#broom handle materials

[maretriarch]

is there anything more bullshit and useless than those anxiety and depression 5 question forms

[yueyimold]

double mold plastic shovel

China 2k mold maker, offer bi injection dustpan with rubber lip, double broom dustpan mold, pp tpr foldable dustpan 2k mold, multi color long flex handled dust pan

[agreeewrites]

A Madness Most Discreet p. 4 | G.W.

feat George Weasley x Malfoy!reader

summary: all things come to an end, whether we want them to or not.

cw: angst, abuse, more angst

series navigation | part one | part two | part three | masterlist divider by @roseraris

Reader's POV

Umbridge’s takeover of Hogwarts was swift and merciless. First, it was stricter curfew, more frequent tests, an actually enforced dress-code policy. Then, it was rules framed like 'Wanted' poster’s along every wall. Three, ten, fifty. Stacked like the bricks of ideological prison.

It became harder and harder to see George, the stringent curfew’s and severe punishment for being “unaccounted for” infringing on every spare second either of you had. And, the cherry on top of the pink-frosted shit cake, was the Headmonstresses unending vitriol of Harry Potter, and anyone that breathed within his orbit.

Which, of course, included your George.

You’d once tried sneaking into the Quidditch locker rooms after practice, thinking that surely he wouldn’t be punished for taking an especially long bath. But that rotten feline, Mrs. Norris, was waiting just outside the door, blinking owly up at you. You’d had just enough time to slip into the shadows when Filch dragged George into the hallway, gravelling on about how Umbridge was going to have a field day with him for wastin’ so much water.

The following morning, George was sallow-eyed and vacant, like she’d carved something out of him. You hadn't asked him to meet up since, unable to stomach the thought of you being responsible for any amount of his pain.

So you watched, helpless, horrified, as his smile faded. Every passing glance grew shorter, shadowed, until he was barely looking at you at all for fear of being caught.

How swiftly your paradise had become a hellscape. And how selfish of you to mourn the newfound freedom you lost, when you were one of the lucky few seemingly untouched by Umbridge’s wrath.

It was by virtue of your name, certainly. And you’d never been more ashamed to bear it.

Nearly two weeks had passed without even a brush of hands, his absence like a tear in your side, when you spotted him during a trip to Hogsmeade, loitering at the back of Tomes & Scrolls, eyeing you over a dusty volume.

Excitment buzzed under your skin. As discreetly as you could manage, you snuck along the stacks, feigning a painstaking search for particular title, until you reached the aisle George was hiding in.

He didn’t acknowledge you when you came around the corner, nose still buried in the book you were sure he wasn’t reading, but you felt his attention as keenly as a scratchy sweater against your skin.

“There’s a closet right behind me,” he murmured, turning an unread page.

“Now?” You asked, risking a glance at the heavy wooden door over his shoulder.

“If you’d like,” he teased, a ghost of smirk shifting his mask of disinterest.

With a final glance to ensure no one was watching, you slipped around him and pulled open the door, it’s metal handle cool and solid in your palm. It opened to a dingy storage closet, complete with brooms and stacks of crates, illuminated only by the sliver of light you let in, and quickly swallowed in darkness once you let it fall shut behind you.

You stood quietly, hands wringing together as you waited for the door to open once more. A minute ticked by, three, five.

“What is he—shit!”

George suddenly appeared in front of you, materializing in the blackness like a wraith. “Sh, sh, I’m right here—it’s alright,” he soothed, grabbing your shoulders to steady you. "Didn't mean to startle you, love."

“How did you—”

“Walking through walls spell.”

“Where did you—”

“Do you want to interrogate me or make the most of the five minutes we’ve got?”

“George—” his name was little more than a whisper, sacred and secret as a prayer.

“I know.” His arms slid around you, finally, finally, warm and coaxing, and home, and you melted into his chest, clinging to his sweater as the longing of the last few weeks tipped into desperation. “I’m here, darling.” The words were mushed into your hair, poignant as a spell. “I’m here.”

“I’ve missed you so much,” was the only thing you could think to say, and it was nowhere near enough.

At first, you’d been embarrassed about how deeply your seperation had affected you, but you cared less and less as the days turned to weeks. Before, you could pretend that it was just a fling, that it was just sex, but the gnawing in your chest, the bottomless hunger in your stomach that no amount of food or drink could fill—that wasn’t just fun. It was something far worse.

Something ardent, urgent.

“I’ve missed you too, rattlesnake,” he cooed, cradling the side of your head and turning your face up towards his. “That’s by far been the worst punishment, and the cunt doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.” The words were shaped like a joke, but there was no real humor in his voice, no glimmer of mirth in his eyes.

“How are you? How’s your family?” You asked, fear gripping you so suddenly it stole your breath.

“I’m alright, we’re alright,” he said, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All things considered, I suppose. How are you?”

You rolled your eyes. So typical of George to ask how you were when he, his family, and half of Hogwarts were being actively harassed. “Enormously privileged, all things considered,” you sighed.

He smiled, miraculous as a beam of light breaking through a thundercloud. “Well, I certainly feel like the privileged one now,” he whispered, his nose caressing yours as he came closer, backing you against the pile of crates.

“Why’s that?” You breathed, barely able to resist cannibalizing that last inch of air between you.

“Because, I may be on the brink of losing everything, but you’re still mine.”

He kissed you before you could process that, his lips slow but insistent, drinking you in like honey wine. Everything fell away, the stress rolling off your shoulders as you parted for him, tongue sweeping across his in a decadent dance.

You never wanted to let him go.

Your hands found their way into his hair, the coppery locks febrile as feathers, and you drew him closer, deeper, rising on your toes to press every inch of yourself against every inch of him. You’d been hollow for weeks, starved and rotten and empty. George was the purge of a spring storm, the rush of snowmelt river, sweeping throughout you, rinsing away the layers of grime and dust and misery—a baptism.

And then, he was gone. Stepping back with a hand over his mouth, another on your shoulder, keeping you at bay when you whined in protest.

“We don’t—I’m sorry, she has spies—” He took a step back, reaching for the door handle.

You followed him, heart ringing like a church bell against your bones. “George, wait—”

“I had to see you, but I shouldn’t have—”

“Love, please—just hold on a second—”

“She could hurt you—”

“She can’t hurt me—”

“You don’t understand!” He barked suddenly, voice sharp, jagged with pain. It sent you back a step. “This is it.”

You shook your head. He was right—you didn��t understand. “It’s just school, George. She’s just a bitch, it’ll be over soon—”

He shook his head, eyes falling to the floor. Unable to look at you. “Don’t assume that you’re safe, alright? No one is safe.”

“George, I don’t—”

“Just, promise me you’ll keep your head down?” he asked, reaching out to catch the tears that had started to roll down your cheeks. “No matter what happens. Promise me you’ll stick with your brother and do whatever he says.”

You reeled back, stunned that he would tell you to rely on Draco of all people. “How could you say that? After everything—”

“Because he’s the only person that loves you as much as I do,” he confessed, the words a jumbled rush, and you felt the floor fall away from beneath you. “He won’t let anything happen to you.”

George loves you?

“I—”

“Don’t say anything, just—just promise me.” His eyes bored into yours, rich and warm as cinnamon bark. If a person’s soul had a color, surely, this was George’s. The color of home, the color of safety.

“I promise,” you said, and you meant it, even if you didn’t understand.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, brows pinched together like it was agony, lips damp with tears, and then disappeared through the door once again.

George’s POV

George should have known you wouldn’t listen.

Why would you? You were completely oblivious to the literal war brewing just under your nose, and if he didn’t love you so much, he’d loathe you for being so damn naive. It was hardly fair of him to blame you though—he was part of the problem.

He wanted so badly to tell you everything he knew, about your parents, the Order, the Ministry. About Dumbledore’s Army, the countless nights he’d been spending training hexes and defensive spells with his family and friends in secret instead of wrapped around you. Training to be used against your family, against…Merlin, he prayed it would never be you at the other end of one of their wands.

How could he live with himself if you got caught in the crossfire?

He’d had ample opportunity to tell you what was going on, really tell you. Hell, he could have stolen you away into the night and ran for America, spared you, protected you, done something. But instead, he had to watch you from a far, helpless to protect you lest he make your suffering, and his own, even worse.

Telling you anything would endanger everyone else he holds dear. His siblings, his parents, countless innocents…

So, he waited, and he watched.

He watched you as you went to and from your classes. Watched when you drifted aimlessly around the library, looking for something, only to return to the alcove you’d shared all those weeks ago. Watched when you laughed with your friends, or fought with your brother.

He watched when you rose from your seat in the Great Hall. Watched as you stalked across the aisle to where Umbridge was scolding a sobbing first year Hufflepuff. Watched when you shoved yourself between them, haughty brow raised while you called Umbridge an incorrigable, tasteless sow in front of Merlin and everyone. Watched when you smacked Draco away, the poor sod only trying to pull you from the grave you’d dug yourself. Watched when Umbridge composed herself, rising like she was twenty feet tall, instead of barely five.

But, he stood when Umbridge opened her mouth.

"You spoiled little bitch," Umbridge had spit at you in a vorocious, lipstick-smudged hiss.

George was halfway off the bench when Fred caught him, dragging him back into his seat before he got them all sent to Azkaban.

His brother’s hand firmly on his shoulder, George was forced to watch while Umbridge berated you, though you gave twice as good as you got, his venomous little rattlesnake, until Snape and Draco finally separated the two of you.

Draco all but carried you out of the hall, kicking and screaming.

It wasn’t until later that George realized Fred had never asked him why he stood up for you.

When George saw you in Potions the following day, your eyes were puffy and bloodshot, your hair lifeless against your cheeks, and he considered blowing up his cauldron just so he draw you away in the ensuing chaos to ask if you were alright.

It was pointless though, he knew you weren’t okay. And neither was he.

He felt like a corpse most days, hollowed out and cold, his heart removed from his body entirely. Walking around in a Slytherin skirt, raw and vulnerable, it’s beat still coaxing his ambling flesh along. Waiting to be reunited.

But, time was running out.

He knew as much when a letter came tapping at their dorm window in the middle of the night, written on a scrap of parchment, the hand shaky but familiar, the mark on the bottom one his father had shown he and his brother the summer before. What felt like a lifetime ago.

The mark of the Order of the Phoenix.

The letter was short, devoid of any detail. But it’s message was clear enough.

You’re needed. - R.L.

Somehow, it had gotten back to Umbridge that they’d received an unchecked letter, probably a spy residing in the Gryffindor common room, or a particularly cruel-spirited portrait.

She summoned George first.

He thought he’d be afraid, standing at the gummy maw of the Headmistresses office, but he thought of you instead. Your sharp tongue and indomitable spirit. And he felt braver.

It didn’t matter what she took from him. He had you.

“Do you know what I’ve called you here for?” Umbridge asked when he sat at the too small table in front of her desk, his knees pressing up against the underside of the table top.

“You just couldn’t resist me any longer, could you, Dol?”

It was stupid of him to jest, in hindsight, but you were fresh in his mind, so present, he could taste your venom on his tongue. Emboldening him.

She made him write “I am fortune’s Fool,” one hundred times with that terrible, inhumane, cursed quill.

I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s—

He could still see the scrawl every time he closed his eyes. He hadn’t yet dared look down at the burning itch along the back of his hand, crawling and scratching and raw. But he knew exactly what was there. Etched into his skin like gruesome tattoo.

The walk back to his dorm stretched on for miles, and he was unspeakably glad to find only his twin waiting for him on the bottom of their shared bunk, holding the letter from Professor Lupin in his hand.

Fred looked at George’s hand, their once identical flesh forever altered. Different, now.

“We have to leave,” Fred said. “Tomorrow.”

George nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Reader’s POV

A delicate tap on your nose woke you from sleep. A paper crane rested on the pillow beside you, it’s head dipping to peck the tip of your nose once more, and your heart nearly leapt out of your mouth from excitement.

As quietly as you could so as not to disturb your roommates, you unfolded the crane. You instantly recognized the handwriting.

Room of Requirement. Burn this after reading. - G

There was a tiny doodle of snake at the bottom of it, it’s eyes in the shape of small lovehearts.

You pulled on your robes and rushed out of your dorm, stuffing some pillows under your quilt to avoid suspicion should one of your roommates wake up in the middle of the night, and tossed the bird into the fire on the way out.

Though, you couldn't help but tear off and pocket the little doodle.

The Room of Requirement was something you’d only heard of in murmurings, between dusty pages of Hogwarts History books. Somehow, you’d retained the knowledge of its location and managed to sneak, undetected, into the correct corridor, your footsteps echoing along the rough stone.

By now, the portraits all detested Umbridge for rearranging them, and the ghosts hated her for trying to exorcise them, so you knew they’d keep your secret from Filch.

You walked up and down the corridor, searching for a door, when suddenly, one opened just a few feet in front of you. Instinctively, you recoiled against the wall, prepared for Filch or a professor to walk out, but no one did.

A beat passed, and you decided to creep closer, candlelight spilling onto the stones from the doorway. Gathering your courage, you poked your head around the wood and gasped.

The room was enormous, filled with mirrors and practice dummies and big wooden crates. Books and papers were strewn everywhere, copies of the Daily Prophet tacked up along walls, enchanted ‘Wanted' posters growling disdainfully at nothing. A fire place roared against one wall, and in front of it, illuminated with burnished vermillion, shadow stretched long across the open floor, was George.

You couldn’t help yourself, you rushed across the room to him, throwing your arms around his neck when he turned at the sound of your hurrying feet. You buried your nose into the crook of his neck, firewarmed and fragranced with lingering traces of his cologne and something acrid, almost metallic.

“Was starting to worry you wouldn’t find me,” he murmured, stroking your hair as he held you. “Should have known better, my clever girl.”

“What are we doing here?” You asked, pulling back to look around the room. “Why does it look like…this?” You knew the Room of Requirement transformed itself to suit the occupants needs, so you’d assumed there would be a…bed involved. Or at least a chaise.

“I wanted to teach you a few things,” he said, swiping a hand through his hair. “In case you chose to pick any more fights with faculty,” he added, noting the way your smile faltered. But it wasn’t because of his words, it was because of the bandage around his hand.

“What happened?” You asked, grabbing for it.

George was quicker, tucking it behind his back. “Nothing! Just a scratch from Quidditch practice. You know how paranoid Pomfrey gets—”

“Let me see it,” you argued, trying to reach around him. Something squirmed at the back of your mind, a disquiet that wormed it’s way down your spine.

Was he lying to you?

“I’m fine, love. I swear,” he said, catching your hands with his free one. “Nothing to worry yourself with.”

The disquiet grew stronger. “George, what’s going on?” you asked, meeting his eyes.

He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Can we just—have fun for a little while? Throw some hexes, beat the bollocks off some straw men?” He glanced at the dummies, and you followed his eyes.

It dawned on you that they looked like Death Eaters.

Like your father and his friends.

You were already nodding. You could never deny him anything, not with those eyes, or that sad, barely-there smile. “Yeah.” You took a few steps back, withdrawing your wand and brandishing it in his direction. “Show me your worst, Weasley.”

The two of you toiled away the next few hours practicing basic hexes and defensive spells, most of which your father had already taught you, but you’d admittedly not practiced in ages. George even taught you a few new things, stronger, more violent spells that would do actual harm, and you didn’t ask where he had learned them.

By the end, the two of you were laughing, a little sweaty from the exercise and buzzing with adrenaline, and it almost felt like old times again. Just the two of you, getting to laugh and flirt and tease without fear of being caught, or fear of reprecusions. Without the crushing weight of the world crumbling down around you.

Just you and your Georgie, cheeks sore from smiling, lungs tight from belly-laughing.

You’d pulled him into you on the wooden floor, arms wrapped around his shoulders, his weight heavy between your thighs, and you said everything you couldn’t with the fervid press of your lips against his. His hands were everywhere, under your blouse, gripping your thighs, spreading you open, when suddenly he stopped, lurched back as if he’d been struck.

“Wait—I—” he shifted back, resting on his knees, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, pale and trembling.

“What is it?” You asked, sitting up, reaching for him. “Are you alright?”

He lowered his hand, holding it outwards to stop you from closer. Tears were running down his cheeks, his eyes rimmed with crimson. “I have—I have to tell you something,” he whispered, the words tight in his throat. Frayed at the edges.

Your heart dropped through the floor, a chill rinsing through you. “What?” you asked.

He was quiet for a moment, maybe a thousand moments. The silence stretched on for eons, suffocating, endless, total. Then—”Fred and I are leaving,” he said, finally bringing his eyes up to meet yours.

“L-leaving?” you stuttered. “For how long?”

His jaw flexed, and he averted his eyes back to the floor. It was answer enough.

Fred and George were leaving Hogwarts. George was leaving you. For good.

The room spun. “But it’s—it’s the middle of the school year. You can’t just leave,” you argued, as flimsy and pathetic as it was. “You can’t—” your voice was getting shrill now, panicky. It grated against your ears, chafed your polished sensibilities, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Not when it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your body.

George’s hands were on you, drawing you into his chest, but you resisted, pushing back with feeble arms.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. George wouldn’t just leave you, not alone, not with—them. Not after everything. Not when you needed him, when you loved him.

“I have to,” he pleaded, gripping your hands. “Please, try to understand. They need me, I—”

“I need you!” You roared back, and he recoiled as if you’d slapped him.

“Love—”

“You’re going to just leave me here? With these people I fucking hate? That hate me?” You were being selfish, you knew you were, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the flood of panicked, cruel, sharpened words spilling from your mouth. “I can’t stay here, I refuse to—there’s nothing—how could you just leave me? I thought you loved me!”

He shook his head, eyes screwed shut. He was completely still, save the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“You can’t say you love me and then…” you could barely get the words out. “And then leave.”

George looked down at his hand, the bandage half-off, something deep and red and glaring peaking over the edge. He took a long, shuttering breath, then—“I shouldn’t have said it.”

You grabbed your wand and stormed out, the door banging shut behind you.

Too weak to make it back to the dungeons, you found the nearest door that didn’t lead to George, a broom closet, and locked yourself in. Deciding as you crumpled to the floor that it would be better to just fucking rot there than face your world without George Weasley in it.

A professor found you the following morning. They shuttled you to the hospital wing without a word. You didn’t remember much of the walk, or the two days you spent there, Madam Pomfrey keeping you pacified with sleeping draughts and jellybeans.

She thought you had a stomach bug, considering you could hardly keep food down, the grief too large for there to be room for anything else. You didn’t bother to correct her.

When word finally reached you that the Weasley twins were gone, having made their grand exit in a cacophany of fireworks and flame, you were glad you had missed it. Because you either would have dragged him back down to earth, claws sunk so deep he could never escape you again, or, you would have let him take you anywhere, everywhere, given up everything for a boy that didn’t even bother to ask you to go with him.

That didn’t love you.

So you let him go, and prayed the heartbreak would alchemize into hate.

Thank you for reading! (also I'm sorry)

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© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[coralquill]

LADs headcanon for witch mc who causes so much chaos with her little talking cat familiar. Just how they'd handle all the explosioives, floating books, etc. or maybe how they found out 🤔

Ahoy, thank you for requesting! ngl that was a fun piece I enjoyed writing. hope you enjoy!

pairings: xavier x reader || zayne x reader || rafayel x reader || sylus x reader || caleb x reader

contents: comedy, reader is a witch with a cat familiar || wc.602

— XAVIER

Xavier would initially welcome your cat into his apartment. But once he learnt it could talk, he tried to kick it out countless and countless of times, jealous it might take away your attention.

He'd wake up from naps to find the whole apartment in chaos and disarray after you had practiced your spells on his stuff.

And to top it off, he'd always find your cat perched on the headboard, surely staring at him all throughout his nap.

What a day...

— ZAYNE

Zayne would sigh for the fifth time that day, seeing as you commanded the documents and files of his work to fly around in his office. He needed them to finish up work and call it a day, but apparently, you had other plans.

At least your familiar cat was napping on his lap, allowing him to pet it. That was a first. Cats usually ran away from him.

"Behind my ear, please," the cat demanded.

Zayne stopped mid-action. An oh was all he could utter before he did as instructed.

The cat talked.

— RAFAYEL

Rafayel wasn't new with witchery or witches, as he used to work with one long ago. Though he would jump out of his skin upon knowing you have a cat familiar following you around, and his soul would leave his body the moment he'd hear it talk.

After getting used to your cat and your shenanigans, he'd ask you to try out a new way of painting with him. Flying paints and brushes would fill the high areas of the studio, swirling through the air as they created splashes of art on the canvases.

"That's a job well done, cutie! Thank you for helping me!" Rafayel would thank you for your efforts, standing up to admire the artworks from afar.

"I do agree." Your cat joined him.

Thump.

You turned towards the sound, only to find Rafayel passed out and sprawled on the floor, your cat tapping its paw against his cheeks to wake him up.

Oops. Guess Rafayel hadn't fully gotten used to your familiar.

— SYLUS

Sylus was used to chaos and disorder, his line of work never offered peace and especially with Luke, Keiran, and Mephisto, the chaos-inducing trio, working under him.

He'd ask you to borrow your powers to wreak havoc and threaten those who cross his path.

Your cat followed you everywhere, supplying you with spells materials and potions ingredients. It reminded him of his relationship with Mephisto—providing him with intel, footage, and sensitive case files.

He didn't pay the cat any mind—until it spoke.

"Your cat talks." Sylus noted, utterly unfazed, as if talking cats was a standard part of his afternoons.

"Oh, whoops, I forgot to tell you." You smiled sheepishly.

And your cat snickered.

Pursing his lips, Sylus nodded in acceptance.

He couldn't say it was the most unusual thing he had ever witnessed. He'd seen stranger.

— CALEB

Caleb wouldn't mind the chaos you'd create, as he'd use his gravity Evol to tidy up after. He'd let you have your fun, commanding brooms to have sword fights mid-air, and tea leaves creating whirlwinds in teacups. But no matter what, everything got returned to its rightful place at the end of the day.

That was until he passed the mirror hung at the hallway—

"What's cookin', good lookin'?"

Ah, you had enchanted the mirror to flirt with passersby. Classic.

"Got lost in your eyes? You've been staring at your reflection for a while."

And that was one of the few things he had zero clue on how to fix.

"Pip-squeak! The mirror is feeling flirty again!"

likes and reblogs will always be appreciated ♡ let me know what you think! — requests are open!

— until next tide, thanks for docking by ｡𖦹°‧𓇼

© coralquill 2025 – do not copy, steal, or translate my work.

[druidwolf21]

Fort

Rogal Dorn/ reader (gender neutral)

TW: nothing, just fluff

Very short, very sweet!

Tags: @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kitty-chan33

"The foundations of this fortress are lacking critical support in this area here"

Rogal Dorn ducked his head to the side as a pillow flew inches past his face, watching as it landed with a soft thump a few feet behind him.

"your defenses also appear lax. Tactical placement of-"

Another pillow thudded gently into the side of his head, followed by a small giggle as he turned back to the fort. He drew a hand across his face, a smile creasing his stern features as he sighed. Dropping to his haunches he peered under the blanket finding a pair of bright eyes staring back at him, sparkling with amusement.

"my lady"

"my lord?" Came the reply, laughter stifled as you buried yourself deeper beneath the blankets and pillows.

"what is it you hope to accomplish here?"

"I have built a fort my lord, is that not obvious?"

"not when it is made from fleece and cotton, no"

"well if you're going to be like that, you won't be allowed in" you stuck your tongue out, dragging a blanket across the small entrance.

The base, if it could be called that, was cosy. Pillows and throws littering the inside as large heavy blankets made up the walls and ceiling, supported by a broom handle, a bed post and a wardrobe door.

Snuggling down into a nest of cushions, you clicked on a small electric light. Watching with glee as the primarch's shadow stretched across the walls as he walked around the pile of fabric.

"You will have to come out soon" he mused. Parts of the blanket wall bouncing as large calloused fingers tapped the material.

"dear husband, have you never heard of a siege?"

You clamped a hand over your mouth, fighting back the laughter as his figure stilled.

"You will not surrender?" He rumbled.

"Never!"

He hummed, low and deep as he thought.

"An honourable choice. I would expect nothing less" his voice serious, despite the situation he found himself.

"To war then"

Before you could react, the broom was kicked out from under the fort, collapsing the wall and dragging the ceiling down with it. You squealed as the fleece and silk covers fell around you, laughing as you kicked out, trying to escape the weight.

A hand gripped your ankle and pulled, dragging you out from beneath your fallen fortress. Flailing, you pushed at his shoulders until he pinned your hands either side or your head as he knelt over you. Your sides hurt from wheezing as you gasped for breath, tears pricking your eyes as you finally calmed down.

Dorn's grey eyes peered down at you, stern sight softened by the gentle smile that broke across his tanned skin.

"so you yeild?"

"never"

A laugh crept from his throat as he leant closer, locking your fingers with his own before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Chaste and sweet, you melted into his touch before he pulled back.

You gazed up at him, wiggling your hand free to comb your fingers through his shock of white hair

"I suppose we can discuss the terms of a mutual surrender"

You felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled again, his palm finding your cheek as he chased another kiss, your hands tugging on his short locks to pull him back to you.

"I am Rogal Dorn, praetorian of terra, I do not submit" He paused, his breath ghosting your skin softly.

"But for you, I would surrender it all"

[dufferpuffer]

Can you talk a little about Remus’ intelligence? Recently I’ve felt it’s been severely downplayed in fandom as a response to fanon depicting Sirius as “the dumb one” and Remus as “the smart one” in a wolfstar context. While obviously Sirius is extremely intelligent that doesn’t mean Remus has to be dumb in contrast? I also think they just have different types of intelligence, and I strongly believe that basing their intellect off of their achievements in school is limiting (also people don’t take into account that Remus was sick every month for at least 3 days, even if he was matched perfectly in intelligence with Sirius he’d still be doing worse in school). What’s your take on this my balanced remus lover friend?

I don't think Remus is a 'genius', like James and Sirius might be. But he's a bloody capable wizard - hard-earned, not talent.

The one flashback we get of him as a kid, we see him focusing hard on his OWL's, despite an upcoming Full Moon. He has his own methods for revision - when he asks Sirius if he would help him study, Sirius can't fathom why he should bother. Sirius doesn't need to revise or study - but Remus is good at it.

You're damn right that doesn't mean he is stupid compared to Sirius. There's nothing stupid about forming methods to help himself learn. Sirius and James are natural talents - Remus is a nerd.

By adulthood his work ethic has paid off: He has effortless confidence in his charms and conjuring - doing most of it without incantation. He's kind of a badass: He conjured fire and a non-corporeal Patronus without incantation - while exhausted and in the presence of a dementor. He could duel Lucius Malfoy, battled death eaters in the astronomy tower, dueled while flying and supporting an injured man on his broom - and disarmed multiple people in a row with enough accuracy to catch their wands. (tbf they were children)

Remus is a natural at teaching. First day on the job: he handles a room full of kids like he's been at it for years, even those with difficulties who need extra care and encouragement. He is patient with Harry learning to cast a Patronus, explaining things clearly to him - changing his explanation as Harry's needs change. This shows a deep understanding of both the material he is teaching... and what it is like to learn. Knowing how to struggle, how to adapt, how to learn, the validity of different perspectives - that's good wisdom.

His greatest strength is his Social Intelligence. Witty, astute, cunning, sly, persuasive… Sirius isn't socially inept but he is so honest and blunt he can come across as kicking the door down - rather than Remus' picking the lock and making it seem like a natural innocent behaviour. Does that make sense...? It was the entirety of his role in PoA: A murderer on the loose after Harry's blood - and yet through all the mysterious absences, sketchy evasiveness, superficial closeness with Harry, slightly slap-dash teaching methods and blatant distrust from Snape (who had been proven trustworthy - Harry just thought he was an arse)… Remus Lupin manages to charm his students, getting to know them without any of them knowing anything about him. He has Harry hanging off his every word, despite obvious apprehension to engage with him about his parents or needs. He effortlessly keeps Harry's trust even when he blatantly, skillfully lies in-front of him - and TO him! For his own gain!!! The scene of the Marauders Map is a brazen display of how quickly he can manipulate his way out of a complex situation. Even when he is with a murderer and they all know he will turn into a werewolf soon - he commands emotional focus. Ron is injured, a Murderer is present, they are supposed to be investigating a rat with haste... yet most of the time they are discussing HIM and why HE is 'not so scary, please don't hate me' in a long-winded fashion.

Only Snape seems immune. So he bullies him to shut him up. Without SEEMING like a bully. The kids think he is great, the way he can control the uncontrollable - Snape and Peeves.

Remus slips in and everyone is so taken with him they never notice the lock being picked. Their perception of him is on a tight leash. A magician’s sleight of hand and a silver tongue. Lockheart WISHES he could do this.

Remus is practical and practiced. He has the grit of someone who has fought for his life with both his wand and his tongue. He has lived a life of misdirection, gaslighting and manipulation - always subtle, always present. He reads others better than himself and moves through society with quiet ease, slipping in unnoticed and slipping out just as easily. No wonder he works as a spy.

He’s a top-class wizard - held back only by circumstance. Balancing his core needs, his interests and his health with no support network and poverty…? yeesh. In another life he may have been able to focus his efforts on a passion, rather than on topics that aid his survival in a harsh world.

As he is, though: he’s a formidable duelist and skilled charmer (magically and socially) - a survivalist, both in the wild and within society. An outcast who never seems like one. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

That's my take, as 'balanced remus lover friend' :^) Thanks - I needed to sit down and yap about Remus for a bit, had a shitty month

[rottenpumpkin13]

ngl each time you mention cloud using a broom i'm imagining one of those old straw and wooden handle ones instead of something modern.

like yea both can be used to shoo off a raccoon from the attics, hit reno from outta arms reach, smack maliciously intentioned entities brought forth by attempts to control that which is outside of the expertise – let alone knowledge – of mere mortals outta the buildings, wrangle up idiot soldiers en masse, wrangle up trippin soldiers en mass, wrangle up drunk off their arse soldiers en masse and sweep the godsbedamned floor for once in your life, stevens, by fenrir! ...but organic just seems to work best. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ gives it all a weight to it i guess.

The great thing about using household items as weapons is that when Cloud retires from saving the world, and settles into a peaceful life with Tifa and the kids in Edge, he's still prepared for any situation.

*Cloud is sweeping the kitchen*

*Sephiroth materializes out of nowhere*

Sephiroth: Cloud, your end is inevitable.

*Cloud starts beating him with the broom*

Sephiroth: What—Hey—HOW DARE YOU—

Cloud: DON'T MAKE ME GET THE VACUUM!

[greentrickster]

DIY Pride Flag Craft!

In this (waves at the entire USA) time, I know a lot of people are wanting to show LGBTQ+ pride or support for members of this community.

However, Rainbow Capitalism being out of vogue at the moment, ethical sources of pride wear often being expensive (because that's part of the package), and some flags just being straight-up harder to find than others, just gonna toss up my personal favorite work-around to this situation:

[Image ID: eight strands of ribbon lying on a messy white sheet, with the ribbons arranged from left to right in the colours black, medium grey, white, lime green, forest green, pale green, dark emerald green, and a translucent grass green.]

Pretty much every craft or fabric store I've ever visited has a decent selection of ribbons in a decent selection of colours, and they generally go on sale every now and then. This makes it easy not only to get the colours of your flag[s] specifically, but to add a little custom flair to them if you want. I personally grabbed the colours for the Aromantic flag ('cause I couldn't afford seven rolls of ribbon and I like the aro flag better than the bi one). (I already had a number of spools of green ribbon, I like the shiny flap-flap streamers) I now posses enough ribbon for seven feet/six point four meters of Aromantic pride flag material. Things than can now be done with that include:

Cut a length of each colour, stack them in order, tie them to a hair tie. This can now be put on anything you can feasibly put a hair tie on, naturally, or, if you put a reasonable number of ribbons on it of a decent length, looks and feels great to wave around in the air at a parade. Or as a stim toy. (Completely serious on the stim toy bit, can confirm a trial run made the ADHD brain go brrrrrrrrr!)

Tie bows from individual lengths of ribbon along something straight in the appropriate order for your flag - a desk leg, a suitcase handle, your own arm, whatever. (Also works with knots if you don't want to do bows.)

For a larger project, get a long dowel (technical name for a round wooden rod) or spare broom handle from a hardware store, and probably a hot glue gun or some gorilla glue. Cut nice long stripes of ribbon, tie them along your wooden rod at the intervals you deem appropriate, and put a dab of glue on each of them to help keep it all in place. Congrats, you just made a big, waveable pride flag entirely out of ribbons!

For a smaller version of the ribbon flag (aka, a ribbon wand), by using a smaller, wand-sized dowel (or a really nice stick you find somewhere or happen to have handy) and either doing a small version of the flag down the top, or tying all the colours at the top so they dance around together when you shake it. Again, use a bit of glue to hold them all in place. Alternatively, use the ribbon hair-tie from the top of this list, and put that on top of your wand instead (rubber bands can be substituted for hair ties for this use, and will probably cling better to the wood to boot.)

Braid the ribbons together, then use them as bracelets/anklets. (This will be easiest with the three/four coloured flags, but I remember the friendship bracelets girls used to weave in the 90s, and I believe in your ability to replicate that with ribbon, should this be the direction your heart leads you.)

Literally anything you can think of, go crazy!

My final pro tip for all this: cutting the end of a ribbon at an angle not only looks nice, it makes it much, much harder for the fabric of the ribbon to unravel or get all ratty and unpleasant/likely to tangle.

Beyond that, if this seems like a you thing to do and you are able, then get some ribbons and go be proud!

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

Can you write where Ethan as Ghostface kidnaps reader to keep her from the reveal because he loves her and doesn’t want her to get hurt but she falls in love with his masked self so he ends up revealing himself anyway

kinda had to change this a tiny bit, but still got that stockholm syndrome vibe. also I've never done this trope so this might not be great, i tried.

masterlist

“shit. it’s a trap!” chad yelled as he paced around the floor. the lights in the theater cut off cloaking the space in an ominous darkness.

arms stretching in front of you, trying to keep yourself from running into cabinets or people. your heart was hammering against your ribs, quick uneven breaths leaving your mouth. “guys? guys!” not hearing anything back from your friends.

“anyone-“ a gloved hand covered your mouth and it muffled your horrified scream. ghostface got you, you’re already dead. you tried jerking away from them as they dragged you away and further in the abandoned theater. the scratchy material of their robe rubbed at your throat and tickled your stomach.

you could feel the muscle of the stranger beneath their costume, physically telling to you that you were out matched. your harsh breathing from your nostrils filled the hallway along with two steps of footsteps. their hold was tight but not restricted, if you could just kick or swing maybe-

“i wouldn’t try anything, sweetheart.” a low voice whispered in your right ear. they didn’t have the standard ghostface tone, but it sounded like they were trying to disguise it. an involuntary shiver racked your spine and hitched your breath.

continuing in their rush to drag you away they brought both of you to a cluttered closet, sneakers bumping into fallen bottles and soft rolls of towels. practically being shoved into a metal shelf and causing a wooden broom handle to clatter noisily to the linoleum flooring.

"help! help-"

"shut up! i'm trying to save you!" your captor growled and their clunky boots carried themself into your limited space. their towering stature staring down at you through those empty black eyeholes.

"save- save me?" you stuttered, "you've been trying to kill us for a week! sam! chad! help me-" scratchy fabric covered your mouth and part of your nose causing your breathing to be short and panicked.

ghostface leaned in closer, "well you seem like the only good one so I'm being generous and deciding to spare your life. now, i have to go after your friends, but you're gonna stay here until i come back and everything will be okay." waiting for a beat before rushing out back into the light and leaving you to sub come to the dark.

did it make you a bad person, or a bad friend if you were relieved that a serial killer decided you were worth keeping alive? you'd be willing to play their little game for however long until you were ready to run free and disappear, they seemed to have a sort of liking to you. maybe an obsession, they would've been stalking you if they knew your every move and location.

it kinda made you feel a certain way. a romantic, unhinged sort of way. you've heard of people saying how their partner is obsessed with them, but having a stranger being so obsessed with you they're willing to kill everyone else to keep you...

maybe your ex's were right. you were a bit sick in the head.

you weren't sure how long you were locked in the closet. could've been ten minutes could've been an hour, but when you heard rushed footsteps outside the door and the lock turn you rushed forward and threw your arms around your kidnapper.

"let's go before the cops arrive." was all they said after a minute of your hug. your dropped your arms, but they reached for your left hand and dragged you behind. you followed like a lost puppy.

when an exit sign came into view they halted to a stop causing you to bump into their back, confused by their decision. "what's wrong?" rounding to stand in front of them, hands still locked.

"i- i have to stash the costume. don't- don't want you to see my face." they almost seemed worried, concerned about your reaction to their identity.

"hey," you stepped closer, hand reaching to caress the mask, "it's okay. i'm not gonna run. i- i want to stay with you, you saved me." voice dripping in seduction and honey. eyes doeing to further convince them of your alliance to them only.

with their free hand they gripped the chin of the mask and slowly lifted it away until to came free and you were greeted by the shocking sight of- "ethan?" his sweaty curls shading his eyes.

he didn't say anything, just bit into his bottom lip while watching you closely waiting for that inevitable switch that always happens when the killer is revealed in movies. but all he got was a creeping smile changing your face and you saying, "when we're safe i'm gonna make out with you so hard, killer." before he rushed to stripe the black robe off and you both rushed out the deserted building.

hand in hand. grinning like the psychos you are.

[urgardenandmine]

alone yet free ☾ - j. suh

summary: the new night guard is a cutie patootie genre: fluff/non-idol au pairing: m!reader x johnny suh word count: 2.9K

i guess the time has come. we have to go. 

as the sun began to rise over the horizon, you stared out the glass window from your place. from your feet, you could feel the pain of the cold hitting you. it was the usual, due to the museum’s weird angled vents. as your eyes scanned the wooden floor, you looked at the paintings as the pain had rose further and further up to your torso. grunting softly, you tried not to acknowledge it yet you could feel your eyes water. your toes felt frozen, as if someone had placed them in dry ice and then held you in suspended animation through cryosleep. 

feeling the sun’s warmth now on your chest and left side of your face, you took in a quick breath as you stood still. you had felt the hairs on your face stand on end, reacting to how your nerves felt being gently cradled by the glowing yellow star. whimpering due to the cold, you plastered on a face of curiosity, staring towards a corner in the ceiling. it was the same corner you had stared at for a while now. the ceiling was peeling, the missing paint patches revealing the ceiling's original material which was mahogany wood. the beams were littered with chandeliers and as well secretively due to the makers of them, cobwebs. you had seen maybe one spider always in the same dusty corner, feeling somewhat jealous due to it’s freedom and being able to express its creativity. 

listening to the wind pick up, you remembered it was spring and that the weather was cooler now. you had heard someone mention where you were last night. the word “london” happens to pop out a lot from people’s mouths, yet you had no idea what that meant. you also heard the word “spring,” which you knew as you weren’t a heathen to the seasons gifted upon you. the birds chirped, flapping their wings as they soon went to begin their chores for the day. 

feeling the coldness reach the crown of your head, you stood in place, unmoving and unwavering in both the physical and emotional. as your ears became muffled, you did your best to decipher. hearing the sound of the door handle wobble, you heard another sound. it was similar to the windchimes yet less majestic, more mechanical. they were getting louder, and more aggressive as the door handle turned. 

key. the word was key. the keys went into the handle. 

pushing open the door was a stout man, adorned in a simple black tee and mustard yellow puffer jacket. his bottoms were a simple brown, nothing too describe due to his uncaring attitude towards his looks. your eyes were blurry yet you could see his outline. it felt like you were watching through stained glass, the objects now appearing like blobs of color. it was as if you had rubbed your eyes, the vision now staticky as well. 

the man let out a booming sneeze, followed by a hard snort as he mumbled words. due to your current hearing situation, you didn’t make out anything that was said. you saw his body disappear into a room that was labeled “storage.” you had no idea what it was but you knew that it must’ve been vast as everyone had placed so many items inside. you had seen a broom, a water broom and even the broom’s companion which was called a “dustpan.” you had seen the man reappear now in the room, bringing out the green broom as he swept the dust into the orange dustpan. it was almost like an opera, seeing him dance around the room and around the other people you were always around. he had begun his usual routine before getting the place ready to accommodate his usual group of friends. 

during his chores, you could hear the faint ticking of the clock. you could see the hours past yet didn’t budge, simply in place as usual. during the passing hours, three people had come into the building during different increments. the first came an hour after the man had come, while the other followed presumably thirty minutes after. the third had come in another hour. the latter had  opened the doors to the building.

as the doors opened, you could hear the small pitter patter of footsteps and growing voices. slowly creeping into your blurred vision, you had seen groups of children, all dressed warmly and in bright color. one girl (you assumed was a girl) was wearing a brightly colored hat. it was almost a bright pink, yet you felt it was too loud. you couldn’t see any of their faces, only their silhouettes and the colors they had chosen for the day. you had seen as well a bunch of other adults, watching over the children and eyeing those around you. in front of the group were those who had appeared in the morning, helping the man clean up, now wearing a black sweater as they seemed to have been talking to the groups. 

you stood still, looking at those as you had seen your comrades also in position. you made eye contact with your friend amara, as she held her dress in her left hand and re-positioned her diadem with her right. she had the same half-smile as usual. looking at her, you felt a small feeling of relief, seeing that she was in-place unlike your last friend, christos. last week, he had decided to switch his positioning, which was funny to you two yet he had earned three days in the other “storage” room. luckily, it was documented that he was known for changing once in a while. 

as the group had passed by you, you had seen the one person you were expecting. he was wearing a forest green “cardigan,” which you had learned from your friend george william burdenell-bruce. the cardigan had a small patch knitted on, which was a small white bunny. you had always wondered what the bunny was named, considering it looked like he always talked to it. he wore gray baggy jeans, with his white tank top tucked into his waist. on his shoulder was the strap that led to a woody, chunky bag. the bag had things attached on it, such as small cute and colorful trinkets. you were always fascinated by the idea of them as they had their own voices when touched, unlike you. 

seeing him eyeing you, you were somewhat intrigued on what part of you had caused them to linger around you every day. oh, i had forgotten to mention. he was always here. he was always eyeing you, intaking every piece of you. he was your secretive yet not so secretive admirer. whether the weather be warm, scorching, soggy, freezing, he was always here in this building. 

one of the workers of the building had approached him. they began to conversate, yet it was hard for you to understand due to the speed of how they were talking. trying to listen in (which was rude yet you had no choice as you couldn’t move away), you tried to break down what they were saying.

“hello there! what’s your name?” the worker asked, doing their job as they had to assist everyone here.

“oh, hey! i’m johnny.” he replied.

johnny. 

jonathan. john. jon. the many variations of that name have yet one base. the name john meant “graced by god” and here he was, gracing you with his presence. 

“hi there, johnny! well, welcome to the alistair museum! i see you found a piece you enjoy.” the worker teased, nudging him ever so slightly. johnny scratched the back of his neck, chuckling as he nodded and looked at them. his eyes then slowly followed to you. another thing i forgot to mention…

you were a simple sculpture.

you didn’t remember much on your home, knowing only the story you were told from your creator and the days and steps leading up to your being.

it was a simple day in your hometown. you lived in a village, well, technically, your creator lived in a village so you did too. you had no idea what continent it was nor what side of the planet, whether it was day or night. as you being made, your creator had mixed the clay that made you with certain “properties.” he had purchased an elixir from the local apothecary, hoping it had made the clay more “lifelike.” what he didn’t know was that the simple elixir was made of blood, which was mixed with herbal water placed in a silver bowl, soaked in the light of a lunar eclipse. 

your creator had mixed the elixir with the simple clay, not realizing they were making life in a bowl to make a simple sculpture. they had taken their time with you, making each crevice and simple limb lifelike, wanting to be known as an artist that people could revere. they had one thought in their mind, to be the best, and with you being made, they were. 

it was after your first transformation, for a lack of a better term. your eyes had opened as soon as the sun had fallen asleep, allowing the moon to awaken everything else in it’s path. you could feel the coldness slowly lift from your smooth skin, almost like a newborn baby’s. your eyes were immensely blurry, as similar to the morning dew on a clear glass. you blinked, clearing them up as you could see your surroundings. you were in a small hut like house, the roof being coned and made of straw. the walls were supported with wooden rods and straw as well, acting as the insulation. you could see specks of clay through the loose yellow strands of stray. next to you were other sculptures, yet half-made or barely started. 

a small gust of wind had caused you to shiver, making you look for a small sheet to cover yourself with. making your way towards a sheet under pottery, you yanked it from under them, causing them to somersault off the table and onto the floor. the sound of five pieces shattering had caused your maker to jump out of their slumber, rushing to the source of the ruckus. in front of their eyes was a living, breathing man, draped in a clay stained sheet. their initial reaction was that of fear, then slowly becoming realization as they had seen you off your stand. approaching you, they recognized their handy work. in the next hour, you were being taught on what the things in life were, as you had taught them that you were a child in the body of an adult.

throughout the years, or centuries, you were passed around owner from owner, being a piece of art with an alluring history. you remember the places you were placed before, such as countries like greece, parts of asia and more. following the never ending changes in location, you began to get lonely, making friends with the animals and the other inhabitants yet seeing either destruction in the days to come or being stolen due to your value. now in this time, you weren’t as lonely as you were now in this place which was labeled a “museum.” though some of the pieces weren’t like you, you enjoyed their company, yet some were like you and that didn’t bode well for them.

the ones not like you were the ones you had labeled the “living,” as they could experience the gaze and warmth of those around them. though it was ironic, you had called them the “living” because of how much people knew of them and how much their stories would live on in history. those like you, you all (such as you, christos and more) decided on the name of the “lifeless,” being stuck in time during the day and yet while alive at night, had nowhere to go. though you as well had stories to your own names, you felt like you were in a prison, unable to leave due to your curses and unable to really experience life due to the chains that were placed upon you as your duty as works of art. due to the immense pain of never being free, the other “lifeless” had chosen to never shed their stoney skin, simply staying in the cold. you, however, had a new reason to live.

the man in front of you was that reason.

he was here weeks before, the week before, and now he was before you. his eyes scanned you, studying every part of you. you felt seen, you felt alive.

now, on this day, he was back again and communicating with the worker, learning more on you. seeing him smile at the small pieces of knowledge that the worker knew, it was almost as if a partner was listening to their partner’s parents brag about their child. he had turned to look at you, smiling as the worker walked away. stepping closer, he chuckled as he whispered softly.

“you’re my favorite piece.” 

hopefully this man was what the kids “single.”

⋆｡°✩

as time passed, you had been kept company with the man. he had seemed to never leave, being here in the museum for almost the whole day. feeling the time get closer, you hoped for him to leave, knowing that though if you were no longer stuck in this cocoon, you would either run to him or he would do the opposite. you could see the sun rays slowly exit the room, as the workers followed suit. the man, johnny, still didn’t budge and was nowhere near exiting, as he had made his way to another possible “storage room.” it was weird, but he must’ve gotten confused on how to leave. 

with the sun now gone and the moon over the horizon, you could feel all the pieces of stone and clay remove themself from you, allowing your skin to breathe. the feeling of the museum’s cool air made you feel relief. the cold from the AC was different than the creeping cold of the stone, almost more comforting. stretching, you let out a small exhale as you smiled, looking at your surroundings. hopping off your platform, you made your way to a potted plant in the corner. digging through the dirt, you had slowly pulled out a pair of trousers. you were now getting more accustomed to the new world’s rules. 

slipping on the bright pink trousers, you sighed and took a deep breath, taking in the smell of the musty museum. 

“nothing like the smell of dirt and dust.” you stated happily. you soon made your way to your friends, informing them that the man you had fallen for had been back again. making your way down the hall, you waved at the paintings that you had talked to for years, complimenting them on how today they looked “prettier than usual.” turning the corner, you had immediately froze.

on a bench, in front of your friends was the man you were coming to talk about. johnny. sucking in a short breath, you didn’t know what to do. eyeing him, you noticed his clothes had changed. he was now in a navy blue uniform, his belt accessorized with things such as two metal hoops, a black stick and what the people called a “flashlight.” you had no idea what it did but it looked fun. as you gulped, his head turned towards you. he shot up, removing his stick and the flashlight, shining it on you.

“hey! stop!” he barked, causing you to jump. looking at him, you had never seen this side of him. it was authoritative. it was very alluring.

“oh, i’m sorry. i was coming to see my friends.” you explained. he inched forward, holding the stick tight in his left hand. he furrowed his brows, looking you up and down.

“friends? you’re half-naked!” he exclaimed. you look down at your body, confused on what he meant. looking back at him, you titled your head to the right, showing your confusion. as he approached slowly, his face had softened. 

“wait, you look familiar.” he stated, now an inch from you. you blushed softly, looking up at him and into his brown eyes. 

“oh! i’m from here!” you answered, walking back as you made your way back to your platform. you could hear his heavily padded feet follow behind you. reaching your stand, you sat on it and looked at him. you smiled and waved. as you looked towards him, his mouth had fallen open as he began to dance. 

“i knew it! i knew it! the stories were real!” he happily sang, jumping up and down as he looked at you. after realizing he was now talking to a living fairytale, he stopped in his tracks and got closer. he sat beside you, smiling.

“uh, i’m johnny. what’s your name?” he spoke softly, slyly taking off his button up vest and wrapping it around you. 

“no one’s ever asked me before. my name’s [y/n].” 

“it’s pretty.” he complimented, causing you to smile gently. he looked at you, eyeing every part of you. it felt like how he did when you were stone, his eyes full of wonder and curiosity.

“so, how are you real? and what’s the story? and like what’s your favorite color?” he spewed questions like a leaky faucet, making you giggle. he blushed, looking away as he scratched his neck.

“sorry, too much?” he asked, now embarrassed by making himself seem a little needy. you shook your head, slowly grabbing his hand and holding it tightly.

“not at all. we have all night.” 

⋆｡°✩

inspired by the opening line of kiss of life's "te quiero" and the performance video (stan KIOF!)

sorry if it's not so good! halfway through this writing, i started getting dizzy and light headed TT

i hope y'all enjoy!

[strwberrybils]

Hii. So I had this idea where it’s (e-1610) miles saving Reader from something and when he finally looks at her he immediately becomes attracted towards her (like love a first sight thing) and gets all shy and cute

love at first sight ft. miles morales

♡ pairings & aus: miles morales x fem!black!reader, college au, cafe au. ♡ summary: after getting hit on after walking home from work, your friendly neighborhood spiderman is here to save you-- and he‘s stunned when he sees you. ♡ warnings: none jus fluff! ♡ a/n: this is so extremely self indulgent because i wear glasses and i was just visualizing this the whole time LOLLL ♡ got a request? | masterlist ♡

YOUR SAGE-TINTED FINGERNAILS PINCH around the soft material of your apron, a broken sigh tumbling off of your reddened lips as you placed it on the coat rack in the back of your workplace. Another huff leaves you, this time of relief, eyes darting to the clock that resides on the wall. It reads, it digital numerals, '10:22.'

You should've closed twenty minutes ago, but of course, some of your avid regulars insisted that they needed a coffee or slide of banana bread right as you had grabbed the broom from the back, ready to shut the cafe down. But you couldn't complain because you were at least happy that you had the next couple of days off, so you let your worries roll off of your t-shirt clad shoulders, grabbing your purse and keys from your work cubbie and switching off the lights.

Keys jingling as you step outside, you stick a golden one into the hole that's below the door's handle, locking it and beginning your walk down the street.

A shiver courses through your veins, your body not quite adjusted to the sweet, yet wintry cold that summoned goosebumps on your bare forearms. You hugged yourself and tucked the sides of your coat in, throwing your Coach bag over your shoulders as the pretty lights of Brooklyn advocated for your lack of vision.

The cafe that you worked at was the only place you could earn money and also enjoy. Your boss was one the upperclassmen that you knew from your university, which really helped because she always gave you days off and flexible work hours. All your co-workers were just close friends or classmates-- plus, you loved to bake, so it really was a genuine place of interest.

You're humming one of your favorite songs down the block when you reach a strip of shops. There's a pub nearby and you always hold your breath when you pass it-- because it's not so much a bar, but more of a place where teenagers hang out and smoke or drink ill-tasting beer. Usually you're safe passing through, but that wasn't necessarily the case tonight.

A boy that you recognize from your university stumbles out of the place, eyes reddened and droopy as he stopped you in your tracks. He smirked at you, "Why're you walkin' all by yourself? Need some company?"

Pushing a curl back behind your ear, he beams a smile at you, one that makes your stomach feel uneasy as you slowly moved his hand back down to his side.

"No, Aaron, I don't. I...have a boyfriend." You lied through your teeth. You definitely didn't, but you needed a valid excuse as to why you didn't want this creep taking you home.

"I think you do need some company, though, pretty thing." He insists, pushing himself closer to you, a laugh sounding from his throat. "I don't see your boyfriend. What kind of man would leave his girl alone at night, walking down the streets of New York?" His hands find home on your waist and you let out a squeal, "Stop!"

Although it's no use. He continues, trying to learn into your lips as you fight his tight embrace. But he's stronger, and you genuinely think that you're a goner until a tall figure in a-

Spider-Man?

He comes literally out of nowhere, standing in front of Aaron as he grabbed both of his arms, removing his grip on you. The masked vigilante twists his hands behind his back and he screams, biting his lip, "This your pathetic boyfriend, huh? Some idiot playing around in a mask?"

Spider-Man says nothing to that, except he just shoots a web at Aaron's hands, pinning them behind his back. He then flips him around and webs his mouth, moving closer to him. He whispers against his skin, "Shut up."

Aaron's eventually pinned to the brickwork of the pub's walls, when Spider-Man finally turns to look at you. You're smiling, even though anxiety is still pumping through your blood, "Thank you, Spider...Spider-man?"

He just stares at you.

You're so pretty, curls tucked back in a ponytail with some loose ones hanging against your dark glasses frames. You're clad in a leather jacket and a pair of ankle-high boots, a pretty skirt resting on your thighs. The moonlight glows against your brown skin, and he finds his mouth dry because it's wide open.

You cock an eyebrow at him, "Spider-Man? Are you okay?"

And although he longs to say something, to get the words out, he can't help but give you one last glance as he finds himself webbing to a wall, swinging away without saying a word.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 ☻ thank you for reading!

𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑-𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 ��𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓🕷️: @queenesther996 //@sukunas-slutty-bitch // @c3f21 // @wydney // @rinnyisnothere // @brieryann // @moisttowllet // @Dee-m-cee // @liliummz // @starhrtz // @daisydark // @randomhoex // @solanawrld // @whore4hobie // @tanakaslastbraincell // @simp4miguell // @nyrovi3 // @my3tumbles // @aziulsworld // @enchantingfoxsparkles // @mancerseedu // @cafehyunji // @personofyou // @mcdvsr // @kopiivie // @ellatienesuscosas // @venuswash3re // @calliarlerte // @pr0wlerpunk // @tzuyuzzs // @wisepoetrycheesecake // @clearskiiiess // @d3atht3hek1d // @vienreina // @pixqlsin // @caulifloweron // @aizawassimpblog // @stvrgrl // @zerosinterweb // @ishqani // @mookiebut // @urmotherswhor3 // @cumbermovels // @asmobeuses

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✎: @Dee-m-cee // @euphorichappiness10 // @adoree-kaelynn // @mhadnirb // @mmst4rz // @iris-theflower // @fleurrieerecs // @kenlani // @kala2022 // @ilyless // @milesmolasses // @laylasbunbunny // @all444miles // @thecoloredpages // @bl00dsuccker // @evacowan // @popeheywardssecretgf // @adoremvney // @anikaluv // @qtdenks

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @enj4i // @chrissytalia // @chaoticevilbakugo // @motheroffae // @luci1fer

[yueyimold]

double mold rubber edge dustpan

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[gaybirdnerd]

Medical Attention

Note: this is 2009 Ghoap inspired by a conversation with @spottlessspectre. I think it’s fitting I listened to El Tango De Roxanne during the angsty bits :3

It was supposed to be easy. The mission was meant to be easy.

Captain Mactavish and Lieutenant Riley were meant to get in, get information, maybe plant a bomb or two, and get out.

They got in perfectly fine but found that their intel on the base they were infiltrating may be a slight bit wrong when presented with the tens of guards and plenty of weapons that the base had. Something they severely underestimated.

They made a mistake going in there.

They were in a snowy climate, dressed as heavily as possible yet still able to comfortably wear their tac vests and necessary equipment and be able to move around, thermals helping wonderfully with that.

Getting in was easy, getting to the main room of the warehouse and seeing approximately 50 more people than they were expecting nearly gave Captain Mactavish an aneurysm right then and there.

In the act of trying to leave and calling the mission a bust, the two got discovered and a shout was given before bullets were flying.

Riley and Mactavish tried to give themselves an opportunity to retreat, killing those behind and to the sides, making a break for it at every chance they can, hiding behind crates of unknown materials.

They’re almost at the door to the hallway out before it goes tits up.

Mactavish runs towards the door as Riley covers him, then takes shelter to cover Riley’s retreat.

They don’t notice the grenade thrown before it goes off.

It pushes Riley closer to the doorway, taking his breath but seemingly not touching him as he bounces up from where he was thrown and hightails it, grabbing Mactavish and pushing him in front of him.

The corridor is filled with footsteps cutting off their escape route, around a bend they need to pass to get out the door and to the RV site.

With a quick breath and a whispered “in here” Mactavish drags a heaving Riley into a small supply closet barely big enough to fit them.

Hushing Riley and purposefully calming his own heavy breaths, Mactavish listens as those that were chasing them and those that had been coming towards them meet in the middle and debate where he and his lieutenant went. One suggests their supply closet only to be berated by at least five others who tell him it’s stupid to go into a supply closet barely fit to handle the brooms and mops they had shoved in there.

To his relief, none of them choose to check the closet and instead split off to check the warehouse top to bottom, debating who goes where long enough for his adrenaline to lower itself and his breath to calm remarkably.

Once those outside of the closet retreat to go check, Mactavish turns around to tell Riley they should leave only to be met with a pale, shaking, and still heavily breathing lieutenant.

“Mate, are you ok?” His concern rises when Riley meets his eyes and gasps “I’m sorry” only to collapse forward into his captain’s arms, shaking and gasping out repetitive “I didn’t realize”s.

”Riley? What’s wrong? Lieutenant?” His panic rises as he maneuvers them to sitting in the stuffed closet against the door, pulling the string for the light as he pulls Riley onto his lap.

“My back” is all that’s muttered between gasps as Riley lets himself collapse into his captain, trusting him to help.

Losing his words and getting Riley to bring his arms around his neck, Mactavish looks over Riley’s shoulder to what of his back he can see. He’s confronted with a slowly spreading red spot on Riley’s jacket and a rather large piece of wood from the blown up crates from earlier on his lower back, thankfully missing the spine.

“We have to take off your vest, I can’t see well past it. Your jacket too, there’s a rather large piece of wood. Can you do that for me? Help me take your vest and jacket off?”

His words are met with a couple of gasps of pain and a nod against his shoulder.

He gets Riley up, helping him position his hands on Mactavish’s shoulders for stability. Looking at him up close, Mactavish concludes that he’s far too pale, but not enough for significant blood loss yet.

Unclipping the tac vest and taking it off is the easy part, it doesn’t take much moving on Riley’s part. The jacket becomes a problem as soon as Mactavish unzips it and tries to get it off of his lieutenant’s shoulders.

Trying to be as helpful as possible, Riley tries to move his shoulders downwards to make it easier to relieve him of his jacket, only to be met with pain flooding through his already tired body from the movement.

With a whimper of pain, Riley collapses against Mactavish’s shoulder and nearly blacks out, tiny whimpers joining the now heavy gasps as his captain cradles his head and shushes him, apologizing for the pain.

After Riley catches his breath and stops making such painful noises, Mactavish tells him not to move and just let him do it. Getting the jacket off his shoulders is hard to do without him moving, but they get through it without tweaking the injury again until it comes to getting the jacket off from around the shrapnel.

Mactavish grabs the small but packed first aid kit Riley stores in his vest and grabs scissors, apologizing for ruining the jacket before he cuts around the shrapnel.

Once the jacket is away from Riley, Mactavish gets him to put his arms around his neck again by pulling them up towards where they were earlier. Riley goes with no complaint or comment, to the concern of Mactavish who also notes his shakes turning into shivers of cold quickly due to the lack of his jacket.

“I’m going to feel it, see if it’s safe to pull out so we can patch it up, yeah?”

It’s a simple whisper and said right next to Riley’s ear. It causes him to bury his head between his own arm and Mactavish’s neck, nodding.

Prodding the wound and seeing what he can of it from his position while cursing the size of the closet, he determines it to be safe to pull. Relief pulses through Mactavish at this because a wound like this would have been hell to try to get Riley out with. And he would be getting him out no matter what.

Mactavish tells Riley what he’s doing as he prepares to pull the wood and prepares gauze to pack the wound until they can get out far enough for what stitches may be necessary.

Giving his last warning, Mactavish pulls the wood as quickly but softly as he can, making sure it doesn’t tug too painfully. Easy enough with the blood soaking it to his chagrin.

As he pulls, Riley buries gasps and whimpers of pain into his neck, instinctively pushing his body closer to Mactavish’s to try to escape the pain, only to find nowhere to go.

Once the shrapnel is cleared, Mactavish takes what smaller pieces out that he can see from his position with sterilized tweezers, ignoring the tears sliding down his neck and tickling his chest and back as they pool under his shirt from Riley’s position buried deep to keep himself quiet.

He shushes him every once in a while with assurances that it’ll be ok.

After getting what he could see, Mactavish packs the wound, cleaning up what blood he can see around the wound and packing more gauze above the skin to keep a thick layer between the wound and the air, Mactavish grabs bandages. He has Riley put his hands on his shoulders again and starts wrapping them around Riley’s torso to keep the gauze in place, ignoring how badly he’s shaking and the redness of his eyes beyond the mask.

Once he’s done with that, Mactavish packs up and lets Riley pull himself together, helping him put his torn jacket and tac vest back on. Mactavish pulls a stim out of his own vest and holds it up for Riley to see. At a nod from the now composed man, he injects it into his right thigh and drags them both into a standing position to wait for it to kick in fully.

Hearing nothing right outside the door and determining it to be safe to move, Riley back to his old self with his gun in his hands, ready to go as the stim hits him, Mactavish gestures for them to leave, turning off the closet light right before they exit it.

To their relief, they make it to the RV point with no more sightings of those from the warehouse and get a medic to take a look at Riley. The medic chooses to pack the wound again and fix it properly at the hospital back on base.

They get their information two weeks later when they take more people in and demolish the forces within the warehouse, taking the information freely then blowing up the place to cover their tracks.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

blahhh wrote ahead to hopefully help me write behind.

stuck gambit au with wolverine arriving on the scene!

Remy hums lightly along with the radio as he straightens the living room. He folds the long bear fur over the back of the couch. He grabs a broom and starts systematically sweeping a grid on the floor. He is still a little shaky with household chores, but he hates the thought of not doing anything. And Creed had firmly banned him from cooking while Creed is out hunting.

He hears a creak from the porch and he straightens from his crouch over the dust pan. That sounded a little off from Creed’s step but maybe he misheard. No one else is out in these woods. The door opens and remy grins.

“Bonjour creed; crockpots still bubbling mais-”

He stops. There is none of Creed’s normal purr and the door hasnt closed yet. 

“Bonjour?”

He calls.

“Kid, what are you doing here?”

A deep voice that is moving closer based on footsteps. Remy twists the broom in his hands and slides a foot behind himself to have a firmer stance.

“Who are you?”

“Its not safe for you here.”

The voice is closer. Remy scowls.

“I asked a question. You broke into my house. Who are you?”

He lights up the broom with his power. He hears a sharp intake of breath. The man pauses 

“What has Creed done?”

Remy shows his teeth and growls.

“You broke in. Who the hell are you??”

“Kid, it's not safe-”

“Answer the question! Mercury damn you, who are you??!!!”

Remy is sick of waiting and spins his broom, powers humming eagerly to fight. He leaps forward and swings based on the voice area. He connects, and there is a big boom. He hears a snarl, and he twists, spinning his broom.

“Get out! Or Gambit gonna send you straight to Tartarus!!”

He yells and swings again. 

“Stop, kid!”

The man yells and Remy feels the broom lighten. Shorten. Cut? He steps back and grips it with both hands and preps to block.

But then … 

He cannot hear anything.

His ears strain over the sound of his own breath and heart beat. He hears a creak to his left, and he jabs outward. The broom handle is grabbed, and he is hauled forwards. Remy snarls as he falls, trying desperately to get his feet right. But he doesn't hit the floor. 

Arms wrap around his chest, and Remy twists and claws with his hands. He throws himself back, and pain blossoms from his skull. Dizziness hits him. He groans and then latches onto the man's jacket that is wrapped around his chest. He hisses loudly and lights up the material.

“Kid, stop!”

“Go straight to Tarturas.”

He snarls and releases the charge. Then he flies forward smashing through a window. His ears ring so loudly and his brain swirls violently. He tries to rise and stand up and arching pain swirls up through his entire body. He falls over and knows no more.

--

Logan holds the bleeding kid close as he drives fast. He had gone looking for Creed. The man had missed five years of hunting Logan down to try and destroy his lif on his birthday. So Logan had gone to investigate. He found a kid instead, who was blind and had Creeds scent all over him. 

Why did Creed have a blind kid in his weird cabin?

Couldnt be for a good reason. 

The blood slicking his hand causes Logan to push his bike to go faster to get the kid somewhere safe to wrap up these wounds. He is almost to the black bird. Almost.

[ad-caelestia]

Common magical tools and their uses (& the elements they're associated with)

Athame - Fire - Traditionally, a black-handled blade (much like a dagger) used to invoke entities, cast circles, and channel energy. Modern uses include trimming herbs, cutting cords for knot magic, and carving symbols into candles.  

Bell - Air - Traditionally silver in color; used for cleansing, banishing negative energy from a space, or designating the beginning and end of a spell. 

Broom - Air - Crafted from wood and twigs or feathers; used for both physical and magical cleansing.  

Cauldron - Water - Traditionally cast-iron; commonly used for burning herbs/incense/oils, holding candles, etc. 

Censer - Air - Used to hold and burn incense. 

Chalice - Water - Traditionally used to hold wine but can be used to hold any liquid to be consumed during a ritual.

Pentacle - Earth - Commonly seen as the center-piece on some altars; said to give the space increased magical energy.  

Staff - Air - Can be crafted from wood, ivory, and various metals, and adorned with an orb or crystal at the top to accent its inherent power; used to direct/channel energy; a larger version of the wand. 

Sword - Fire - The larger version of an athame; used to direct/channel energy on a greater scale.  

Wand - Air - Can be crafted from any material and decorated with various crystals and metals to accent its power; used to direct/channel energy.  

*these items can also be used to represent their associated element on an altar*

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