ball at you

🌌marrysoulem

Like to charge reblog to cast throw rubber ball

#lmao what cis #what straight

600 notes ♥️🔄

🌄 sillyreal Follow

my college textbook is using mausoleum as an analogy for an agriculture concept. To me they are both fantasy tho lmao

#Prof. T is the biggest mausoleum fan real and true

53 notes ♥️🔄

💟 Callingnamber Follow

Honestly i think the fanartist @/seen0 is incredibly problematic, like hes obviously trying to copy Mas' style and his takes on the characters are always awful. Especially Kaveh's characters. If kaveh could see how hard seen0 is butchering his characters he would cry real tears

71 notes ♥️🔄

🤖 KavehSfeather Follow

Ouuu i just got the handwritten manuscript theres so many tidbits kaveh loves us all even the wine spill is a cute doodle

38 notes ♥️🔄

🏜️ haihaikavehh Follow

Alhaithams new analysis video is 50 percent just about kaveh lmao. We get that kaveh's the creator but thats a liiitttleee bit too much to be anything but suspiciously obsessed

🗾PartOfOrmos Follow

Guys hasnt this crack ship gone long enough

🏜️haihaikaveh

Crack?

#literally writing poetry abt each other but ok

6071 notes ♥️🔄

🌠 dorimon8 Follow

Guys can we talk about how people had to spend so much money on Alhaitham's hand written signed manuscript and midway through theres coffee stains and a wine spill??? Rich people befuddle me

9046 notes ♥️🔄

🖼️ KavehScribbles 🔷 Follow

NEW MAUSOLEUM CHAPTER OUT EVERYONE REJOICE

10k notes ♥️🔄

👁️ seen0 Follow

Rereading palace of alcazarzaray on stream and reanalysing Romiet now that we've seen more of his character. :)

New vtuber!! One for forest too :))

97 notes ♥️🔄

🏕️ ForestWatching Follow

Im sure its no big deal, Mas is particular in the way that he would definitely have asked before posting

👁️ seen0 Follow

Seems like you know his personalitree well

87 notes ♥️🔄

Dr.Tighnari Follow

Whats that

7 notes ♥️🔄

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Hello, Mr. Monster (One. Sand)

Morpheus x OC/reader (female), Soulmate AU, Eros and Psyche retelling

Chapter track: "The Killing Moon" by Echo & The Bunnymen

18+ (smut/spice kicks off in next chapter)

Warnings: (non-sexual) violence against a child, tarot, herbal medicine/witchcraft

TAGGING: Tag lists break my posts, BUT I reply to comments the day of new chapters, so you'll get a personal update every time you stop to chat. ;)

A/N: Welcome! Enjoy. Holy shit, friends, we're gonna have some fun.

@moon-tracks: Your much delayed prompt has born fruit! Goblin fruit, I'm afraid. Hope you enjoy!

One: Sand

One: Sand

Soulmates were more dream than reality.

Not that they weren’t real and true in the waking world, but humans liked nothing better than to bury their truths, especially the dangerous ones, the beautiful ones that blossomed with thorns and teeth. Everything that made a soulmate – dreams and desires; destiny, delirium, and despair; even death and destruction – tallied among the Endless and thrived in the subconscious.

And true to humanity’s intrinsic contradictions, each soul wanted nothing more than to find its mate and feared nothing so much as a true match.

Such beautiful, sharp things. The unseelie who kept the little tent at the gates of the goblin market under Brown Bridge liked making terrible, terrible gifts of them. The process was bloody, and the results devastating. Revealing a soulmate required some scratching – deep inside, through a human’s mortality, which kept the conscious and unconscious apart. But what happened next in the months and years of their tattered mortal lives is why they did it.

Parting the veil so one soulmate could know the other without any kind of reciprocity always led to doom. A human would do anything for their soulmate once they found them, knew them. Their intense affections led to obsession more often than not. Sometimes it turned violent, and they destroyed the thing they loved, the one who did not recognize their mate. Despair claimed others who turned destruction on themselves. Because of the damage to their mortality, that often took great effort and multiple attempts.

High drama. A wonderful show.

And the unseelie found the softest victims to dance for their amusement.

Their tent sat just outside the gates of the market proper, where any mortal might see them and mistake them for a homeless citizen warding off the river wind in their simple tent.

The trap was simple: they glamoured a few leaves into dollars and let one or two go tumbling down the way. Any human who snatched the leaves and ran earned a curse. Their pockets and wallets would grow holes. Or they’d lose all love, passion, and interest in whatever they spent the false money on – it could be a bowl of chili or a bauble for a lover. Whether they lost interest in eating or forgot their lover, they quickly lost the unseelie’s attention, too.

The mortals who returned the money had a darker fate. A lovely dream with hidden razor while to tangle them deep. The unseelie thanked them and offered to reveal a bit of the victim’s fortune, to see who they would fall in love with. Most accepted the offer, simply to humor them. An unseelie could be most persuasive.

One snowy day, after the festive season had passed and all humanity’s generosity dried up in the harsh winds of the new year, a little girl picked up the tumbling leaves.

She brought them back, pinched in mittened hands, a smile glowing under her breeze-chafed cheeks. A little adventurer who’d escaped her parents’ attention, all unbroken hope and unsullied naivety. The sort of pretty fruit, the unseelie might be tempted to pluck from her mortal life – if it weren’t for her damned eyes.

They knew what the child saw the moment they looked. The girl saw with true sight. Fighting the urge to cringe away from the attention cutting straight through their glamour, the unseelie smiled back, all teeth. The child didn’t even flinch, only holding out the money out for long, black nails to pluck from her grasp.

“I think these are yours,” she said.

The unseelie snarled through their smile, seething with hate. It flared like a fresh blaze from a banked fire at the child’s presumption. “Thank you. I must give you a boon in thanks.”

Shaking her head so the pompoms on the end of her hat’s ties swung around her neck, she said, “I don’t need anything.”

“I don’t offer toys or trinkets, child. Don’t you want to know the name of the one you’ll love?”

“I already love lots of people.” The child pondered. “That sounds like it would take a long time. I meet someone new to love every year at school. Or when we get new neighbors, or –”

A little sharper than they intended, the unseelie injected. “A soulmate, child. Your true love. Like in the stories your kind so loves.”

That gave the child pause. The unseelie could practically see the animated films rolling behind their eyes, the pretty picture books and saccharine romances.

Careful to maintain their smile, they added, “It’s a secret only someone like me can reveal. You’ve done me a favor. Now I must return it. You would not keep me bound, would you?”

Little eyebrows flew up over wide eyes, and the child all but leapt to accept their offer. “No! I don’t. Okay. You can tell me the secret, and then you’ll be free, right?”

With one long arm, they lifted the flap of their tent, revealing a space much too large for the sagging frame to contain. With the other, they caught the girl around the waist and pulled her gently within. “Of course, of course. Come inside where it is warm.”

The little fool did.

She looked around with eyes of wonder, eyes the unseelie desperately wanted to pluck from her face, but a lifetime of suffering would hurt far more. And they’d promised, after all.

They ushered the child to pile of cushions, and she plopped down like she was about to hear a story before bed. Far too trusting. Far too confident in the kind world shaped by her parents’ guidance and protection.

Their anguish and grief would taste so deliciously sweet.

Without preamble or further misleading truths, they let the fabric fall, sealing them in a bubble realm where no one would interrupt the procedure. Then they lunged, pinning the child to the cushions by the shoulder as they scrabbled between planes of matter to find her mortal shroud.

The impact briefly knocked the air from her lungs, but she started bleating as the unseelie’s talons scraped against the partition between aspects of the human soul, those only united in death. Those cursed eyes watered, overflowed, and the unseelie hissed with naked malice and pleasure as they scratched away more and more of the golden curtain, hunting for the promised name while inflicting as much damage as possible.

The tiny thing struggled, trying to pull the arm away from where it disappeared into her puffy coat. But she was neither strong or magically savvy enough to accomplish the deed. All she could do was shriek and suffer, calling for help that would not come in a world apart. Her tiny fingers, flashing with glittery nail polish, tried clawing back, angling up at her attacker’s face, but her arms couldn’t reach.

The pattern of the child’s wyrd emerged from her subconscious, the weave of action and fate intertwined as paths and crossroads to create a life. The unseelie felt it hum and shudder under their questing talons, watched as subtle shifts adjusted around their presence, forever altering the girl’s course.

And finally – a name.

Morpheus

They froze.

The girl nearly wriggled free as they stilled, elbow-deep in her essence.

For the first time in their long life, the unseelie felt unspeakable dread. They knew the name caught up in the girl’s fate, the one thrumming through her heart, waiting to be found and kindled into waking fire.

They studied their work, looking for an accident, a misunderstanding, some confusion of the patterns behind the tattered veil. But, no.

The little chit was bound to an Endless. No games would work here. Yet the damage had already been done. Should the Dream Lord ever return, he would see what clever fingers tore apart his soulmate’s mortality and come for terrible vengeance. The unseelie was no mortal. The rules that protected humanity offered them no shelter.

Perhaps the Dream King would not return. Maybe he would stay lost for the long, long years of this broken mortal’s life. And it would be such a long life now. She would carry on past missed appointments with Death, a breath away from everything she should have had. It was the unseelie’s doing, that long life.

They pinned the thrashing child flat again and stared into her reddened eyes, the eyes they hated to very, very much, and had an idea.

But broken mortality wasn’t really immortality. Anything might kill a little girl, or a flood of anythings.

The Dream King couldn’t be angry if they filled her heart with him. And if all those lose dreams and nightmares flocked to the tiny, tasty morsel glittering with a bit of their lord’s power? Well. Hardly the unseelie’s fault.

They’d only given her a gift.

Pinning the girl with their knee, they freed their hands to conjure a vial no bigger than the girl’s thumb. They barely had a thimbleful of Dream’s sand, collected over decades from sleeping minds and a couple cursed souls, and now they must use it all. They dipped one long claw inside.

Their arm sank back into the girl’s chest, summoning fresh screams and tears as they groped for her heart. Her wyrd wrapped tight around the pulsing core, and the unseelie worked carefully as they made the first cut, letting the sand fall into the open wound.

The screams – impossibly – rose in pitch.

The Dream Lord’s name took shape in a more literal sense, visible now to anyone with the vision to see it. Fae, gods, and Endless. Gifted humans, dreams, and nightmares. Anyone with a grudge to settle could take it out on her tender flesh. Anything hungry for a taste of the Dreaming need only take a bite.

Morpheus’s name shone with power, and the sand had already started through her blood, binding her even closer to the missing king and his realm. Every inch of her.

Satisfied with their work, they pulled their hand free – away from her heart, through her wyrd, through the tattered curtain of mortality – and licked their talon clean of blood.

Sweet. A shame their first taste must be their last.

Glowering down at the girl lying in a sweaty mess of wet hair and winter clothes, the unseelie felt the tug of their deal on their own heart. They must complete the bargain or be extinguished.

Well.

They’d give the girl a warning, the closest they’d come to kindness. As she panted, drenched from tears and sweat, they leaned low and rasped a truth into their damned eyes.

“Your soulmate a monster even the gods fear.” They felt a shiver wrack the little girl’s prone body under their weight and sneered. They still owed a name. “He is called Morpheus.”

Deal finished, vengeance for the true seeing eyes acquired, they rose, pulling the girl by her hair to the tent’s entrance and hurling her onto the icy pavement. No farewells. No explanations. No offers.

Done and done.

The tent left its place under Brown Bridge, looking for a new market in a new city. Preferably one without unwary soulmates to missing Endless wandering into traps and making life difficult. They would not meet again. The unseelie would make sure of it. The world was a big enough place to get lost in, and an unseelie prospered in the shadows.

Back under the bridge, a little girl stumbled to her feet, clutching her aching chest, aware that something terrible had happened to her, but too confused and upset to explain.

She stumbled home with a name and injuries her parents couldn’t see.

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Two Decades Later – 2022

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The Magician reversed. The Devil. The Star.

The cards stared up at her with a story she struggled to read, a simple three-card draw she’d hoped would explain what pulled her back to England time and time again, regardless of expense and frustration.

She’d meditated before she drew each card, focused on her question, on her present, on her own energy.

But it didn’t feel like her story.

“Aisling?” the voice on the phone crackled. “Still there?”

Still glowering at the tarot on the bedspread, she reached for her cell, pulling it closer to physically remind herself of the conversation. The puzzle frayed her attention, and she found herself torn between friend and fortune.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

Tea. She needed tea. Leaving the mess on her bed and bringing the phone to the rental’s kitchenette, she set the electric kettle to boil while explaining her distraction. “The cards aren’t behaving. I’ve pulled nothing but major arcana all week, the same three cards. It’s like someone else’s reading.”

On the other end of the line, her friend hummed. Aisling’s distraction was already a red flag, she knew, and now there’d be questions.

Much as Constantine liked to pretend she had no fucks to give about heaven, hell, or those trapped in between, she had a few attachments she hadn’t fully accepted as such. Good news, really, because once Johanna realized she cared about someone she hacked them out of her life with vicious efficiency.

“Sounds like weird shit. Where are you? What are you doing? You said you were in England but you haven’t come to bother me.”

Aisling peered out the leaded window as she popped a tea bag into the pot. Across the blooming garden, the towering gothic edifice of Fawney Rig loomed.

“Oh, you know.” She turned away from the phone, like she couldn’t even meet the screen’s black stare as bubbles of guilt fizzed in her stomach. Looking for a teacup gave her an excuse. Like she needed one. “Somewhere you’d disapprove of.”

Johanna’s growling sigh made her smirk even as the guilt rose to a boil in her gut.

“I’ve told you: you’ll always find trouble when you looking for it. So, stop looking.”

Despite knowing about – and using – her true sight, Constantine still clung to the belief Aisling could make her life better by ignoring her intuition. But she’d never found that to be true. Normal people could choose to ignore omens and portents, could pack up house and start a new job in a new town to avoid their problems. Aisling’s problems followed her wherever she went. Tenaciously. Her intuition just helped her keep a couple steps ahead. Sometimes, it even let her help other people. Like Constantine, in fact.

Anyway, unless she cut her eyes out of her head, she’d never be rid of that first curse.

“Yes, well, that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it?” She tried not to sound bitter, but she could taste the acrid bitterness as the words left her tongue. Lot of feelings there. Not Johanna’s fault. Even if she didn’t get it. She heaved her own sigh and decided to steer the conversation to new ground. “Anyway. What are you up to?”

Johanna shrugged. Aisling didn’t have to see her to know. “This and that.”

Thready plumes of steam escaped the kettle. She grinned, waiting for the beep that would announce tea time. “Trouble and turmoil?”

“The usual.” Johanna paused and the line went quiet. Aisling could vaguely hear the city traffic echoing through the speaker, and she wondered if Constantine was on her way to a job. “Whatever you’re getting yourself into, be careful. Stop by and see me in London when you have time.”

The kettle beeped, and the hot water burbled into the little teapot like it was rushing to meet an old friend. As the faint aroma of the simple black blend hit her, she looked at the white roses nodding around a nearby trellis, considering what Johanna might need.

“Out of salt?”

“Nah. Just want proof of life.”

She shook her head. Four minutes until the tea steeped.

“Hilarious.”

“Practical.” Spoken like a true magic user. Less fairy tales and pixie dust, more blood and obituaries. “I mean it, Ash.”

She couldn’t ignore the note of warning in Constantine’s voice, and she didn’t fight the urge to reassure her.

“I’ll try.”

“To be careful or come see me?” Johanna asked like she didn’t expect either.

The tea was ready. Steeped or not. Too hot or too cold. She needed it.

And she needed to figure out the damn reading.

“Both. I’ll talk to you later, Johanna. Bye.”

Constantine snorted. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The call ended, and Aisling poured a cup of very hot, half-steeped tea. She took a sip as she arranged herself in front of the cards and decided she’d had worse, even if it was weaker than her New Year’s resolution to give up caffeine every January.

She should’ve used one of her herbal blends, a magical tisane to open her third eye or ease the gap between her dreaming and waking mind, but she was a little worried her hosts would come knocking and pick up on the smell. Logic and reasoning would have to do.

The reading still didn’t make sense as a whole, no matter how much she stared at it, so she broke it into parts.

She could place herself in it – sort of. A tangential connection or two linked current events to the first card.

The Magician.

It clearly represented Roderick Burgess. Inept, weak-willed, and insecure.

He’d been quite a character back in his day, styling himself a magus when he was nothing more than puffed up cult leader.

In the century since his golden days, the Burgess family sank out of the limelight. While hardly destitute, they found themselves facing the same class struggles as other rich, landed Brits with dwindling incomes and rising costs. Their grand home, once their greatest pride, became the millstone around their necks.

Aisling had no idea what economies they’d taken, but they’d put the outbuildings to use. Or one of them, anyway. A few renovations, and the gatehouse became a small apartment up for rent. The cramped quarters made for an awkward little utility flat, but it served buckets of charm and hinted at a haunted history. Crack for tourists. The house wasn’t open for tours, and the owners requested no photos of the main residence be taken, but it was enough to draw guests for a night or two. Everyone liked a good ghost story, and Fawney Rig was rotten with them.

Aisling rented the space for a week, yanked by the nose after she found the innocuous listing online. Her intuition screamed to go – hunt – search – find… something.

It should be in the middle, though, if it represented her present. The Magician sat to the left, the past position, and her intuition insisted it referenced the magus, not his mansion.

The Devil took the present.

It wasn’t a friendly card. Its range of meanings all tied back to physical or psychological bondage. She’d heard the stories of Burgess keeping the Devil in his basement, but Constantine’s work proved Lucifer was safe and well in the bowels of Hell. Maybe he trapped something else in the cellar. Weak magic users like the magus often pulled on secondary powers, unable to draw from their own. It wouldn’t explain the family’s decline, though, if they still had the beastie in chains.

Her cards were rarely literal, but maybe her intuition simply wanted her to get into the basement.

A nice, obvious suggestion. She’d already tried.

She carried what she considered three curses. First, her true sight. That was an accident of nature or fate. The other two she blamed on the fae she met on a winter night under the bridge. She only understood what it had done when she was older – destroying the veil between consciousness and intuition, then carving a monster’s name on her heart with a fragment of the monster’s own power.

The last two curses made her a powerful oneiromancer. She walked between dreams and reality when she slept, like a mix of lucid dreaming and astral projection. When she entered Fawney Rig her first night as a guest in her sleeping shape, she found all doors open to her. All doors except the one to the basement.

Intent blocked it like a magical ward, dying wishes to keep out magic and dreams.

She’d never seen anything quite like it, and wondered how many members of Burgess’s cult died with visions in their minds’ eyes before they passed.

Roderick’s ghost scowled at her as she examined the door, and she’d flipped him the bird on principle. He couldn’t hurt her. Too weak. An abandoned soul who’d done something to piss off death, he faced an eternity of powerlessness, watching with no control. They hated each other at first sight.

She had three more days in Fawney Rig’s gatehouse. If things went well, she’d reach the basement that evening with a different approach.

Which led her to the third card. The Star, a predictor of opportunity and help unlooked for, a symbol of faith, hope, and dreams.

They were all too close to being meaningful without actually slotting into any order that made sense. Together, the three cards suggested a path tangential to hers, one she crossed or play a part in.

But it wasn’t her fortune.

Which begged the question: whose was it?

She chugged the rest of her tea – a little cooler and still weak as fuck – before sweeping up the cards and tapping the set back into their painted leather holster. As she fasted the clasp, the pattern caught her eye. The pattern wasn’t unusual for a magical tool – a star set in a geometric pattern for inspiration and protection.

Her thumb brushed over the four points of the white mark. Did it represent her? If so, what aspect guided her role, and whose future would she influence?

Her left hand rose to her chest, rubbing slow circles as she considered. The ache was her most faithful companion. It grounded her when she lost focus, anchored her to her physical body and dreaming self with every burst of throbbing pain. People waxed poetic about heartache, but she knew it in all its forms, and there was nothing romantic about any of them. She hadn’t met her soulmate. Probably never would. But the bastard made her hurt regardless.

Tea finished and cards packed, she checked her phone for trains leaving the local station in the wee hours. Once she finished whatever she’d come here to do, she imagined she’d need a quick exit, stage left.

Possibly pursued by bear.

Hours passed, shadows circled the room, and she watched the day melt behind Fawney Rig’s gables.

Her suitcase – carpetbag, really – sat by the door, ready to escape the consequences of her actions. An ocean should be enough distance. The paper trail didn’t worry her. She paid in cash for a reason. But whatever was in that basement… hopefully their fortunes only tangled briefly.

Full again, the teapot waited for her to pour a cup and begin her spell.

Since her sleeping self couldn’t breach the door, she’d need to walk through in her corporeal body. All fleshy and vulnerable to things like the security guards who came and went twice a day through the servants’ entrance her window overlooked. They had guns, and she didn’t want to find out if they were the type eager to use them.

If she had to be awake, they had to sleep.

Fortunately, one of her curses could help with that. It would cost her, but Fawney Rig had good security, and she had few options left. Besides, there should only be five people in the house. She’d survived five days without sleep before. She’d be fine.

So she filled her cup and made her circle. Witch’s salt whispered between her fingers as she drew the shape, leaving black smudges on her skin. She didn’t bother wiping it off. The muted scent of burnt herbs filtered through her senses as she lifted the cup to drink. Skullcap, wormwood, and rosemary washed her mouth and throat clear of waking worries, and as the magic warmed her belly, seeping into her blood, the sand sleeping there woke.

Johanna’s sorcery followed strict rules. Words and symbols summoned and channeled the power. Without them, things went sideways, or they didn’t go anywhere at all. But Aisling was no sorcerer. More of a witch. And while she needed tools and potions to do her best work, she preferred the quiet over chants to guide her.

In silence, she gathered the depthless sensation of REM, honed it with fatigue and a desperate need for rest. Heavy lids. Closing eyes. The sweetly inescapable call of a good night’s rest after an endless day’s work. She held the urge. Fed it. Let it steal her own sleep. When swelled, stretching like a restless child trying to doze, she threw it all in an invisible wave towards the house. Her hands pushed out, physically mimicking the force, and held the pose until the wave crested, crashed, and washed into foam, drenching Fawney Rig with her intent.

She felt the waking minds within sink under the spell’s influence, and she spared herself a minute to release the focus, come back to her thoughts and plans and body. The ring of black salt remained undisturbed. Nothing fought back, then. That was good. It meant she had less to worry about while she broke a few laws.

The empty cup joined the teapot on the counter, unwashed and abandoned. Until she knew if her pretense of a polite guest would see the light of morning, there was no point, and her spell wouldn’t keep them asleep forever.

Blank-faced, the man in the moon watched her stride through the garden, hunting for the little pot near the gazebo where Paul kept the spare key.

They met her first day in the gatehouse when she paused to admire his flowers. He was a sweet old man, and he was happy to share about his beloved garden. His first love at Fawney Rig, though not his greatest. When he explained he used to be staff, she’d given him her very best smile and laughed.

“I guess that makes you Cinderella.”

Clearly a romantic, that one. He smiled at his feet, saying it “Wasn’t quite like that,” but obviously pleased with the vision she’d spun him. When he found out she was staying by herself, he’d shown her the key.

“For emergencies. The gatehouse isn’t the most secure, and we’re a ways from town. You know, just in case.”

If both hosts were so sweet, she might not have heeded the mysterious call to the old house. Her world had more dark than light, and she’d hate to leave tar and ash in Paul’s beautiful flowerbeds.

But then she met Paul’s husband.

She couldn’t say exactly why she didn’t like Alex, but he had a brittle edge like a rusty knife lifted against the world. He wore the fragility of the perpetual victim, eternally on-guard, someone who’d been hurt but could never move on from their pain, because if they did, they’d have to admit they were also an abuser.

He had ugly secrets locked away in his grand house, festering away like septic boils, and every inch of her being insisted it was her task to lance them.

She took the key with regret, but she still took it, and the heavy front door opened like she’d been invited in.

Everything she’d picked up in her days outside the manor proper landed twice as heavily as she stepped inside, shoes tapping over the polished floor. Her dreaming form had limitations. It walked a path between awareness and the unconscious, and it had trouble picking up on much beyond what she went to sleep intending to do or find. Now, she breathed in every detail.

The old manor creaked with the burden of death obstructed. It choked on lives unnaturally extended, ghosts kept alive by magic and petulance until the world left the estate behind. It had become more museum than home, and though Alex and Paul had cleared out a few places to call their own and wired in modern conveniences as they were invented, the place seemed to hold its breath. It laid largely undisturbed with the glassy eyes of balding taxidermy guarding the sins of a dead man.

Because Roderick Burgess was a sinner for sure. Wild tales aside, the angry ghost silently raging at her from on high wasn’t that of a benevolent soul. Sleeping or waking, her eyes looked true, and a ghost was a ghost in any world it walked.

She spared him a middle finger again. Just for funsies.

Prick.

He wasn’t worth any further attention.

The door, however, was.

She pulled back the curtain shielding it from the hall and examined the lock. It had many keys. She’d seen the heavy, jangling rings of them the guards carried, and Alex Burgess must be paranoid enough to keep one on his person. But in her sleeping quest, she’d discovered lots of things about this door. No one needed to tell her where the spare key hung on a hook under the aged buffet in the hall. It practically glowed to her dreaming eyes, and her waking fingers found it quick enough.

It slotted in the hole and released the bolt with a click. Easy as could be. Just like the key from the garden.

All these little treasures stashed away in case of emergency were about to cause one.

The portal to the basement yawned wide. At long last. The hollow silence warned her away, but the place under her ribs twisted. Determined.

So, through the door. Down the stairs. Trotting, quick and quiet on her nameless mission into the bowels of the Demon King’s estate. She could imagine Johanna’s voice cutting across space and time, picking apart her plan, shitting on her magnetic attraction to the cursed and unfortunate corners of the world. No back-up. A vague idea of an exit strategy. No clue what she was walking into.

What could possibly go wrong?

The goosebumps on her arms forecasted doom, but she couldn’t ignore the sparking current running through her chest. The farther she went, the clearer the sensation became.

Despite the electric lights, shadows clung like dust, growing deeper and wider as she neared the bottom of the stairs. The basement sucked the life out of the LED bulbs, refusing to share its secrets with an outsider. Hush, it whispered, hide it, bury it, keep it from the daylight.

Each step charged the static creeping over her skin. Her heart threatened to fall out of rhythm with the little shocks as it swelled around her like the sea. Something she could taste. Something she could drown in.

She didn’t have to look into the room to know the guards slept. She felt it. Their resting minds hummed in the space like a pair of bees. If that wasn’t proof enough, a snore echoed between the bare walls, carrying up the stairwell.

At the end of her descent, she found an iron gate. Whatever the Burgesses had ferreted away, they feared it. But she’d have time to find her own fears in just a moment. First things first. An important life lesson, even in darkest dungeons.

Especially in darkest dungeons, actually.

She didn’t look through the bars, keeping her focus on the lock. Bolted from the inside, a simple keyhole begged for a pick or a spell to let her pass. It wasn’t her area of expertise, but the mechanism had soaked up decade up on decade of magic, and it was nearing the tipping point between magical artefact and mundane tool. Magic stained everything in the basement, to the point she wondered if she might see her own footprints lingering, like marks on a sandy beach down the stairs.

Johanna had taught her a few tricks to handle locks over the years, and this one begged for something more than traditional keys. She slipped her fingers between the bars, resting her finger over the keyhole as she listened for what it wanted. It asked for something. It was tired of standing guard for so, so long, and it just wanted a reason, an excuse even, to let go. It wanted a fucking rest.

Poor old thing.

She found a word, matched it to her intent, and whispered.

“Deditionem.”

The lock turned with a creaking groan, and the gate sighed open on rusty hinges.

Sparks rippled like fire through her chest, and she shoved her hands deep in her pockets to stop herself from rubbing the ache.

She was not alone.

Her eyes swung along with the gate, drawn to the bright center of the dungeon, where a prisoner sat in a glass cage, like a hollow moon in the void of the underground.

Human eyes might’ve mistaken the hostage for a man, and damn if he didn’t look like one. A beautiful one. But she saw something more.

Even in the smothering dark of the cellar, his shadows glowed sharp. Threats whispered through the angles of his stiff posture, and the stars in his eyes glittered red.

He sat like a king, straight and cold, holding himself apart from the petty creatures who’d snared him with dignity and poise of inexhaustible grace.

He’d already noticed her. Unblinking eyes fixed on her face, unimpressed, but attentive. Not friendly in the least.

She held the staring contest for a full minute before she snapped, lashes fluttering as she floundered for something to say, not quite ready to look away.

“Hi.”

Inspirational. Truly.

Still, it broke the standoff – or at least the quiet – and she moved further into the room, looking over the moat, the glass cage, the arcane circle painted on the floor. Her eyes stayed on the restraints. The… whatever he was sat very naked in that globe, and she’d gladly bet it wasn’t voluntarily. That gave her plenty of reasons to look away, and a beautiful excuse to avoid as much eye contact as possible.

She made a full circuit, and though he didn’t turn more than his head to watch her, his attention prickled. Her own footsteps haunted her, filling the room like a shadow army. If he wasn’t going to participate in a conversation, well, she wasn’t above talking to herself.

“You are angry.” Somehow, he sat even straighter, and she tripped over herself to explain. “I don’t blame you. If I was in your position, I’d be pissed, too. But I have to be… careful.”

She squinted at the golden circle, baffled by the sigils. She needed a better look.

Backing away from the edge of the moat, she got a running start and jumped over the long pit. It was a close thing, and her arms pinwheeled on the brink of a fall. Gravity took pity on her, and after tipping back and forth on the balls of her feet, she recovered her balance.

There wasn’t much space on the island, and she found herself very near the glass – and very near the entity within. He regarded her with the same, impassive judgement, but one eyebrow had drifted higher than the other. He didn’t need to speak to tell her she was an idiot. There was a bridge, after all, between his island and the rest of the basement floor.

She shrugged. “Never trust the obvious.”

Never trust clear routes when their owners had reason to boobytrap them. Never trust pretty men kept under glass.

Looking away before she got lost in those starry eyes, she crouched at the edge of the symbols trapping him. She recognized most of them, but the configuration eluded her. A summoning circle, but for what? All she could see was what it couldn’t do.

“You’re no demon,” she muttered to the floor. “You’d have offered a deal by now. Or a few choice threats. Hellfire, and brimstone, and all.”

The quiet remained undisturbed as her voice faded, and the pressure mounted in her chest. Trying to soothe the sting, she let herself rub over the invisible damage, aware she was revealing a weakness, but even more aware of the gross imbalance of power. She could strip down and show him every scar, tell him every mistake she’d ever made, and it wouldn’t make him any more powerful. It wouldn’t help him out of his cage, either.

Too quiet. She needed to think. As her fingers skated in a figure-eight above her heart, she continued her debate aloud.

“You’re beyond any dream or nightmare I’ve ever met. I doubt you’re a djinn or a faerie.”

She looked up with a question blooming on her lips and froze in place.

He’d moved.

As she studied the magic keeping him prisoner, he’d shifted closer, balancing with one hand against the glass as he scrutinized her. His burning gaze dared her to look away again, demanding something, and for an instant, she forgot how to breathe.

He had hair like the night wind. She imagined if she broke the glass, that wind would become more than a metaphor, sweeping the world clean of the house, the people inside, and any soul foolish enough to earn his wrath through the long years of his imprisonment.

She didn’t need to know the entity’s name to feel his presence, the chained power ringing through his cage. Whoever – whatever – the Burgesses trapped, they had good reason to fear setting it free. When the defenses fell, that power would tear through the immediate vicinity like a river breaching a dam. Intelligent eyes tracked her, analyzed her, judged her. But a force of nature sat in that bubble. Not a man.

Pieces of an old story sat around her, and she took her time, anxious as they grew into a simple tale. Roderick Burgess snared a power beyond himself, confident in the way men looked at mountains and saw gold, the way clever folk tamed lightning and harnessed the wind. But he’d miscalculated. This creature moved in spheres beyond mortal reasoning. He trapped his family with a curse, a burden they could never release, that would never bow to bargaining. Something that never should’ve been locked away in the first place.

And now she’d gotten tangled up in its wyrd, according to her cards.

She must be very careful if she wanted to survive this. Intact. Wrath had a tendency to spill over on bystanders, and she stood very close to the boiling cauldron.

Holding that demanding gaze, she said, “I’m going to help you. Whatever you are, I don’t think you belong in there.”

Doubt soured his expression, but some of the red faded from the stars. He heard her. He was listening. And he was jaded as all hell. She wasn’t the first to make promises.

“I am going to get you free. But –”

He sat up again, hand still on the glass, to peer down his nose in naked distain.

She scoffed. Gods. All men-shaped things really were the same. Proud, impatient bastard. “Calm down and let me finish.”

Whatever the summoning circle’s origin, it stank of fragile, dead magic. It remained as a rule, but nothing living fueled its power, and she could break it easily.

As she drew her athame from the sheath at the small of her back, she continued, “I don’t think I want to be here when you get out. Like I said, you’re angry, and I have people depending on me.”

She held the blade up so he could see it, and she wondered if he could feel her comparatively feeble magic as she lifted it across the magical boundary. Simply cutting the air over the marks weakened them, and she saw him stiffen, nostrils flaring before she bent to finish the job.

Her athame was beautiful – a steel dagger crafted in a friend’s forge. Silver filigree twisted down the blade like a gale between seven-pointed stars, and lacey wormwood leaves glittered in the same material over the handle. The basement air left the shapes cool against her sweaty palm.

The tip touched stone just within the ring, and she pulled the sharp edge through the concentric rings of gold paint in a clean stroke, encountering no resistance as she severed the lingering power. The fine cut was invisible to the naked eye, but the magic crumbled like a dead leaf under a boot.

Smirking to herself, she tucked away the dagger and gleefully thought of how upset old Burgess would be. No wonder the family needed two damn guards to protect such shitty casting.

Her eye wandered back to the entity, and she slowly rose to her feet, rubbing her chest as he stared with wide eyes.

He looked like she’d slapped him. Surprise mingled with awe or horror. He wasn’t easy to read. But it wasn’t gratitude glowing in his expression.

Something had happened.

Did she do something?

Her heart was on fire.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer, though his lips parted. Either he wanted to speak and had forgotten how, or he feared to share his thoughts, though they begged to escape into the open air.

It wasn’t her business. She took two steps back, sweeping the glass sphere for signs of a latch or door. It looked like it had been built around him. Hell. It probably was. Like Wendy in the little house the Lost Boys made her, but so much worse.

The cosmos in his gaze stirred, swirling like a whirlpool as the fire under her skin continues burning. Dangerous. This was dangerous. He was dangerous.

It was time to leave.

She’d done her part.

“If you need more help, you have to tell me.”

She had to check. The sphere and the circle clearly worked in tandem to keep the prisoner sealed away from the world, and breaking the sigils affected him somehow. Would he be able to break the second barrier on his own, or would she have to put herself at further risk?

He glanced at the sleeping guards. Looked her over again, eyes growing harder as he buried that raw shock she’d unwittingly triggered. The barest shift of his head relieved her of further responsibility.

“Fine. Good luck.”

One of the guards jolted in his sleep.

Oh, most definitely time to leave.

She risked the bridge on her way out. Faster that way. She didn’t look back as she pushed through the iron gate, didn’t hesitate on the steps, or in the hall, even when gunshots rang out below.

A burst of panic that had been hiding beneath the curiosity and pain sprang free, fraying her nerves with its teeth as she fled the manor. She took her waiting bag from the door to the gatehouse and sprinted down the dark road towards town.

The sun would find her miles away, on her way to someplace further still.

The tarot reading solved. The captive entity freed. Roderick Burgess forced to watch it all from limbo.

Now came the reckoning.

She had every reason to leave and not a single one to stay.

She could move on. She was very literally doing just that.

So why, as her feet pounded down the long gravel drive, did the scars in her chest burn to turn back?

Next Chapter

[aceofcupsbiggestfan]

Hera and Aphrodites’ Caprese Salad

How exciting! My first Kitchen Witch recipe! As a Devotee to Hestia, kitchen witchery has always had a soft place in my heart. And recently, it’s been calling more and more!

In dedication to Queen Hera and Lady Aphrodite, two of my close deities (not only in work but in worship and life!) I have decided to make my first recipe in dedication to them!

A caprese salad (how delicious for a hot summers day!) from simple ingredients!

You will need:

Pasta

Cilantro

Tomatoes (or tomato sauce)

Mozzarella

Boil the pasta of your choice. This is just our base, so no worries in infusing your intention! While the pasta is cooking, take your cilantro and slice it in thin slivers. While cutting infuse it with your intention of self-love/romantic love/passion/or healing. Any works with this spell, so choose which is best for you at the moment!

After the cilantro, take your tomatoes and dice or create a sauce. Whilst doing this infuse with any of the intention from before. With tomatoes you can also add a sprinkle of healing or repelling negativity. If you wish for your spell to have an extra kick add a half tablespoon of garlic.

At this time your pasta will be ready (boil for 7 minutes!). After draining, place the bowl in a cold place to cool off. After that continue to the mozzarella.

Mozzarella has many different meaning depending on path or even pantheon. Feel free to take your own heritage path and incorporate! For Hera and Aphrodite, however, lets focus on the Hellenic meaning of cheese in witchcraft.

Circe used cheese in a mischievous manner, luring Odyessus’ men into her home. In this way, cheese can be seen to hold mystics of allure. Similarly, mozzarella itself has been seen as an aid in smooth childbirth, due to its curves.

In both these manners we can tie in Hera and Aphrodite. Lovely allure and blessings in childbirth, we can sprinkle in our intention of either (or neither!) to the meal.

In my salad today I used the mozzarella in a long-term sense. Since cheese takes years to age, I used this knowledge to add longevity to the spell.

Take your ingredients and mix, telling your intention to the meal itself.

Enjoy! Khairete Hera kai Aphrodite!

χαίρετε ήρα και αφροδίτης 🦚🩷🐚

[thejournallo]

Explain the basic: The Tools

and here we are again with some basics!

Disclaimer: All the information I have is from books and reviews I did on each topic that I'm going to talk about in this series of "Explain the Basics." I invite you to have multiple sources of knowledge when it comes to learning witchcraft and non-witchcraft. At the end, you will find the books from which I gained information.

Today we are going to talk about the many tools that a witch can use and the variety of functions that they have. (You are not forced to have any of this tool in a specific way; anything you have in handy can become THAT tool; don't waste your money, honey!)

The clothes and accessories: there is no specific dress code what so ever when you practice witchcraft, but it can come to your own advantage when you use your own closet as a tool, even just for fun. I specifically use colors and accessories to present myself in a certain way, or simply because I give those clothes an important role. (ex: I wear yellow when I want to feel adventurous; I have a perfume that I use when I want to make new friends; and I use a choker to feel powerful and confident.)

The book of shadows and/or the grimoire: The book of shadow and the grimoire are often seen as the same thing because they have something in common. The book of shadow is more wiccan, and the grimoire is more for everyone outside of the religion itself. They are both used to write personal practices, rituals, information that can be used, etc., but the grimoire is more of a book already written. You can write your own grimoire, just as you can write your own book of shadows, and they both are good.

Altar bowl: It is not a fundamental object for your altar, but it can be used to make mixtures or squash some ingredients that you may need in a certain way. This is an object that is easily replaceable by a container big and deep enough to contain the ingredients (like crystals, erbs, salt, water, ashes, etc.).

Candles: When it comes to spells and rituals, the color of the candles matters just as much as the candle's durability. Some spells will require a short-term candle, and others will require an hour-long candle. MAKE SURE THE LIGHTED CANDLE IS AS FAR AWAY FROM ANY INFLAMABLE MATERIAL, LIQUID, OR GAS AS POSSIBLE.

Crystals: They hold power and energy that are crucial for witchcraft. Every crystal has a different meaning and effect. For a crystal to start functioning, you have to give it a purpose. Do this by meditating with the crystal, setting your purpose, and connecting it with it. Every crystal has different care and ways of clensing, but this is a discussion for another "explain the basics".

Incense: It is often used as a way to purify objects or environments that may be polluded by bad energy or feelings, even to purify our mind and body. There are two types of incense: fuel and non-fuel. We all know the fuel type of incense, which is the one in a cone or a stick. and the non-fuel type of incense must be lit only by a carbon disc placed on a heat-proof plate; generally,  we can find it in dust, a smudge stick, or a bundle of dried herbs.

Witches broom: is used to clean up the sacred space and wander off evil or residual energy from any spell or ritual.

wands and athame: an instrument used to channel and direct the energy. I know it sounds like Harry Potter shit, but it is used this way. The athame and the planchette are used in the same ways. The athame is a witch's knife and was used to cut herbs, etc.; the planchette is the little thing we found on the Ouija board that lets us see which letter is used. (Do not use the Ouija board as a game; it is no game.) be careful. 

books for informations: [ambrosia hawthorn-the book of spells] [davide marrè-conoscere la wicca]

As always, I will love to hear your thoughts! and if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them! If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog (that is always appreciated!). and have a wonderful day or night!

[mercury-crux]

Incorrect Witchcraft SMP Quotes

Prismarina: Hey, you want a tarot reading? Joey: Those are Pokemon cards. Prismarina: You got a magikarp. Joey: … Prismarina: It means 'fuck you'.

Eloise: pulls back the curtain while Lauren is showering Eloise: Hey did we - stop screaming it’s me - did we run out of Cheerios?

Squad reactions to being told ‘I love you’ Lauren: Thanks fam! Scott: Oh no. Eloise: cries I love you too. Shelby: Sounds fake, but okay. Tiff: A flustered mess Prismarina: Can I get a refund?

Lauren: Heyyy Tiff, how’s your… drink?? Tiff: What do you mean drink? It’s coffee. Lauren: You sure?? Looks to coffee maker Tiff: Looks to coffee maker Cement sitting beside the coffee maker Tiff:…I’m on my third fucking drink right now, I should be dead.

Eloise: How does that even work? Joey, mocking them: hOw dO yOu UsE a cOmPUteR aNd KnOw wHaTS GoiNg oN iT DoEsNt mAke SeNSe?! Eloise: Your face doesnt make sense.

Prismarina: When I first met you, I did not like you. Joey: I'm aware of that. Prismarina: But then you and I had some time together. Joey: Uh-huh? Prismarina: It did not get better.

Prismarina: Shelby, why is Tiff intruding on our cuddle time? Tiff: Shelby, why is Prismarina intruding on our cuddle time? Shelby, in distress: Please… I have two hands…

Lauren: They made Shelby cry! Cleo: Shelby always cries! Shelby: That's not true! cries

Shelby: You have to apologize to Prismarina! Joey: Fine! Joey: Unfuck you, or whatever!

Prismarina is casually searching around the room Scott: Hey Prismarina, what’re you looking for? Prismarina: My will to live. Shelby walks into the room Prismarina: Oh, there it is.

Scott: out cold on the ground Cleo: Oh my god, do you think they’re okay?! Prismarina, holding a bucket of ice water: Who cares?! dumps all of the water on Scott’s face

Scott: I'm not creepy. Scott: I'm petty. Scott: There's a difference, ya' know.

Joey: Question, how difficult would it be to bowl in a bee suit? Tiff: Not that hard, I don't think, as long as you can move. Eloise: I'd assume as hard as it is to bowl in a maid outfit. Eloise: Wouldn't be any harder, but you'd get some WEIRD looks. Cleo: Are. Are you speaking from experience. Eloise: No! Eloise: Eloise: ….Maybe.

Cleo, furious: What do you mean we have homework tonight? I have books to read.

Cleo: So… what would you do if you were in bed with me? Lauren: Depends. Is your bed comfortable? Cleo: Yes. Lauren: I'd sleep.

Lauren: Prismarina, don’t go picking a fight with Scott. Don’t forget, they’re powerful, they could make life difficult for you. Prismarina: Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life.

Prismarina: If I was married to you I would put poison in your coffee. Cleo: If I was married to you I’d drink it.

Cleo: I feel like the world would be better if I'd never been born. Joey: Aw… that's not true. Joey: It'd be exactly the same. Joey: You're not important.

Cleo: Seriously, Lauren, how many people would you have killed if we’d asked you to? Lauren: That’s not important Cleo: I DISAGREE.

Cleo: There is no future. There is no past. Don't you see? Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every fact. Prismarina: …All I asked was if you wanted to cut your birthday cake first.

Shelby: Poison is a magic transmutation potion that turns people into corpses. Prismarina: This knife is actually a magic wand. Tiff: Meet me in the Denny’s parking lot for a wizard duel. Scott: cocks gun Magic missile. Lauren: What the fuck is wrong with you people.

The Squad when asked about their earlier confession of love Lauren: Yeah, you're lucky. I like you. Tiff: I'd understand if you didn't feel the same way… Eloise: has a panic attack What confession? Prismarina: winks I know, babe. You like me too. Cleo: So what? Are you going to date me or not? Joey: It was a dare.

Cleo: Hey, what are you reading? Eloise: This is my magic book where any ink spilled shows a scripture of the future, however it bears a curse making it broken, and as such in order to make any scripture appears, I have to do it myself. Cleo: Impressive! I must have it for myself! Prismarina: So it’s just a Notebook? Eloise: It’s just a Notebook.

Scott: What’s up? I’m back. Tiff: I literally saw you die. You died. You were dead Scott: Death is a social construct.

Prismarina: We have a problem. Scott: Let me guess, you caused it? Cleo: Gimme a sec, I'm not drunk enough to listen to this yet. Tiff: And it's another Tuesday, your point? Joey: Would shooting you solve this problem? No? Then shut up. Lauren: If you're mean the fire, that's our solution to last week's problem.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 / 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 : 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎         ━ Triggering Content Ahead: Please Proceed with Caution ━

As the firstborn son to Bran and Palila Baudelaire, Robin was born on the fateful day of June 28th, 1788, amidst torrents that drenched Suffolk ( it was, after all, the wettest day ever recorded in the city). However he was not to stay here within the bustling world of man but in the quietude of a small, unnamed town in the open fields of Northumberland. The world was the same as it always was, and men like Bran rarely found the comforts of family; the Baudelaire household was an oddity to say the least. It was even more infrequent for men of Bran's occupation to ever settle and marry; Sin Eaters were the dredges of society after all — vilified but needed — a necessary evil in the eyes of many within the Northern English countryside. Most would not want to marry a monster. Yet the boy's days were painted with the colors of nature and the woodland — gardening beneath the watchful eye of his mother, hunting in the trees along his father's side, and nurturing a bond with his siblings, Wren and Linette. He did not understand, in his young age, why the world gazed upon them with such scorn.

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently dead person, thus absolving the soul of the person. Many funerals were attended by a professed "sin-eater," hired to take upon him the sins of the deceased. By swallowing bread and beer, with a suitable ceremony before the corpse, he was supposed to free it from every penalty for past offences, appropriating the punishment to himself. Sin Eaters were not often the study of academia due to their shrouded and often reviled existence; Abhorred by the superstitious villagers as a thing unclean, the sin-eater cut himself off from all social intercourse with his fellow creatures by reason of the life he had chosen; he lived as a rule in a remote place by himself, and those who chanced to meet him avoided him as they would a leper. This unfortunate was held to be the associate of evil spirits, and given to witchcraft, incantations and unholy practices; only when a death took place did they seek him out, and when his purpose was accomplished they burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption. ( Funeral Customs by Bertram S. Puckle ; 1926 )

As was tradition, Robin Altus Baudelaire learned his destined profession at the tender age of innocence, when his eyes were still round with light and his cheeks like apples. Bran was a man of unwavering faith and often spoke of the virtues of piety and mercy, imparting the belief that to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others mirrored the divine compassion of Christ. Martyrdom became a beautiful thing to the boy, and while the townsfolk remained blind to their struggles, Robin's heart held firm to the conviction that when the world crumbled beneath time's weight, they would understand the grace that had granted them passage into Heaven’s hold. Perhaps then they would be able to look upon the family without such reckless hate. A lofty dream. Still, despite the leers and glowers, nestled on the fringes of a quaint village, their small home stood as a refuge against the wild forests just beyond the horizon of the ebbing grass sea, of their neighbors' contempt.

Life was peaceful, despite its hardships, and Robin's heart never emptied, even if some days his stomach would. However, a brutal winter in 1800 swept through, and with it came an unseen terror — almost certainly the greatest calamity of his time — riding upon the winter winds was Father Death cloaked in white. One night, Linette, Robin's beloved sister, coughed blood across her pillow. It was the beginning of the end. She would be the first to fall, and as the silver moon waxed and waned, the Baudelaire family succumbed one by one to the relentless grip of the disease, decaying from the inside out. All except their eldest son, who was now tasked with the perilous journey into the town they served — a place buzzing with life and commerce, and worst of all, man. He was instructed by his father to venture forth to the apothecary to fetch cod liver oil and turpentine, remedies with the potential to stave off consumption. For as long as it could, anyway.

But aged only twelve and without the ability to read the delicate labels of the vials lining the shelves, Robin found himself at a loss when crossing through the apothecary's aisles — and in a moment of desperation, he asked the owner for help. But the moment he spoke, the atmosphere shifted and icy fingers crawled their way up Robin's spine. The Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, their hair shimmering like moonlight-woven thread, and as such horrible rumors clung to their presence and haunted their steps. Chatter coursed through the two other clerks quickly, suspicion twisting their gazes as they recognized the boy’s lineage. Unease simmered; for now the question was why the Robin had truly traveled into town. His kin oft came in the wake of death; so what foul omen was he? Fear was always eager to fester within men when confronted with the unknown, and upon hearing the medicines he requested, it ignited within the shop and spread like flame to dry grass. The apothecary provided the boy with the necessary ailments, as he'd very politely asked, but not without paying a heavy toll. For now the men within the village knew that Father Death loomed over the Baudelaire home, ready to ride their gasping moans further into the town and poised to claim what was rightfully His … and such things could not be ignored.

Ultimately, their home was a mere transient stop on the Grim's remorseless journey — a stepping stone marked by the stench of a lingering malevolence; they were diseased rats who had come to chew festering wounds along the shire's wintry and pale pastures.

During one cold December night, the young Baudelaire bairn awoke with a start — but not due to the chill. No, no, something was wrong; he could tell that much, but the specifics were lost on him in the dark. However, a ghostly whisper tugged at his consciousness, urging him to listen closely and to keep quiet, and in his panic, he did.

Outside Robin could hear the hushed and hurried murmurs of men echoing through the thick veil of night, mingling with the soft rustling of hay. He couldn't make sense of it at the time, and being a polite young lad, he quietly went to greet these sudden strangers — but panic seized him when he realized the door was barred. Something, or rather someone, had jammed it shut, but once again … why? A tender chide of the same voice from earlier told him to flee, nevertheless cruel and ravenous flames began to snake around the doorframe, their flickering tongues illuminating the planes of Robin's young face as he recoiled in terror. Each crackling ember seemed as a thousand eyes to reflect the devil's wickedness, soon rolling together to transform the entrance into a gaping maw eager to consume everything within its reach.

Hastily he dashed to his family, trying to rouse them from their infected dreams, but they remained ensnared in a slumber far too deep to wake now. Only little Linny opened her eyes, and Robin practically threw himself at her to try and lift her out of her blankets. Yet, as he grasped her frail form, the weight nearly crushed him. He was not a strong boy — and he struggled, weak and trembling … what little strength he had waned as the choking smoke filled his lungs. With a final, desperate effort, he dragged her halfway from the bed, only to slip and fall to the floor, where the searing heat began to lap at his hands and ignite the fluttering edges of his nightshirt.

The bright orange beast roared to life, and Robin's will to live fought to bring him to his now calloused and bubbling feet; with one final glance towards his weeping sister, he left her screaming and reaching for him. Each step was walking on embers, and the sharp sting of her cries were glass shards in his ears, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and summoned every ounce of endurance he had to reach the rear of the house. His bloodied fingers clawed nothing short of a frenzy on the splintered window frame of the storage room, his nails breaking and his hands raw from the relentless struggle against the cruel timbers blocking freedom from this hell. Each jagged edge tore at him, but in his mindless adrenaline fueled high, he carved a path out, determined to escape the fiery grasp of doom lingering just behind. With each wooden creak Robin felt the delicate breath of winter kiss his scorching skin through the cracks, and with a final surge of will, he shattered the remaining glass and tumbled into a world blanketed in pearlescent shimmer. Each snowflake swirled like a thousand daggers against his burning skin, and the merciless cold gnawed at him and nearly stole his life away, but his body forced him to stand once more — to finally flee from this wretched place. The towering trees looming ahead offered a haven from the hunting dogs and their whistling owners; there were far too many trees and dense underbrush to bother … And so once everything fell silent, Robin went the only way he could: forward.

But for all of his determination, Robin had seen too few winters to withstand the savage bite of the icy chill and decided instead to quietly nestle within the dense thicket, content to surrender to the exhaustion that clawed at his aching limbs and burned in his weary eyes. As the frost crept insidiously into his flesh and bones, he felt a warmth beckoning him, a promise of rest that whispered sweet and soft. Teetering upon the brink of sleep, the familiar comfort of his mother’s arms enveloped him, lifting him up as she had done in his childhood and cradling him against the safety of her chest. The ground beneath him transformed into a soft bed of snow, each flake a delicate touch against his numbed skin, inviting him deeper into dreamless slumber. Yet, a gentle sound stirred the soupy lull of his brain, and the world blurred around him as Robin urged himself to peel open his heavy lids. When he finally managed to lift his gaze, he saw what he thought to be a cloaked man seated on a horse emerging from the swirling white. Fear and fatigue battled within him, but he could no longer run nor resist, and with nothing left, he closed his eyes.

Father Death had come … He should have known better than to run.

He reached neither Heaven nor Hell that day, and by the following evening the boy’s fatigued body, once frozen stiff, began to thaw like the first light of dawn breaking through dense clouds. He awoke to the soothing purr of a small cat snuggled against his chest, and Robin's eyes fluttered open and stared into the glow of a crackling hearth — relaxing as he saw its contained and crumbling state. For a fleeting moment, a fragile hope blossomed within him which momentarily banished the thoughts of despair threatening to stain his mind. Perhaps, he dared to dream; all of his trials were nothing more than a cruel fantasy — a nightmare he was glad to be free from. But as reality seeped back in, it bore the weight of bittersweet truth: his father’s familiar silhouette did not grace the threshold of the room in greeting, and as his vision cleared, he was soon to find that he was not in his home. Still, Robin could not bear to lift his body from its resting place, and with a reluctant heart, he gave in to the gentle lull of his surroundings and let the veil of sleep wash over him again.

It was here, amidst flickering candlelight and aged parchment, that Robin's life would change; whether for better or worse, one could not yet say. The lost child was nursed back to health by that same figure who had found him in the woods that day. His name was Abel. He was a compassionate young priest with a gentle heart who had just come to town to bring a new dawn to the church. Upon his trek through the forest, he had miraculously spotted the boy collapsing into the nearby brush, and once he had bundled the bairn up in his extra jackets, he took him home. Robin learned that he was tasked with filling the shoes of their beloved but long-retired clergyman, and he also learned that Abel's wisdom and kindness knew no bounds. Many people warned the priest of his ward, of the cursed blood in his veins, but it mattered little to Robin's new guardian. He saw the Sin Eaters not as devils but as souls burdened by suffering, deserving of understanding and redemption.

To give oneself for another was Christly.

Under Abel's dark and watchful eyes, Robin found refuge and purpose over the long span of ten years, and he blossomed into a learned young man. He stood proudly beside Abel, acting as an acolyte and loyal aide, delivering assistance to the townsfolk who came seeking guidance from them. To hear their sins and forgive them, but he never once heard anyone over those ten years confess of that night. Regardless, those fickle villagers were touched by his dedication and began to see him not just as a cursed boy raised in the church’s shadow; he was even invited to birthday celebrations!

For once in his life, he truly felt human. For one decade Robin dwelled in peace; he thrived under the azure skies and reveled in the patterns that led his daily duties. The laughter of children oft bounced through the town like a chirping bird, bountiful harvests painted the fields in hues of amber and crimson, and the caress of breezes stirred the vibrant blooms adorning every garden. It was perfect. It should have been perfect, but the Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, and one evening, when the setting sun drenched the sky in a shade of lavender, Robin had to wonder if his nightmares had crawled to life. Winter had come again and brought with it the worst thing to ever meet his ear. It was a soft interruption, something that would not usually stir such dread, but for the Baudelaire boy, it brought him back to being small and scared.

A cough.

With one simple sound, Robin's vibrant world began to fade into a haunting echo of its past glory. As the weeks dragged on, Abel's illness deepened, and the villagers were quick to recall that strange family that had vanished into the woods long ago. Gossip fluttered like moths around the village hearths, spreading tales that spoke of an insatiable White Death. Consumption had come again, and it seemed that even with Abel's blessings, Robin would never be able to escape the horrors festering in his own blood. This was his fault … and he knew he would never reconcile what he had done; he had betrayed Abel to his death, and all those who had given him kindness were, surely, deceived. As that darkness seeped into him, Robin grappled with the agonizing truth: hope was a distant shore, and forever he would wade alone on an empty sea of sullen waters.

On the night of Abel's passing, Robin felt a piece of him die too — and he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.

Mercifully, the church granted him one week to pack his things and go — for another priest had come, and this one was eager to reignite the strict mortal ethics of the time. Abel's leniency had caught the eye of the papal, and now it was time to return to proper teachings. The heavy mahogany doors that once swung open to greet him now stood resolutely locked, leaving him in a world of shuttered windows and drawn curtains. Through the streets Robin went, and he spoke to no one; he ventured from the village's edge into the depths of the forest alone. No one even asked where he was going. The only willing company the tears in his eyes and the weight of Abel's rosary that hung around the pale column of his throat. His feet moved instinctively along a well-trodden path, winding through the underbrush until the ground under his soles felt familiar and his body carried him to its desired mark. The very place his mind had begged to not be forced into for the rest of his days; yet here he stood.

A soot-covered monstrosity whose wooden edges jutted out like the waiting claws of a great beast; its looming presence instantly lifted a warning in Robin's heart as he gawked in its great shadow. For ten long years he had avoided this forsaken place in both the realms of his dreams and God's blessed green earth. Nevertheless, he beheld its unwavering grim loyalty as if it were waiting for him to return all this time. It welcomed the Baudelaire heir inside peeling, rotting walls. Within this loneliness he stayed, allowing misery to fester and act as a poison to slow his heart; light drained from the world, and in the hues of each lonely dusk he could see the reflections of his old life. But hunger, in its stark apathy, stirred him from his sorrowful reverie to remind him of his mortality, and he knew there was only one path left to tread if he wanted to continue living. And so, Robin damned himself to don the mantle left behind by his late father, a heavy cloak of duty he was sure to suffocate under.

This was to be his fate: ever to dwell underneath the fading trees bound to his mourning, ever to rot.

But fate seemed uneager to arrive. Despite how swiftly his world had turned to sorrow and despair, Robin clung tenaciously to his duty — his silent vow to survive, to continue on. And soon enough the heavy grief that had shrouded his existence so heavily began to lift, and shortly thereafter he found an unexpected vibrancy in the new world around him. Just as in the days of his childhood, Nature's indifference welcomed him; finally there was a place to rest from judgment.

Cool water greeted him in the sweltering grasp of summer, gentle breezes carried the sweet fragrance of wildflowers in spring, autumn draped itself in golden magnificence, and even dark and cold winter seemed to offer him a reluctant mercy. Status mattered not there, where the rabbits looked upon him no differently than they did the petunias in his garden. He was not without burden, however, for when the Death Knells summoned him to town, Robin shuddered and shook. It was a difficult thing to travel into that place and be amongst those people … The world of men had become somewhat lost to him in his seclusion, and their murmurings in his presence brought little in the way of comfort. Robin ignored them, or tried to, in order to remain steadfast in his mission to the deceased. While not undimmed by bitterness or resentment that would otherwise cloud his purpose ( yet ), he did find a strange fear of those he served. Nonetheless, he knew that judgment was not his to wield; it belonged solely to their heavenly Father; and once his duty was fulfilled, he would retreat back into the forest — now quite content with the lack of visitors.

So one could imagine Robin's jolt of shock when, without warning or letter, a stuttering knock hit his door. If it had been only once he would have assumed it to be a trick of the wind, but twice, thrice! Each one more insistent than the last! Curiosity piqued and caution tossed aside, Robin rose swiftly with a racing heart to open the door — perhaps a foolish decision, but the earlier mead with his dinner evinced itself to be very talented in lowering his inhibitions. Now to deal with the fallout of such an action: for standing on his doorstep was a ragtag group of young men from the village. Maybe four or five in number, with movements unsteady and huffing breath like taxed horses. Anxiety skyrocketed, and without thinking, he began to take a step back. One of the boys, his words slurred and tangled, began to explain how they had lost their way, but Robin’s senses were overwhelmed by the cloud of whiskey-laden breath that had wafted toward him. It curled into his nostrils, sending a thousand shivers racing up his spine; he'd never liked the smell and now was not proving to be an exception. He had no idea what to say to remedy how awkward everything had become; and frankly, he was afraid he would gag if he tried to speak.

However the drunken lisps dwindled into a whisper before fading entirely, leaving behind a suffocating silence that summoned the Sin Eater’s attention back. Surely they had not intended to trespass upon his land, nor had they come to him with benevolent hearts; those were reserved for their intended host, which he was most certainly not. As Robin's gaze swept over the group, he became acutely aware of the transformation that had overtaken them. Their eyes, once sparkling in their delirium, now widened in disbelief, reflecting a dawning horror as if they had gazed upon some grotesque abomination from the depths of a sickly nightmare. Mouths hung agape and faces drained of color, each man now a canvas painted with shades of ashen pallor. In that instant, Robin found himself no longer being looked at as a fellow human being, but a manifestation of their most profound fears — a creature born from the dark recesses of Lilith's mind, a descendent of snakes and demons! Robin wished to reach out, he had once known each of them by name, to bridge the yawning chasm of misunderstanding that lay between them but ...

In their eyes, he caught the unmistakable reflection of their revulsion; a mirror to his own self-loathing, for in their horror at him he, too, found reason to recoil.

In the crisp dark night, he stood within the doorway of his weathered home, half bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight behind him that danced across his hair and skin. The golden firelight crackled a warning, transforming his moonlit-touched locks into a halo wreathed in a shriek of hellfire. But, o' his eyes, it was his eyes that truly unsettled. They glowed like sickly green lanterns, piercing through the darkness with an unnatural sheen that belied their hollow depths. It was now of little wonder to him why the townsfolk spoke of him in hushed murmurs and chided their children to stay close and avoid the woodland.

Everything was quiet between the accidental gathering, and Robin's soul yearned to escape this suffocating atmosphere; he wanted to leave, to break free from their unrelenting stares, but he found his feet rooted to the spot. He didn't know what to do; he didn't even feel as though he could breathe! With a heavy heart and trembling fingers he silently reached for the door, the brass handle suddenly felt so cold and foreign in his grip. Robin turned the handle, the creaking of the door echoed like the mournful wail of a lost soul, and shut out the uninvited throng that had rendered him a husk. He did not sleep that night, nor would he likely ever rest comfortably again. The weight of the gazes that had followed him pressed down atop his weary shoulders, but he supposed he could not cast too much blame upon them. He now saw that he was too far removed from humanity to seek refuge in companionship.

The next few days offered him no solace from his maddening delusions. Each rustle of a branch, each flutter of a bird, felt like a portent of doom, little reminders of the unseen eyes lurking just beyond the tree line, ever watchful, ever patient. With every reluctant step away from the welcoming hearth of his abode, a frigid tendril of dread tightened about Robin's heart, constricting with a merciless grip that threatened to squeeze the very life from his lungs. Unable to ignore his heart's thrumming admonitions that cautioned him not venture too far; for to do so would invite the abyss, and he would never come home again. Every sun-drenched afternoon melded into endless loops of fevered paranoia. Visions of the men from the night prior loomed large in his mind, their faces twisted into malicious grins as he replayed the encounter in his head over and over again. Were they still out there, ensconced in the shadows, biding their time? Robin found himself checking the handle frequently; once at night and once in the morn, grateful for each time the door was not barricaded. His fingers held too many scars already.

Still, with winter fast approaching, it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain his isolation while the persistent rumble of hunger echoed in the cavern of his stomach; it was the only companion in his solitude. The passing weeks had turned into a monotonous cycle of silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of distant frost, but the sinking dread never left. All the same, that fateful morning had to arrive; an inexplicable urge stirred within him, something far beyond mere hunger, igniting a glint of determination that had long lain dormant. It was a call that resonated deep within, reverberating through the very marrow of his bones — he could not hope to resist it. So, with that single stride, he left his home behind and stepped into the murky depths of a thousand towering trees.

And Robin Altus Baudelaire never returned.

[foodandfolklore]

Tools and Ingredients to keep on hand; Kitchen Witchcraft Elevated Pt.1

I'm just going to say now this is just my opinion. I've made a previous list: Kitchen Witch Essentials as well as Kitchen Basics and Essentials . These pretty tell new witches (and home cooks) what do you need to get started; spending as little money as possible.

But I've wanted to expand on this because, this is no where near all I use. So if you're just starting out, check out the first two lists first. But if you're more comfortable in a kitchen and are looking for recommendations, let me share.

Tools

Stick Blender

Also called an emersion blender. I use this for so many things from soups to sauces to smoothies. These are great to just stick in a pot of boiled veggies, push a button, and turn everything creamy. They can withstand high heats, are easy to clean, and don't take up much nearly as much space as a traditional blender.

Whisk

As much as I love my wooden spoon, it can't do everything. Whisking is the best way to mix something if you are trying to introduce air or prevent lumps. Metal is my preferred material. Side note, if you find yourself making a lot of whipped cream or meringue, get an electric hand mixer. I only use mine like once every 3 or 4 months but I'm so happy when it's there.

Silicone Spatula

Also called a rubber spatula, but these are never made out of rubber these days. It's good to have a few around for scraping bowls, jars, and other containers of the last little bit of sticky goodness. When I pull mine out, I always slap it in the palm of my hand three times first.

Chopsticks

I use these SO often, they've almost become my new wooden spoon. They're great for stirring things in jars since they're long and skinny. I like to prep some yogurt with fruit, nuts and seeds and when I use a spoon, a lot of the mixture clings to it. Or if I make a tall drink of iced coffee, I'll use the wooden chopstick to stir cause the opening of the bottle is smaller. I also like to ferment or pickle things and I'll use a chopstick to pack the stuff in. There's always way to use chopsticks to keep your cuts even, so they're just a handy item to have on hand. Plus, it's the best way to eat ramen.

Cooking Scissors

These are Scissors you use just on food. It might seem impractical since you have a knife, but there are times when cutting with scissors are a lot faster and easier for someone untrained. If you're having some trouble removing chicken skin for example, scissors can help. I like to cut green onions. But it's also good for a more ritualistic sense. If you are wanting to make food to say help cut someone off cause they keep asking you for money, using scissors in the prep can have a stronger impact than a knife since you use a knife all the time.

Cheese Cloth/Fine Mesh Strainers

Strainers are just helpful in general in general cooking. I grew up with a colander which helps you drain pasta. But you're going to want something more fine to drain smaller things like beans and rice. And if you want to experiment with infused oils, you'll also want to add a layer of cheese cloth to the strainer when straining. Cheese cloth can also be handy for a few other things. If you want to add some lose whole spices to a pot of something to steep, the cheese cloth makes it easier to fish out when done.

Tea Pot with Infuser

A tea pot with a built in strainer is so helpful. It not only allows you to make lose leaf and herbal teas. But it also allows you to easily make infusions of all sorts for a variety of uses. Lemon peel steeped in hot water is my go to for a cleansing spray. Just make sure the infuser/strainer can be easily removed and cleaned.

Digital Scale

Even though I don't Bake a ton, I still use this a lot. See, Cup sizes actually vary from country to country. It's not standard world wide. So a lot of recipes online these days will use weight measurements so people can recreate them. If it's just one ingredient, yeah you can look up the conversion. But if it's all 12; it's easier to pull out the scale.

Okay, I don't wanna overload ya; and my squirrel brain is kicking in. I'll make a part 2 later.

[hinatastinygiant]

1 | Crimson Glory

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x Fem!Reader

Serpents and Roses

You see George, you really had a wonderful life. Don't you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?

"You're watching this again?" your older brother, James, grumbles as he opens the front door to your shared apartment and sees you sitting on the couch shoving popcorn in your mouth. "You do know it's only August, right?"

"Yeah," you nod, not letting your eyes leave the screen. "But I like this movie. It's-"

"I know," James cuts you off and you can feel his eye roll from across the room. "It's a 'classic'."

You pause the movie and look over at him, "What's that supposed to mean? Don't you think it's a good film?"

"Sure," he sighs, setting down his stuff and walking over to the small kitchen. "But you watch this movie any time of year. Why not wait until Halloween and watch it then, too?"

You groan as you reach for the remote and once more continue what you were watching. It's not long after that James comes over, sorting through the mail as he sits beside you. "Anything interesting in the post?" you ask, glancing at him quickly between handfuls of popcorn.

"Huh," he replies, piquing your interest.

"'Huh', what?" you say, putting the bowl aside.

"It's a response."

"Ooh," you say, getting a closer look at the envelope. "You think you've actually found a stable job, James?"

"Oh shut up, you," he laughs, swatting at you with the letter before going back to open it. You wait with bated breath, hoping this isn't just another rejection. James has been struggling to find a job ever since graduating high school. And since it's just the two of you, well, there's just that much more pressure on him.

"Who's it even from?" you then question him. "What'd you apply to this time? Gonna go shake some ass at Chix N Dix," you begin to laugh.

"No!" he snaps, glaring at you. "I met this guy... Black, he said his name was, a few weeks back. He offered me a job on the spot but I really didn't think he actually meant it."

"Really?! And you didn't tell me?!"

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" he groans. "There was something off about him, I've got to say... I mean, if he wants me then he's got to be desperate."

You roll your eyes at your brother's comment. He always was smart. If only you had money, he'd thrive in college. "Huh, well the letter does look strange... Open it."

James does. But just after he rips the seal, the letter forms into a mouth and begins to speak. Immediately, you let out a scream and grab onto him. James laughs at you as though he's seen this happen a hundred times before.

"I-Is this normal to you?" you ask, gulping hard to still your nerves.

"I must be tripping so hard right now," he shakes his head.

"Idiot," you say, punching him in the arm. "I can see it, too."

"James Bennett, you have been cordially invited to join the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as its newest Muggle Studies Professor. Please report to the school immediately to begin your employment," the letter says aloud.

"Hogwarts? A what kind of school?" you ask him, trying to process everything from over his shoulder.

"Don't know, but it must be a private boarding school or something," James nods.

"This letter's all fancy," you reply, taking a closer look. "That sounds like a really big deal. Are you sure you're up to it? You're barely twenty thr-"

"Please, this isn't just about me. It's a high school. You could attend. It would be great for your senior year!"

"I'm eighteen. It's not like I'm just starting high school. Besides, I don't have the grades to-"

"You can still get in," James says, placing his hands on your shoulders. "They must want us for a reason. We should at least try it."

Before you can object, James replies to the letter, saying that he accepts the offer to work at Hogwarts. Immediately, it deflates like some sort of balloon, leaving the two of you to sit there and stare at each other like the two idiots you are.

"Well, better get packing," James says as he stands up.

"What?! So we're not even going to talk about-"

"Nope. Go and pack your things, Y/N. You heard the letter. Immediately," he tells you as he begins to walk out of the room.

"James," you call out, following him as your bowl of popcorn falls to the floor. "What about our home? Where is this place? We don't have a car."

"This place has housing. Black told me," he insists. "We'll be okay."

"But how do you know that?" you hum.

He lets out a sigh and turns around to face you. With worried eyes, you watch as he drops his hands on your shoulders. "Because I just do. I've got a good feeling about this, Y/N. I promise. And I think you'll like it there, too."

"Fine," you sigh, giving in. "But if you're wrong and it's awful, we're coming right back here and we're done with whatever this is. You have a year to make it work."

"Sounds fair," James grins as he goes back to walking down the short hallway to his room.

In the meantime, you walk back to the main room, turn off the television, and pick up the spilled popcorn. You unload the DVD from the player and carry it to your bed. Then, begrudgingly, begin to back.

"James!" you shout once you've finished. "Hey! I'm all packed! Where exactly did you say this place-"

You stop once you set foot in James' room. He isn't there. "James?!" you call out again, looking everywhere in the small apartment. But he isn't anywhere to be found. "Fucking asshole," you grumble as you reach for your phone. But suddenly, there's a whooshing sound right in front of you and you see a tall man dressed in a black suit staring down at you. In a panic, you scream and drop your phone. But before you can make a run for the door, he grabs you and somehow teleports you out of your room.

"Holy shit," you say once your world stops spinning. You fall to your knees, thinking you're about to throw up. "What the fuck just happened to me?!"

You look around the room, an office of some kind, and see James sitting on a couch nearby. "Are you okay?" he asks softly. All you can manage to do is nod.

"Hello, Miss. Y/N. My name is Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black. I do apologize for the way you were brought here. I am quite aware that it can be disorienting. However, it is the best way to enter and exit Hogwarts on such short notice."

You look at the man, standing beside the door. He must have been the one who brought you here. It all happened so fast you can't quite remember his face. You smile at him like a drunken idiot.

"Professor Bennett, Miss Y/N, please do not worry about your things. I will have Scrope, my house elf, fetch them for you," he nods politely.

"House... elf..." you mutter. You must be hearing things.

Finally, you decide to get a good look at what Headmaster Black looks like without your vision completely impaired. He's got his hair slicked back and is wearing what must be a suit more expensive than your home. But his face is kind so it does help you relax a bit.

"Again, I am sorry for the last-minute notice, but this is a new class we're offering as some of our students don't quite understand muggle life and are not very empathetic to them," he explains to the both of you.

"I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to give me some time to get familiar with your jargon," you hear James say, and it nearly makes you laugh. "Could you explain what a muggle is?"

"Why, it refers to a human who has no knowledge of the magic community. And no magical abilities. Which is why we're bringing the two of you here," he explains. "This is a school for witches and wizards to learn their craft. There are classes such as herbology, defense against the dark arts, charms, transfiguration, and many more."

You're still kneeling on the floor. You can't seem to bring yourself to stand up as you listen to him drone on and on.

"So, what about this new class?" James finally asks for the pair of you.

Headmaster Black approaches you and holds out his hand. You accept it and allow him to walk you over to where James is sitting. You thank him as you fall back into the softest sofa in the world.

"This new class, taught by a muggle, will educate the students on what life is like in the muggle world. Things they'll need to know in the future, as all of them will deal with the muggle world at some point in their lives if they haven't already," Headmaster Black tells the two of you.

"Shit, I must be tripping so hard right now," you shake your head, earning a nudge on the shoulder from James.

"I accept your offer, Headmaster. I'm happy to teach. Though, I'd appreciate if you could explain the jargon," he then says as a woman walks in and steals your attention.

"All in due time my friend," Black bows. "And to you, Miss Y/N, our newest seventh-year student, you will be able to finish out your last school year at Hogwarts, and then you'll be free to pursue a career of your own choosing," he smiles at you.

"Wait, what?!" you gasp, shooting up from your seat.

"Professor Weasley," he continues, ignoring your outburst. "Would you be so kind as to escort Professor Bennett and Miss Y/N to where they will be staying?"

"Of course, Headmaster," she nods. "Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Matila Weasley. I'm sure you're both very confused and overwhelmed, but I'll be happy to answer any questions you have along the way."

"Where's the bathroom?" James immediately asks. "I'm going to throw up."

After a ten-minute break, once James has emptied all the contents of his stomach, Professor Weasley begins to walk the two of you through the castle. "It's quite late now, but tomorrow you'll be able to explore the grounds at your leisure," she tells the two of you.

"So... this is real?" you ask as you guide your hand along a moving wall.

"Quite," Professor Weasley nods. "This is the reality. The muggle world is merely an illusion."

"And what the hell are we supposed to tell our friends back home? That their world is a lie?" James then asks.

"The truth," Weasley shrugs. "But no one will believe you. Most people assume we're a myth. You'd have a better chance convincing them you've met a talking lion than telling them you work and study here."

"Oh please, James," you roll your eyes. "Your only friend is the pillow you kiss every night."

"Shut up," he groans.

"Here we are," Weasley announces. She steps aside, allowing the both of you to get a good look at your new living quarters. "Y/N, this will only be temporary for you. Once school begins in a week, you'll be sorted into one of the four houses and will move into your dormitory."

"Okay," you nod, not wanting to get much more info on that right now.

"James, this will be where you live. I do hope you find it comfortable enough," she adds, turning her head towards him. "It includes a bathroom and a muggle kitchen for you to use at your leisure. As a member of the staff, you have full access to the grounds and all of its amenities."

"This will be nice, thank you," James smiles, taking a few steps inside.

"Of course," she says, returning the gesture. "You two get a good night's sleep. Professor Bennett, I'll see you tomorrow to show you to your classroom. You've got a lot to do in just one week."

"Thank you," he nods, waving her off. "Good night."

"Good night," she says to the pair of you before walking off.

Once the two of you are alone, you let a big smirk grow on your face. "I'd appreciate if you could explain the jargon," you say, mocking the words he had said before. "Please, James, do tell me what you know the word 'jargon' means."

"I swear I'm gonna kill you," he sighs. "You better not mess this up for us."

"I'm sure I'll be fine as long as you don't poison me with your shit cooking," you snort.

"That was one time!" he groans. "Can't I ever live that down?"

"Nope!" you laugh as the two of you head further into the small flat.

"Anyway," James says, changing the subject. "Let's unpack and get some rest."

"Sure," you nod, heading to your room.

Once you get there, you notice all of your things have been brought and neatly arranged inside. It makes you feel a little less homesick. Even though you've barely even left.

"Oh, Y/N, one thing," James calls out, stopping you in your tracks.

"What?" you groan, turning around to face him.

"No fucking the professors, alright?" he smirks, waging a finger at you.

"Oh please," you laugh. "If anyone's gonna have an inappropriate relationship, it's gonna be you. But don't worry, I'll stay away from your little boyfriend, Black."

"God, you're such a bitch," he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

"You love me," you blow a kiss to him. "Night, James."

"Go to bed, you little brat. I'll see you in the morning."

Serpents and Roses

[spntoxicfemslashevent]

T'is the year 1909 the British men of letters have a new focus: eradicating witchcraft. They set their sights on the suspicious new wife of am exarmy officer. They take the house at night but the witch escapes to America with nothing but a few belongings.

She heads to a town said to have been taken by the Loughlin family 4 years prior. They see the pathetic, dirty, scotttish woman and turn her away ("witches have class these days, love"). But on her way out the witch approaches one member promises her anything for a chance to stay. The woman agrees.

Cut to Rowena that night being paraded into the town pub by Catriona's magic bindings. She is not to speak or look up. A bowl of beer is placed in front of her with a "drink up bitch". When she asks for a glass Catriona empties it out onto the floor and makes Rowena drink it from there instead. The whole town watches this pathetic excuse for a witch.

😵‍💫 we do a lot of dom rowena here but this is so 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[lunavenefica]

⛤Magical properties of green lemon and rituals in Slavic Folk Magic⛤

⛤Kitchen Witchcraft and Spells⛤

⛤In the tradition of many peoples, it is believed that lemon can neutralize the effects of spells and evil while also attracting abundance and blessings. 

The essence of lemon is used in numerous magical rituals for the fulfillment of wishes, prosperity, happiness, love and cleaning the space from negative vibrations. 

It is ruled by the elements of Water and the Moon. 

Lemon essence or juice is used to clean charms and jewelry from accumulated negative influences.

Green lemon peel, leaves and seeds are used in rituals to enhance love desires.

Slices of green lemon should be kept in every room as they provide protection from negativity.

⛤An easy ritual against nightmares⛤

Before sunset, place a few fresh rose petals and eight lemon leaves in a bowl of boiling water and sprinkle the corners of every room with it.

This is a very effective ritual, especially for children who have nightmares.

⛤A ritual for protection from enemies⛤

First of all, you need to get a picture of the person you suspect does not mean well to you. On the back of the picture you should write your date of birth, your first and last name.

Then cut two halves of a lemon and put the picture between them. 

The picture and lemon should be wrapped in parchment paper and left for 28 days in a dark and cool place. 

After 28 days, the contents should be thrown out of the home.

It is believed that this ritual is very powerful and helps to remove imposed influences.

⛤A ritual for love⛤

This ritual is very simple. 

It starts on Mondays and it is necessary to prepare 3 or 5 small green lemons and one unused glass for wine. 

Three lemons should be placed in a glass that will be left in the bedroom. 

On that occasion, you should think of a wish related to attracting new love into your life. When they start to turn yellow, they should be replaced with new green lemons. 

In esoteric practice, it is believed that the number of lemons must be odd and that this ritual will very quickly bring about the fulfillment of the wish.

⛤Isidora⛤

[sortanonymous]

As somewhat of a sports blogger, I wanted to wake up talking about a great Super Bowl and all the congrats and memes and everything. But I'm sorry, if that post does come, it's gonna have to take a while. I can barely focus on it considering the latest in Israel's long line of abhorrent war crimes in Palestine, specifically a deadly bombing in Rafah and hinting at a ground invasion after months of herding Gazans over there as a "safe zone". All the while they fund Super Bowl ad propaganda again painting opposition to their evil as antisemitism (Big difference) asking to "bring the hostages home" after months of them turning down hostage exchange deals. Just as it's clear that this was timed to distract the U.S. from it with the Super Bowl, it's revoltingly clear the hostages are totally expendable to them for the sake of prolonging this genocide. (Not a war, a genocide.) And all the while, the Western world, especially the U.S. government and the Biden administration, are funding and supporting it. Funding a generational display of evil with billions of dollars while acting like there's no money to fix a sagging economy where just about all everyday Americans are getting suffocated by the jaws of late-stage capitalism. No way to fix that apparently, but tens of billions of ways to help Israel deal with the aftermath of an attack they had telegraphed a year in advance. (Gee, it's almost as if Israel put their own people in the crosshairs as fodder to excuse more oppression of Palestine like the past 75+ years since they stole it.) Not to mention them being the one vote in the UN to reject a ceasefire. And also how the vast majority of American corporations are backing Israel in all sorts of heinous ways. Now fast forward four months and the outcome? Tens of thousands of innocents dead, over a third of them children who likely never knew what they were being slaughtered for and never got to live out their lives. Millions displaced and traumatized. A beautiful culture battered. No justice or ceasefire in sight. I know that it's wrong to lose hope, and I definitely do hope that Palestine will be free soon enough, Zionism loses, and that at least a shred of justice hits everyone responsible for this. But man, I'll be honest, it just feels beyond hopeless to do anything. Besides, even if complete witchcraft took over and justice was served and the ceasefire was granted, nothing's going to bring back the people martyred, cure the trauma of the survivors, or reassemble all the rumble. And certainly, nobody should ever forget or forgive Israel and all its allies for participating in these atrocities. It absolutely should haunt all of them forever, and that 100% includes this country's government.

If it helps at all though, still don't forget to give your daily clicks to arab.org to fund UNRWA (which everyone cut funding to because of course they did). (In fact, assuming Incognito mode still gives out ad revenue, which the site uses, you could totally close and re-open arab.org to keep it going. I mean, it hopefully works for me! It's about time we found a great cause to use all those bots on! (maybe)

Maybe soon enough I'll have the somewhat normal posting again, but now doesn't feel like the time. And I know I expressed my pessimism earlier, but then again, history has constantly shown that bigotry and hate can only reign for so long, and hopefully...

From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free!

[kitweewoos]

"mom swap" - a Moustead au (consider this @gregorygerwitz 's fault)

Mouse loves his mom, but he doesn't like her. She's never supported him, not in what he wanted, not as he strives to know more about technology, about the way computers work, about the fascinating growing processes that can change the world. No, she wants him to go into business with his father, for their family company, their name painted across the city everywhere. He doesn't want to be with a nice girl and live up to the family expectation, not when Jay Halstead exists and smiles like that and makes him feel so warm without even trying. Jay misses his mom so much that he feels some days that he can't breathe, because he can't just drive to Canaryville and be wrapped up in her arms to fix all of his problems. He can still remember the way her hand went limp in his own the morning that she died, finally released from the suffering she'd endured for eighteen long months. Every day, he misses the smell of her cooking and the way Joni Mitchell always serenaded them from her old record player. But at least he has Mouse, who holds him up somehow even when he's nearly crumbling himself. "Do you think," Jay says, laying on the hood of his car next to Mouse one night, having started drinking at noon and not stopping for anything, "that we could just trade?" "Trade?" "Yeah, I'd kill someone to see my mom again, and your mom's a bitch. Like, she told you that you were worthless for being gay, and that you can't ever come home? Let's just.... do you think that we could just bippity-boppity-boo, abrakadabra, cast a spell and I get my mom back, and you get your mom off your back?" "I mean.... we could, there's a witch store, I guess, on Halsted." "Perfect, let's go." Drunk and grieving, they find their way into a witchcraft shop, and there's a book, and a woman with a glint in her eyes. She winks as she hands this thick tome over to them, and says, "aye, careful, loves, it's a powerful thing, magic is. It always comes with a price." They gather ingredients and Jay cuts his hand to bleed into the mixing bowl they grabbed from the kitchen and they chant over the bowl. Then, nothing happens. It's disappointing, but understandable, Jay thinks. Magic isn't real. His mother is dead. Of course, he wasn't going to bring Jude Halstead back to life. They go to bed in Jay's childhood room, Mouse's face pressed into Jay's shoulder blades, drooling into his shirt. When he wakes up, he smells pancakes, with a little hint of cinnamon on the air. Downstairs, half asleep, he finds Jude Halstead, singing to Joni Mitchell, dancing around with her apron tied to her waist, eyes bright and smile wide. Then, Mouse follows him down, eyes wide as he stares at his phone. "It worked."