#feathers and frosting liam

[bookofnottheaxolotl]

Character introduction

Some basic info/backstories about the non-canon characters. More information will be revealed later on.

Diogenes:

Full name: Diogenes Weaver

Appearance:

He's a tall, darkish brown axolotl. He wears a thick, dark grey cloak similar to the one socrates wears, exept Diogenes' doesnt reach all the way to the ground. Diogenes tends to hide his left hand due to [spoilers].

Pronouns: he/him. Age: 47

Background info:

Diogenes has autism and ADHD. He and Aristotle have known each other for decades, and are very close friends. He is a well respected alchemist, and has been teaching the subject for close to seventeen years now.

Frank

Full name: Frankenmuffin

Appearance:

Large muffin, about two foot in hight while standing up. He has got a polkadotted liner, and wears a orange and black friendship bracelet.

Pronouns: they/them

Schrödinger

Full name: O. Schrödinger

Appearance:

Schrödinger is a tall, black and white maine coon. He has a thick mustashe and typicaly wears a lab coat.

Pronouns: he/him. Age: 46

Background info:

He's a mad scientist, involved in a lot of shady projects. Schrödinger is currently working on something involving necromacy. While at one point he had a lover, that relationship came to a bitter end due to Schrödingers lust for power.

Wilhelm

Appearance:

He's a red panda, and relatively short in stature.

Pronouns: he/him. Age: 56

Liam

Appearance:

Liam is a tall, grey ferret, and wears a blue jacket.

Pronouns: he/him. Age: 32

Charlie

Appearance:

She is a hegdehog, and has bright blue eyes.

Pronouns: she/her. Age: 34

[pr3tzelb1tes]

tw // self harm, suicide attempt

//conversations between older siblings//

the brisk night air cuddled up against liam’s face as he took a sip out of his beer, his second cup of the night as he listened to hyuna. a routine of theirs, well, ever since baekhyun and lucky were arrested… and ever since lucifer went straight to heaven to challenge edgar to a duel.

“was it hard?” she asks.

“hm?” liam turned his head, hyuna was buried in blankets— a shell of a human— almost sickly. liam himself hadn’t slept in at least a week, a blanket draped around his legs.

“to raise lucifer?”

liam shifted his gaze and sighed, looking up at the starry night above him, “he was a good kid. but he wasn’t a ‘normal’ demon, no matter what ozarath likes to think.”

“a normal demon?”

“evil. villanous. cruel. one who gains pleasure by harming others.” he sighed, “maybe it’s because of my own disdain for it but… it was less of him being my burden and my own fear of what he would become.”

the scene changes into lucifer and liam’s estate on the north end of hell’s kingdom, towards the mountains as a young lucifer— no older than eight— ran down a corridor, followed quickly by an old woman; his lady in waiting.

“lucifer, please!”

he was innocent, without a care in the world. a real-learner.

“big brother’s arrived! don’t you seem mrs. li? big brother is coming today!” lucifer exclaimed excitedly, barely shedding a bud of sweat as he sprinted down a stairway.

there was something different about him, y’know? something no one could pinpoint, his rambunctious nature was theatrical. it’s something that was unseen.

“his nature… of being a child?” hyuna asks.

liam chuckled, “his innocence was probably the comedic relief of what was truly going on… i’m almost glad he doesn’t remember what happened.”

i myself had already started training, and was in the deep depths of the underworld— barefoot— starving— and exhausted from the torture. i remember, all i wanted to do was sleep the week away.

lucifer slammed doors open as he ran towards two sillhouetes, liam (fourteen) and ozarath.

“liam! big brother!” lucifer grinned widely.

“lucifer…” liam’s breath wisped along the cool air like smoke.

a common misconception of hell is that it doesn’t get cold, but we had gotten a frost that year.

“what is he doing?” ozarath asks breathlessly, as lucifer etched closer as the maid faltered from behind, wheezing.

“liam! liam’s home!” lucifer continued to yell excitedly.

once close enough, he lunged towards the taller male. lucifer laughed as liam caught him quickly, chuckling along, spinning him around bridal style before falling flat on his back.

“oh my lady! i am so sorry, he was so quick— not even a cheetah would have been able to catch him.” the maid panted, “goodness me, lucifer please put on your coat.”

“it’s fine,” liam laughed, hugging lucifer close to his body, “he’s warm enough to sustain himself in weather like this.”

“what?” ozarath gasped, “an early bloomer?!”

lucifer had clung onto me like a sloth on a tree branch, and what made it even better was that he was as light as a feather.

“i never wanted to let that moment end.” liam sighed, “that light in his eyes… i never wanted it to disappear.”

“i see…” hyuna sighed softly.

“but there was one thing.” liam uttered, “well, there *is* one thing.”

“what?”

liam’s eyes lidded ever so slightly as he recalled lucifer’s shadow hanging by a rope, struggling for air, and in a split second his gasping breath as he choked out for air.

then he recalled the spitting image of a dark purple bruise, healing into green, and finally into a vivid memory on liam’s mind.

then he reminded himself of lucifer’s neverending bleeding wrists.

“if he dies, it will be by his own hand; because *he* wants to die.” liam uttered, and by his tone, hyuna knew how defeated liam felt; how unknowing how to help he felt, “no one can kill him. no one except himself, because it’d be too embarrassing to die by another’s hand this far deep.”

“do you think so?” hyuna asks.

“i know so, why else would i have been so against being apart from him? when i was on that boat, if i hadn’t received a letter, all i would wonder is that if he succeeded… i wouldn’t know until i’d came back. or when his majesty passed away, i would just have to trust him and his dagger in a room alone. him and ozarath in a room alone. she did this to him, she— she took away his innocence. it’s her fault.”

hyuna frowned deeply as she stretched her hand over to liam’s right forearm, his lips quivered as he began to shake.

“liam…” her voice softened, “no matter who’s fault it is, it isn’t yours. it isn’t his either.”

liam sniffled as he looked down, not saying anything in response as hyuna took a deep breath.

“you’re a good brother.” she said, “and you raised a good kid. you did a good job.”

as liam heard those same words being relayed back to him, he suddenly remembered lucifer’s tight embrace he’d endured just a night before lucifer left back to hell at the news that satan was dead.

while it was spring, the moon had frozen the grass and it was so quiet that not even a pindrop could wake anyone. anyone, except lucifer.

liam rose up and yawned, looking around. baekhyun had been sleeping at vladimir’s side across the room which came to the earth demon’s surprise, but it seemed that lucifer had gone to the bathroom. a pit in liam’s stomach grew as he began to wait, silence tearing his head apart, silence reminding him about how quiet lucifer was the day of his attempt— silence like how— lilith was asleep on the edge of the bed, and not trying to oversee her owner instead.

he gave into his thoughts and stood up, tiptoeing his way down towards the bathroom at the end of the cooridor. it felt like a longer walk tonight, liam was cold. he turned his head and eyes hyuna and lucky, cuddling together, fast asleep. he shut their door, as they more than anyone, deserved the most sleep. he took a deep breath and sought out the white door at the end of the hall.

the bathroom.

as he got closer and closer to his destination, the pit in his stomach grew fuller, and he knew for sure that something was wrong. he’d arrived and took a deep breath, the lights were off, lucifer didn’t know he was coming.

but what if he was simply in the bathroom?

but why? why without a candle or lamp? why without his flame guiding the way? why…

his hand formed a tight fist, and at the panging of his heart, he’d unformed it and stepped back.

“fucking hell,” liam finally uttered, and with a flick of a flame he opened the door— and to his dismay—

he was write.

“l-liam.”

lucifer stood in nothing but his tank top and trousers, liam’s eyes widened as he watched a single droplet of blood fall to his foot. he stepped back for a moment, and breathed shakily.

“you…” he uttered, “luci…”

lucifer’s face was coated in tears, he was holding the weapon, though, like he did with the noose he lunged forward and took his little brother into his arms as lucifer once had with him. the dagger fell to the floor as lucifer’s shaky hands gripped onto liam’s backside. he gripped liam’s t-shirt as he burrowed his face into liam’s chest, and protectively, liam held him there.

“brother… b-big brother…” his voice cracked out a sob as liam hushed him quickly, it only seemed like lucifer was shaking at first; but after the course of a second, then a minute, then two minutes he gripped tightly onto liam and cried like a child.

“big brother is here now,” liam’s breath shook with each word, “you’re safe. i’m here. i’m here, don’t worry.” tears formed in his eyes as he eyed down the perpetrator, the dagger on the floor with a small puddle of blood surrounding it.

“i’m sorry…” lucifer cried, “i’m so sorry, big brother. i-i broke my promise, i-i’m sorry.”

“hush, boy.” liam gritted his teeth in despair, “i can’t take a second more.”

his grip tightened as they fell to the ground, and on their knees they continued to hug one another, and continued more until lucifer fell asleep; and with that he cleaned himself and lucifer up and watched him sleep until dawn.

when liam’s memory faded out he looked over to hyuna and wiped a tear from his cheek quickly, breathing out shakily, “i’m fine. it’s fine. he’s a smart kid, he wouldn’t do that.”

all hyuna wanted to say was, ‘are you sure?’ but instead she said, “yeah.” she uttered, wiping her own face from tears, “you raised a good one, liam.”

(The Perspective of You — @pr3tzelb1tes)

[tokoyamisstuff]

Scandal Ch. 4 - Loki x Reader

Summary: Nothing can stop the wrath of the God of Mischief, when he realizes he had been deceived by the people he trusted more than his beloved wife.

Warnings: Angst, Violence

Words: ~1700

"But what the world fails to realize is a villain is just a victim whose story hasn’t been told.” - Chris Colfer

I Story Masterlist I General Masterlist I

Taglist: @hi-there-x @haloangel391 @misssilencewritewell @babayaga67 @accioremuslupinn @mochimommy2002 @just-someone-who-likes-to-write @damalseer @bethanystan @loser-alert @star017 @nina1800 @queenariesofnarnia @n1fangirlsblog @vengefulsokovian @lunamoonbby @freyagallileaevans​

A/N: This is a rather boring chapter, but we’re far from done!

“She already left several moons ago. It was her own wish, we did not force her.”

“Where to?” 

“Midgard.”

Loki was long back on Asgardian territory, yet his mind couldn’t find peace. Well, how could he, now knowing what Laufey told him?

His world had already crumbled to dust when he left you behind - but if Laufey spoke the truth, his whole existence had been built on lies from the very start.

Not knowing where to search for answers, the prince sneaked into Odin’s forbidden chambers, walking in the shadows protecting him in the midst of night.

There it was: The Cascet of Ancient Winters - the very relic that doomed the fate of your newborn, revealing it’s shameful blood to all of Asgard.

It just urged him to try and see for himself, even if the truth would shatter his heart.

“STOP!”

Loki wouldn’t even flinch at the Allfather’s words, already tightly holding the cascet in both hands.

“Am I cursed?”

The God of Mischief wouldn’t even dare to turn around and look at the person he always ever thought to be his father - for as soon as he laid fingers on the cascet, he began turning into that same shade of blue your son did.

Panic began to rise in the young god, fearing to be killed by the people he loved so dearly shall they lay eyes upon what he truly was. His chest began to tighten, fastened breath turning into a cold mist.

“No” was Odin’s firm but unsatisfying answer, to which Loki only responded by putting down the cascet.

“What am I?”

“You’re my son.” His words came from the heart, not even faltering as Loki turned around to present his Jotun form to the Allfather.

“What more than that?!” he almost growled in between gritted teeth, appearance slowly returning to his usual self.

At that deepest, darkest day in his life yet, Loki would be too blinded by betrayal and rage to see his father’s true love towards his adoptive son.

“The cascet wasn’t the only thing you took back from Jotunheim that day, was it?” The prince took firm steps towards the man that he had known all his life, but had become a complete stranger towards him through that sole moment.

Again, only a “no.”

Loki’s mind was racing, thinking about what else may have been hidden from himself - and what kind of consequences that revelation had for everything he had done up until now.

“In the aftermath of the battle, I went to the temple -- and I found a baby” the Allfather continued, “Small, for a giant’s offspring. Abandoned, suffering, left to die...”

“...Laufeyson” Loki completed Odin’s sentence. So every word the King of the Jotunns had said was indeed a fact.

“W-W-why?!” he almost whined, voice weak and defeated. “You were knee deep in Jotun blood, why would you take me?”

“You were an innocent child-”

“No.” The God of Lies himself had become so sick of being fed those, starting to snap. “You took me for a purpose. What was it???” 

For what felt like an eternity, there was only silence.

The image of that small, blue child in his arms had been painfully burned into his heart back then. But now that he knew the story behind all of this, it held a completely different meaning.

Just like he had been abandoned back on that frozen rock, he had abandoned his own child, as well as the love of his life.

Outcast, abused, left to die...and now, god knows what had happened to you...

That secret had destroyed more than just his own life. It had ruined the only honest happiness he was ever given - you, and his son.

“TELL ME!”

He just needed to know: The reason behind all the pain and suffering he had to endure - and caused to others as well.

“I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day, bring about an alliance, bring about permanent peace...through you.”

That was just too much for Loki to bear. “What?” he reacted with a barely-there voice, every word of his father shooting daggers through his heart.

“But those plans no longer matter.” No matter what Odin might want to explain, Loki wasn’t able to listen to any more, jumping into his own conclusions.

“So I am no more than another stolen relic, locked up inside of here until you might have use for me?!” he croaked, afraid of the answer.

“Do not twist my words.”

“You could told me what I was from the beginning!” he now yelled, furious at how virtuous Odin would still defend his own action. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re my son” he repeated once again. “I only wanted to protect you from the truth.”

“Why, ‘cause I-I-I-I’m the monster people tell their children about at night?!” Loki clenched his fists, fingernails drawing blood to his palm.

“At least when my son was born, you should’ve dropped the charade!” Pure agony was dripping from every syllable, and for a mere second, his eyes were glistering bright red once again. “You’ve forsaken two innocent lives - the most important beings in my pathetic existence - and now you’ve burdened me with their suffering as well!”

That sure was a miracle - how a person so broken from the beginning wouldn’t collapse under pressure that huge.

“It all makes sense now, why you favoured Thor, all those years! Because no matter how much you claim to love me, you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!”

But who cares about the throne, honestly? Not him. Not anymore. Ever since he knew you.

It all dawned to him now: What he could have, if only he had put his trust in you like so many times before.

All his life, he only ever remembers a shadow. At first, he thought it to be the shadow of his brother, or never being enough for his own father. Maybe the other Asgardians looking down on him, making him feel like he doesn’t belong.

Yet in the end, that very shadow was inside of his own mind.

But you?

You had loved Loki with all of your heart, banishing the darkness from his mind through your bright affection.

It didn’t matter to you what anyone thought of him - or even what he thought himself to be.

Because you saw him for what he really was, and he found peace with that.

And he was certain that it wouldn’t matter to you whether he called himself Odinson or Laufeyson - as had you loved his child dearly, ever since he took his first breath.

He could never make up for that greatest of his sins, Loki knew that much.

Or...?

“Where are you going, my son?”

Reluctantly, Loki made his way past the man he now only considered a stranger. Still, when Odin tried to reach out to him, Loki immediately ducked away, startled and afraid for his true nature to hurt anyone.

More than ever before, the God of Mischief despised himself to the core of his being. He was lost, confused, shocked - and still, determined.

“Creating a Kingdom for my family.”

___

[Earth, 2 months later]

On times like these, you thought your mind was betraying you.

Especially when you catched yourself reminiscing sweet, innocent moments - far back in the past, before everything you ever held dearly got destroyed.

You still felt his touch, feather-light on your skin, as well as his scent haunting your memories. And sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder how life would have been, well...if things were different.

Frantically shaking your head, you clasped the book closed and threw it into a corner of the small one-room-flat SHIELD had provided for you.

Your magical pockets were always almost empty, except for a few necessities - and that book. It held the first flower Loki ever gifted you, and you had dried it in between those pages so it would never lose it’s beauty.

But now, remembering meant pain - because Loki Laufeyson would never come back.

For he is dead.

Fell of the Bifrost, as confirmed by Heimdall, who secretly kept in touch with you all this time. So you knew it all: Of his grief and treason, which slowly led him into madness. 

And what did you do in the meantime?! Nothing at all!

You should’ve tried everything, anything to get back and help him go through that time of need, hel!

“Endure it, Y/N...you need to stay strong...for Liam.” After so many times of telling those words to yourself, you doubted them to have any effect on your broken heart at all.

Yet it would never fail to keep you going. For that wonderful child was proof of your love, and now your last memory of him.

Rocking the small Jotun to sleep, tears found their way to your eyes like so many times before, dropping to the baby’s face unnoticed.

So you tried to sing your pain away as you cooed that little wonder to sleep.

“Å eg lengtar så tidt dette landet å sj��, Og det dreg meg så blidt, når eg langt er ifrå. Med den våknande vår vert min saknad so sår, så mest gråta, mest gråta eg kan. Å eg minnest, å eg minnest, å eg minnest så vel dette land. Å eg minnest, å eg minnest, å eg minnest så vel dette land.”

*Translation:

“Oh I long so long to see this land, And it pulls me so gently, when I'm far away. With the waking spring host my missing so sore, so most cry, most cry eg can. Oh I remember, oh I remember, oh I remember this country as well. Oh I remember, oh I remember, oh I remember this country as well.”

[the-darkdragonfly]

Chapter 13: Leeward

NEW CHAPTER! The Ripple Effect - A Captain Swan Tale

Cannon Divergent - Season 3 finale. So many feels. Emma & Killian are trapped in the past, unable to get back to the future; will they be able to find a home with each other?

A tale of a broken wand, a far away land, and two lost souls destined to find a home together.

Thank you to the world’s best beta and most wonderful human @elizabeethan ❤

Read the Tale here

* * *

The shovel dug into the soft dirt again, lifting the earth away as Emma leaned heavily on the handle, potatoes emerging from the ground like small boulders. .

She hummed to herself, a familiar tune she had sung softly since childhood, sitting in the kitchen of the only happy foster home she had ever had, as her blade broke through the garden soil once more. The air was warm, surprising for the start of October, and the changing colours of the trees warned of the frost to come. Killian knelt a few paces from her, pulling the last of the carrots carefully from the earth, blunted wrist bare as his brace was left to sit on the dresser in their bedroom, sleeves rolled up as dirt dusted up to his forearms. They had had luck with the garden, a first effort for both of them, and Emma credited the small flock of hens with having kept the pests under control. Killian had simply grumbled about the foul, and sidestepped away whenever she had plunked them into the gated space.

She had teased him once, a few weeks after they had bought the birds, six small fluffy feathered creatures in a crate at the local market, and released them into their new haven in the warm, sunsoaked barn. He had been nervous around them, in a blustery, boastful kind of way, and it reminded her so much of the swaggering pirate that she had poked him in the ribs and accused him of being a fearful pirate instead of a fearsome one. He had smiled, face hidden as he turned away and glanced down; a shiver of guilt and nervous curiosity coiled in her stomach- what is it?- as he shook his head and told her it was nothing.

Still, the unease she felt had stayed and he finally told her, confessed his fear to her, voice quiet and full of shame. He had been a young boy, perhaps eight or nine, when Silver’s ship got its first flock of hens. He had been the smallest, and was given the task of caring for the birds and collecting eggs daily for the galley. Emma’s stomach had flipped over at the tone of his voice, the careful calm tone which you used only when a memory was powerful and painful and you tried to convince yourself it wasn’t worth the energy. But it was. Wounds like what he was sharing never truly healed. They would lock him in the dark with the birds- for either punishment or sport, I never knew which- and the angry feathery beasts would peck at his arms and scratch him with their talons as he attempted to divest them of their eggs.

He traced the scar on his cheek lightly as he spoke, muscle memory calling up the reminder of the it’s source- wicked things, chickens- he had whispered, lost in thought. He spoke quietly of the dark bowels of the ship, the chill which seemed to hang in the air, along with the sharp scent of bird feces. He had been scrambling to find that latch, banging on the door as someone held it shut from the other side, the laugher echoing through the solid door. They must have been scared, too- he offered her a quick smile which hadn’t reached his eyes, lost in the memory of that terrible room- with me beating on the door and yelling my head off. He remembered how they flew at him, the sharp slash across his face, the rust metal taste of copper in his mouth and when the men on the other side finally tired of tormenting him in the dark. He had fallen into the hallway while tears mingled with the blood on his face. Liam had tended the wound as best he could, but it hadn’t been a clean cut to start with and Killian had known as soon as he saw his watery reflection in the window the next evening that it would surely scar and knew he would carry that reminder, one more carved into his body, of the cruelness of men.

* * *

Tagging: Let me know if you would like to be added!

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[thevalleyisjolly]

Thinking about alternate character classes lately, and I’m always thinking about A Crown of Candy at any given point in time, so without further ado, for your consideration:

Wizard!Theo, except that he’s the only wizard ever with a positive Strength modifier because that would be hilarious.  Wizard!Theo, who learned more from Lazuli than anyone knew, whose magic isn’t loud or flashy but spell notes hidden in a false prayer book, a soft glow on the tips of his paws and a muttered breath as one of the princesses falls from the top of the staircase again only to land on their feet, as softly as a feather.  In this world, he’s officially the royal tutor, because there are things that Caramelinda doesn’t know, but she does know what Lazuli taught him and she knows where his loyalties lie and she knows that one day, one day the spark she can see in Ruby’s eyes will need a teacher but will more importantly need a protector.  And to the princesses, to the rest of the court, to the world, he’s a slightly gullible, rather awkward tutor who stands on ceremony far too much, and they laugh at him and his silly little sprinkle pet and isn’t he a bit of a large goon?  Even Amethar forgets, every now and then, what he’s seen Theo do on a battlefield, to a battlefield, because as awkward as his social skills may be, Theo is committed to the part and he plays it well.  In any lifetime, in any world, Theo loves his people and he’ll do what he has to for them.

Bonus subclass: School of Abjuration obviously, this squishy gummy bear has one mission, and that’s to protect people.

Rogue!Lapin, because obviously.  Rogue!Lapin, who never summoned the Sugar Plum Fairy, who smiled and charmed and lied his way from the street to the service of a minor but respectable lord, and from there up and up the social strata until he is chamberlain to House Jawbreaker.  Duke Jawbreaker doesn’t bother much with him, but Spearia Mentha takes one look at Lapin, standing too straight and tall, the accent of the common mountain folk still seeping out at his edges, his eyes sharp and clever even when bowing and murmuring obedience, and she thinks “Hmm.”  And when her sweet baby has to go to Castle Candy as hostage, a safe and willing hostage, but a hostage nonetheless, she writes to dear sister Caramelinda and asks would it be alright if she sent someone from her own household, just to keep an eye on the boy, for her peace of mind as a mother?  Liam arrives at Castle Candy, sans pig, plus one very stuffy guardian, and Lapin Cadbury looks up at the towering spires and parapets of the castle, and a small, rare smile flashes across his face for just a second.

Bonus subclass: Mastermind is really the only way to go, isn’t it?

Sorcerer!Amethar, but listen, alright, my kingdom for Sorceror!Amethar who grows up with magic as rage flowing through his veins, whose wrath manifests not as bursts of concentrated battle fury, but in wild surges of strange and powerful magic.  There is magic in the blood and bones of House Rocks, an old and willful magic.  His sisters protected him, as much as they could, but still, there are whispers, more so once the young prince becomes the grieving king with the eyes of the world on him.  People mutter about the witch king of Candia, they say that he’s levelled armies with his sorcery, that he’s bewitched the Emperor Gustavo into friendship, that he’s dangerous and brings only death and destruction.  And it hurts, it does, not because he cares what other people think, but because they aren’t all wrong.  Look at him, the Unfallen, alive when so many have died.  It hurts that he has so much power singing in his blood, and he’s the one who’s powerless, who can’t be the protector, who must be the protected.  Why him?  Why not strong Rococoa, or brilliant Lazuli, or kind Citrina, or cunning Sapphria?  Why is he alive and not them, when he is the wildcard, the dangerous one, the last person who should be king?

Bonus subclass: I mean, it’s gotta be Wild Magic, no doubt about it.

Druid!Cumulous is another story that writes itself.  Druid!Cumulous still swears the same vows of dedication and protection to Candia’s magic, Candia’s secrets, and so Candia itself rises to acknowledge that.  It isn’t the red glow of the Hungry One that surrounds him when he fights, but the bright pink of the frosting sprites, the warm chocolate of the fudge brownies, the brilliant lemon-yellow of the river dragon’s scales, the slightest tint of sugar plum purple.  All spirits are fickle and unpredictable and dangerous, but they can recognize faith and they can appreciate service and they can reward what is freely given.  The Sugar Plum Fairy considers this one for a while.  She has no little pet bunny in this world, no servant to demand wishes from.  But fairies are jealous, too jealous.  Hearts and minds and souls, of course they should be hers, wholly hers, why wouldn’t they be, and for all the vastness of her realm, all her secrets and all her magic, there is something more to Candia than what is just in her.  So she lets this one be, and lays her trap for another prize, a bigger prize…

Bonus subclass: You could honestly make a good argument for Circle of the Shepherd or Circle of the Land, although Circle of the Moon is pretty great for more combat-focused war guys druids.

Warlock!Saccharina’s life is still a tragedy, because magic was only the most obvious thing that the nuns tried to beat out of her.  Warlock!Saccharina is not born with lightning in her fingers and a storm in her heart, but she is born with a strength and a will that the nuns despise.  In this world, Saccharina looks in the window, in the mirror, and she still sees a blue woman, a kind woman with a kind face, reaching out to her, comforting her when the nuns mistreat her, telling her wondrous stories and magical secrets.  In this world, the Rocks sisters, held in a false afterlife, stage a jailbreak.  Rococoa raises herself back to the living, cold with vengeance against the man who murdered her.  Citrina hitches up her skirts and hikes off to Vegetania, prepared to visit as many dreams and instigate as many supernatural miracles as she needs in order to reform the Church.  Sapphria laughs and winks and goes off to do something mysterious and terribly complex and probably very clever.  And Lazuli?  Lazuli goes to find her eldest niece, and to help her do something about the frankly terrible situation she’s in.  She is no spirit of the dead that a small exorcism by a provincial abbess can banish, but something new, something more.  And when Saccharina finally drowns the monastery, a grim smile on her face, it is with eyes and fingers that glow a brilliant, sharp blue.

Bonus subclass: Either Great Old One or Celestial, depending on how Lazuli fights her way back to the waking world.  Reaching out to the mortal world from the afterlife?  Probably Celestial.  Something strange and mysterious that’s never happened before in all of creation, and isn’t entirely comprehensible even to her?  Great Old One.

Barbarian!Jet grows up with so much rage inside her, but a rage for others, a fire for others.  It’s a rage that goes bone-deep, born of so much love and fear, because Jet Rocks may be sheltered and immature and naive, but one thing she does know, one of the earliest things she knows, is that the world is dangerous for people like Ruby, people like Pops, the world does not like people like Ruby and Pops, and as young as she is, she’s already heard how people whisper and seen how they point at Pops when his back is turned.  And if they found out about Ruby-  It’s a different rage that drives Barbarian!Jet, not a mindless battle frenzy, but love sharpened to the keenest focus, to protect, to guard.  In this world, and in every world, Jet Rocks loves her sister above all else, and will do anything to make sure she is safe.  Her parents worry, of course.  Caramelinda looks into her daughter’s eyes, sees hard steel and the heart of sacrifice, and she weeps when she looks into the mirror and sees the same, this is not the life she wanted for her.  Amethar understands.  He knows.  He knew the minute his daughters were placed into his arms for the first time, and the instinct to protect something so precious, precious beyond measure.  He just didn’t want his daughter to understand as well, not so soon, not so young.

Bonus subclass: Path of the Ancestral Guardian, I think, because Jet’s rage is rooted in and for her family.  Also, imagine the confusion and the angst the first time Jet summons past ancestors to fight with her in battle, and none of them include her aunts because they’re too busy raising hell elsewhere.

Bard!Ruby tumbles out of the cradle with a cheerful tongue and a clever mind, and Amethar has to stop himself from calling after Sapphria, because Ruby is so much like her, so nimble on her feet, so clever with her words.  But it’s Caramelinda that sees it first, how Ruby’s leaps and cartwheels hang just a little too long in the air, how Jet brightens and sharpens too fast after just a word from her.  And it’s Theo, of course it’s Theo, who catches Ruby and Jet trying to rob the cookie jar with a spectral, definitely magic, definitely arcane hand floating in the air, where did she even learn that, he doesn’t have that spell, this is bad, this is very, very bad.  Ruby’s more careful after that, after Mom’s lecture about how dangerous it is, and Pops just standing there, looking stern, nodding along to everything that Mom’s saying, not saying a word to the contrary.  Her magic is just for Jet now, her and Jet and nobody else, and she does a very good job of pretending she doesn’t know anything else, pretending like she doesn’t feel the thrum inside of her, pretending like something isn’t singing in her blood with every leap and twirl and handstand.  

Bonus subclass: College of Valour?  It gets that combat flavouring without being as specific as College of Swords, but I’m open to suggestions.

Warlock!Liam, and he is so young, so lonely, roaming the forests around Castle Manylicks, when he finds her or maybe she finds him.  Just a sweet little fairy who knows where to find the best seeds, the ones that have a little bit of magic in them, and here’s a lonely little boy who’s so interested in what she can show him!  And then of course, this isn’t just any lonely little boy, this is the son of Duke Jawbreaker, someone royal, someone important.  I’ll be your friend, she says, coy and sweet, a nice friend, not like your brothers.  I know lots of things, secret things, magic things, that I can show you.  Come with me, do you want to see something really neat?  Her magic is almost golden, almost Bulbian, with the slightest whiff of something rich and sticky and sweet and purple, and Liam’s only glad that he has a friend now, someone who’s nice to him, who’s interested in the same things, who remembers his name and doesn’t pick on him because he likes seeds more than swords.  Lonely children don’t need to be threatened or coerced, lonely children don’t need deals with the devil.  Lonely children just need a kind voice and warm approval and someone to show them affection, and the Sugar Plum Fairy knows just how to work with that.

Bonus subclass: Gonna diverge from Lapin here and go with Archfey as the warlock/patron relationship, because Liam isn’t in a position where he has to pretend that his powers come from the Bulb, so the SPF can lean into her feyness more.

[makaylajadewrites]

Muted Blue Chapter 1

Here is the first chapter for Muted Blue. It is already up on AO3 here in its entirety, but I will also be posting the chapters here

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Summary: Homo ave sapiens was the term, wise man birds, a species on the cusp of endangerment due to trafficking on the black market. Meeting one wasn’t all that uncommon, and in truth, the only difference between humans and home ave sapiens (or avians, as they often preferred), were the feathered appendages growing from their backs.

“Hey there… I’m going to get you out of here,” Morgan said in a hushed voice, crouching down in front of the figure. Those elegant wings lowered to reveal a mop of chestnut curls and a pale face, and Morgan swore he never saw anything more beautiful. Hazel eyes peered up at him fearfully, glowing in the darkness, and had he not known any better, he would think he were in the presence of an angel.

Tws: Human trafficking, mentions of slavery/sex slavery. Nothing graphic

Word count: 9010

--

"Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

~

The elevator doors dinged upon the arrival to his destined floor, and with a certain heaviness in his step only sleepiness could cause, Derek Morgan stepped off and headed to the roundtable room. To be called in at such an hour could only mean one thing: Something important was going on and needed their immediate attention. He only wondered why this couldn’t have waited until a more reasonable hour, but clearly, criminals didn’t care about his sleep schedule. The bullpen was completely empty, and it was still dim from the night, but even through the blinds, he could see that the lights were on in the roundtable room. Begrudgingly, he entered, and saw that everyone was already inside and settled, all except Hotch and JJ who had yet to emerge from his office where they were most likely discussing the case at hand. This had to be a bad one.

“Alright everyone, please take a seat,” Hotch said just as Morgan was sitting himself down between Prentiss and Garcia, both of whom held a grim expression on their faces - Garcia’s of course more noticeable than the ever compartmentalizing Emily Prentiss. JJ obviously wasn’t going to be presenting this case, because as soon as she passed out the case files, she was sitting next to Rossi who was already examining the files with extreme interest yet with surprise, almost disbelief lingering on his wrinkled face. Morgan instantly understood why.

“Tonight, we were notified that Andi Swann’s unit has located a branch of a… human trafficking ring operating just outside of Las Vegas,” Hotch began, putting emphasis on the word ‘human’ for unknown reasons. With a click of the remote, the monitor turned on to reveal a few of the rescued victims, and immediately the team noticed that they were not human as Hotch had previously stated. Homo ave sapiens was the term, wise man birds, a human-related species on the cusp of endangerment due to trafficking on the black market. Meeting one wasn’t all that uncommon, and in truth, the only difference between humans and home ave sapiens (or avians, as they often preferred), were the feathered appendages growing from their backs. They behaved just as humans behaved, talked like them, lived like them… Yet they were discriminated against and faced many complications, residing alongside humanity.

They demanded for equal riots, and Morgan vividly remembered the Avian Riots of 1999, when he was still a novice in the FBI. Avians marched and protested across D.C., and after several isolated incidents of looting and pillaging, the national guard fired into crowds as if it were open season. In total, over eighty avians were killed that day, and from then on, the government took special interest in protecting avian rights. But it was clear that they weren’t doing enough, with incidents like this and the continued maltreatment of avians and discrimination against them.

“Oh, my god…” Garcia breathed, her eyes impossibly wide as her hand shot out to find stability on Morgan’s forearm, and he too was as surprised as she was. The rescued victims were severely malnourished, practically just skin and bones, and their wings were very crudely clipped and mangled from years of neglect and obvious abuse. Unlike humans, however, feathers danced across their chests and along their shoulders and backs, the plumage sprinkling downwards to the sprout of their wings. The only male had feathers freckling his cheeks. It was clear they once had been so beautiful, but now, these poor creatures were far from pleasant to look at. Despite himself, Morgan felt a discomfort building in his stomach, his throat clenching. It would forever baffle him to know that people thought it was alright to treat any creature like this.

“From left to right, we have Liam Donaldson, twenty-three, Jamie Frost, twenty-four, and Renee Grayson, also twenty-four,” JJ jumped in, “All have been claimed by their families and we’ve been asked for help in interviewing the victims and their families.”

“Agent Swann has reason to believe that this group is still holding more avians, though exact numbers are unknown. They bounce back and forth between several major locations, and we have been asked to assist in the raids at all three locations,” Hotch continued, clicking onto the next screen where surveillance pictures showed hooded figures congregating outside of a large van, and it was clear that these were their suspects. A mugshot of a man popped up on the screen next.

“This is Jonathon Martin, and he is in charge of this specific operation. We have yet to identify anyone else affiliated with this branch. Garcia, I want you with us for this, so grab a go-bag. Wheels up in twenty.” With that, the team rose from where they sat and dispersed to get ready for travel. Garcia looked worriedly to Morgan, and all he could do was offer a small smile in her direction, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

“Promise me we’ll get them out of there, Derek,” Garcia said in an oddly somber tone. Morgan just sighed and squeezed her shoulder as they followed suit, walking out of the room.

“We’ll get ‘em, baby. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Although, he only hoped that he could fulfill that promise, for the sake of Garcia and those innocent people.

Upon arriving in Las Vegas five hours later, they were greeted by the one and only Andi Swann, and despite the circumstances she kept a small smile on her face, remembering each and every member of Aaron’s team from previous encounters. She met them at the airstrip, shaking their hands and clearly pleased to have the best team possible helping with such a key operation — a breakthrough in one of their largest avian trafficking rings.

“Once we get to the precinct, we can use the information we have gathered so far to plan our infiltration,” Swann said as they piled into the SUVs made available for them, and soon, they were on their way. The precinct was just as any other; alpha males all around, a conference room made available with three boards filled with information, including that which pertained to their suspected leader and the few victims that had been saved. A map was pinned up on one, with three separate locations circled, all within a twenty mile radius of one another. In one of the interview rooms, a pretty robin was perched in a chair, her legs bouncing nervously while she looked around constantly, clearly paranoid. Avians were often distrusting of authority figures after the riots, and it was clear that this one was no different.

“We’ve brought in Macy Donaldson, Liam Donaldson’s sister. Apparently, she hasn’t seen her brother in over two years, and we wanted your help in preparing her to see him again,” Swann continued on, and Hotch nodded, glancing in Prentiss's direction who instantly nodded and separated from the group to talk to the robin. Morgan crossed his arms over his chest, approaching one of the boards and looking over pictures of the victims, their before and after pictures a true vision of despair. They all had been incredibly beautiful before their disappearances, and now that they were found, they looked like they had been treated as livestock. He had met avians over his lifetime, never really anything more than a brief interaction here or there because of his work as a police officer and eventually an agent.

“We’ve been tracking their movements for the past three months. We want to infiltrate tonight, before they change locations again,” Swann informed, and Hotch seemed a bit taken aback by this revelation. But, if it was possible to save these poor people before they were sold off, then they had no choice but to intervene. Morgan let his eyes linger over another victim, Victoria Pruest, and he felt his heart break at the sight of her mangled wings. How terrible it was, to be given wings yet have the glory of flying stripped away.

“Then we infiltrate tonight,” Morgan said quietly, turning to look at Swann and Hotch with a sharpened look in his dark eyes, “to keep these people from suffering any longer.”

~

The night came sooner than expected. Outside of a seemingly abandoned factory, the team grouped with SWAT, instructing them of their tactics and strategy. A soft entry was best, since they didn’t want to risk the lives of any avians or have them caught in the crossfire. They were already weakened as it was, so most of them probably wouldn’t survive any harm that came their way. With Morgan taking point, SWAT and the rest of the BAU followed behind and split into three different groups to cover the dark facility. Flashlight beams flickered across the walls, and soon, gunfire was exchanged between them and the workers of the trafficking ring. The ringleader was nowhere to be found, and they soon realized that he must have evaded as soon as he heard the gunfire. They continued to comb the facility for the remaining avians, despite the fact that he had gotten away, because lives still needed to be saved.

“Guys, in here!” Prentiss called for them, and immediately they followed her into a cramped corridor, a total of four cells with bars from floor to ceiling on either side. A chorus of gasps greeted their entry, avian eyes shining through the darkness as wings fluttered and hands grasped at cold bars. After all, it was the middle of January, and most of these poor people had less than scraps on their bodies if not completely naked. A key from the office-like room was passed into them and the cell doors were opened up. Three of the four cells had two or three avians inside, and JJ, Prentiss, and Rossi handled those. But the cell that Morgan was left with only had one individual inside. The avian was balled up in the corner with mangled, owlish wings curling around themselves protectively. The sound of their rapid breathing was somewhat concerning, yet also relieving since it reminded Morgan that they were thankfully alive.

As Morgan slowly approached, he was careful to take light steps, but his approach was enough to elicit a gasp from the avian. He stopped in his place, lowering himself down to a crouch so as to avoid intimidating the abused creature, and he slid his gun back to its rightful place in the holster on his hip.

“Hey there… I’m going to get you out of here,” Morgan said in a hushed voice, wanting to reach forward and touch the avian but he resisted since that could come with dire consequences. Those elegant wings lowered at the sound of his voice to reveal a mop of chestnut curls and a thin, pale face, and Morgan swore he never saw anything more beautiful. Hazel eyes peered up at him fearfully, glowing in the darkness, and had he not known any better, he would think he were in the presence of an angel. Pale feathers sprouted across his cheeks up into his hairline, and along his bare chest and over his shoulders, down to the curve of his neglected wings.

“That’s it, Pretty Boy… I’m here to help,” Derek continued on as those wings slowly lowered further, and as soon as he realized that the boy was naked, he pulled off his FBI jacket and draped it over the boy’s front. The avian instantly clutched to it with shaking hands, his slender fingers burying themselves in the warm fabric.

“I can go home?…” the boy whispered his question, his eyes watering like fountains as tears fell down his face. His hands trembled horribly, lips parting as he searched for more to say, and as much as Derek wanted to just hold him in his arms and never let him go, he resisted the urge to touch him still and continued on as if he were any other victim. But despite himself, Morgan knew this boy was different, and the way his heart throbbed in his chest was a reminder of that fact.

“My name is Derek, and I’m with the FBI,” Morgan gently said to him, “What’s your name?”

“M-My name?… Sp-Spencer. Spencer Reid,” the avian said in response, sitting up slowly on his knees. Morgan realized this boy probably hadn’t been called by his name in years, and again, his chest seemed to tighten up.

“Can you stand on your own, Spencer?”

“I-I don’t… I don’t know. I can try,” Spencer mumbled weakly, and while one hand kept the jacket clutched to his body, he slowly rose to wobbly knees. He only lasted a few seconds, and as he began to crumble, Derek gathered him in his arms. Hoisting him up carefully against his chest, one arm under his long legs while the other held him up under his upper torso, just below his wings. Spencer looked up at him with such wonder in his eyes, the tear tracks still evident on his dirtied face. Even covered in dirt and grime, he still looked like the image of perfection, an angel fit only for the prettiest of skies.

Morgan needed to get his head out of the clouds and focus.

He carried him out of that wretched cell, and swore to himself that he would never let Spencer wind up like that again. The boy seemed breathless from the sudden movements, and an expression of such trust lingered on his face. One hand remained over the FBI jacket, and the other clutched to the front of Derek’s long sleeve shirt. As he was brought out of the facility and into the open air, a soft whimper passed the boy’s cracked lips.

Derek looked down, alarmed and worried he had inadvertently hurt him, but the moment he saw tears trekking down his feathered cheeks once more, he realized why. Spencer’s eyes were caught on the starry night sky above, the moon reflecting in his dark pupils. It had probably been years since the boy saw the living world, and he was filled with such an immense amount of grief for the life Spencer had lost. He had experienced such a tragedy, and although he didn’t know for sure how long Spencer had been enmeshed in the trafficking ring, he knew that he would never be the same person he was before all of this. But then again could anybody, regardless of species?

EMTs began to gather the avians by having them lay on gurneys and pushed into the backs of ambulances, and Derek looked down as Spencer became more aware of the situation. Spencer looked scared, and his eyes fell from the sky to instead focus on the couple of people approaching them with a gurney rolling along between them.

“Derek?...” He whispered in confusion as he was laid down on it, his hands continuing to clutch to that jacket, his knuckles white from his death grip. His breathing was erratic again, and Derek felt himself crumble just a little bit on the inside. Spencer had already imprinted himself onto Morgan and viewed him as a savior — how good of a person would he be to leave the avian all alone as he had been before?

“These people are going to bring you to a hospital where they can help you, Spencer,” Derek said as if that would make him feel better, but Spencer was clearly having none of that. He was abused, not stupid, and Derek needed to remember that in the future. Spencer desperately shook his head, while a flutter of protests erupted from him in the form of sobs as the EMTs began to roll the gurney back towards an ambulance An EMT attempted to slip a blood pressure cuff around his arm on the way, but Spencer shrieked as if in pain and jerked away violently. His wings fluttered, the sheets ruffling up under him, and it pained Morgan to see this poor creature acting on pure instinct alone, as if his wings could really carry him in their decrepit state.

“No, Derek, please don’t leave me…!” He cried out in a shrill voice that pierced through Morgan’s very being, reaching a hand out towards the other man. Derek was by his side in an instant, his hands grasping onto Spencer’s smaller, bonier one. The EMTs stopped just outside of the ambulance, hoping that Morgan could get the poor boy to calm down.

“Calm down, Pretty Boy, I’ll be right here, okay?” He cooed softly, and Spencer whimpered once more, a coo of his own humming in his throat. Avians weren’t necessarily animalistic in nature, but like humans, they had noises they used to soothe themselves or each other. Like whispering or humming, avians had chirping, singing, cooing. It was all instinctual, really. An avian mother would coo to her baby, or avians would greet each other with happy chirps in the mornings, just as humans would do. Derek only wished he could understand more of how Spencer was feeling, to help him get through this smoothly.

“Don’t leave me,” Spencer repeated firmly, and Derek hated how tears seemed to be a constant presence on his face. He reached a hand up, his thumb gently swiping under his eye, being careful of the feathers tracing over his high cheekbones.

“I won’t,” Morgan said instantly. He rode in the back of the ambulance due to Spencer’s insistence, but when the EMTs began to administer tests and take his vitals, Spencer was clearly uncomfortable. However, it wasn’t until they attempted to draw blood that Spencer began to freak out and panic. His limbs flailed and his wings flapped wildly, his hand even striking an EMT across the face. When it was apparent that not even Derek was going to calm him down from this, they sedated him, and soon enough, he was fast asleep. Derek looked at the creature with such pity, his chest tight. He didn’t know who Spencer had been before this, but he could only hope that he could grow past this horrific experience.

At the hospital, Derek eventually met up with the rest of his team where they gathered in the waiting room. All of the rescued avians were eventually identified, either of their own doing or through Garcia’s research. Loved ones were contacted and several were quick to arrive while others had to travel to get there. But when he realized that Spencer had no one capable of seeing him, Morgan soon returned to Spencer’s room, wanting to be there when the young man woke up so that he wasn’t alone anymore. He felt such a desire to keep the other safe from danger, to protect him from all harm with ever fiber of his being.

“Tell me about Spencer, Mama,” Morgan said into the phone from where he sat next to Spencer’s hospital bed, his foot tapping on the ground as he leaned forward over his legs, his elbows perched on his knees. Garcia hummed idly to let him know she heard him, and after a bit of rapid typing, she responded.

“Doctor Spencer Reid, a twenty-one year old barn owl avian and Las Vegas native. He was reported missing by his coworkers at Caltech where he worked as a teacher’s assistant… Wow, he is one smart cookie. He has PhDs in math, chemistry, and engineering as well as BAs in psychology and sociology, all obtained before he turned twenty. He was working on his BA in philosophy before he disappeared. Oh my… He applied to the academy, as in the FBI academy, and was given special permission to join the bureau before he turned twenty-two,” she supplied, and Morgan looked upon Spencer in a new light. This beautiful creature was a genius if ever one existed, and he wanted to be an agent. With his intelligence, that certainly wouldn’t be difficult, although he wondered how he planned on passing the physical aspects of training. Perhaps he would be passed for that as well, simply because he had so much to offer. He caught sight of a lone feather on the ground, probably fallen from Spencer’s resistance towards the staff. With tentative fingers, he picked it up.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Morgan repeated quietly, thoughtfully, holding the plume by the stem and letting his eyes take in the sheer beauty of just one of Spencer’s feathers. It was like touching a piece of an angel, and when his eyes rose to see Spencer once more, he realized that could be the only explanation.

Oh, how he longed to see that angel fly again.

~

Chapter 2->

[courtorderedcake]

The Grimm of the Vales

I wrote this, well, part of this, as a possible CSSNS but disliked it due to how close I felt the main themes were to @bleebug 's original piece. I scrapped it but kept coming back to it and random bits of lore. Do you know how robins and sparrows make their nests? They take bits of everything they can carry, bigger pieces first, then put them together, weaving in softer bits of fuzz, feather, and other soft little scraps until the hodgepodge becomes a home. The lore and scenery in this are like that. It is loosely, and I mean veeeery loosely based on all sorts of lore, history and legend : From the bride's betrayal and subsequent murder or suicide, be it by poison, dagger, sword or fall (intentionally or pushed) in the man tragic tales of royalty in the UK, to the various incarnations of the Grimm, to the Fae, to the spirits of death, doom and judgement of all cultures, to the grace rites of the Pagans, Gaul, Celts and early Christian invaders. Please let your imagination run wild through misty morning gravestones, and enjoy. This is for @bleekay and @let-it-raines, who is delightfully subtle.  Rated M for death, macabre themes, mentions of sex, and violence/gore.

You can read it HERE on AO3. 

It's his fault, it's his fault and this is his penance, the greatest torture in the world to watch her as she walks, mixed with the greatest ecstasy; his vow held for an eternity on the edge of a sword.

He can still see the sword, still hear the crunch of ribs and wet sounds of his punctured lung and who knows what else. He can taste his veins in his mouth and feel them emptying out onto cobblestone floor.

It's his fault, a burden he should carry, and will carry. It's a heavy yoke of iron and guilt and blood and tears, but it replays over in his mind as he trots behind her, the uneasy alliance between them as constant as her footfalls under her stained hem.

He can still see her, still hear her, can smell the lilacs in the vase on her vanity and taste the happiness on her lips curling into a smile. He can still see her eyes widen as the oak door shatters, hear her screaming, crying, pleading, begging for them to be given safe passage before realizing that they are the last in a trail of people celebrating what would have been a new beginning, their happy ending now and forever a tragic warning.

His hand grips the hilt of his sword, and metal strikes metal as he pushes her back, he can hear her simple gown rub against stone wall, hears the muslin fabric catch roughly against it when she flattens her body.

The memory has faded in places, certain parts lost where others are vibrant, but that may be times inevitable wear or just the magic that tethers them giving the smallest reprieve. He can no longer remember what the taunt is, but he can remember the rage, and the momentary flash of crimson that causes him to lose his hand. She cries for him but he pushes her back, rushing forward with his other hand in desperation.

His attacker runs him through, and he can only watch as his killer approaches his bride in deliberate, slow, predatory steps.

She's beautiful, even through the fear and rage and hatred and agony. He loves her more than anything, more than the gold, the lordship, the privilege the man who will be his murderer wants. He loves her for her wit, the way she laughs, her scrunched face when he helps her catch toads or bait a hook for fishing, and he loves the way she says his name under the night sky when they coupled in a glade together.

He loves the way she bites her lip now, looking at him with the saddest face she's ever worn in his presence. This man will never worship her, but she will live, and see the dawn another day. There is peace beginning in the slowing beat of his heart, and the harder pulls he needs to breathe.

But, it's his fault.

It's his fault she broke off her betrothal.

It's his fault she accepted his proposal, a low man with no title and no land to speak of.

It's his fault her parents and their clan waged war; a war that now has the earth and floors of their Barrens drinking their lives.

It's his fault that she smiles at him, radiantly, and instead of letting herself ride away with a man she swore on the old Gods, the will-O-wisps that glow and beckon in the bogs, the bird song that wakes them from their dalliances, on his tongue against her skin and his name sang in air stolen from the star strewn heavens she would never marry.

It's his fault that her wedding dress and mother's hand stitched veil stream behind her when she throws herself from the tower, giving herself into the night.

It's his fault because he is screaming and so is the one to whom she was betrothed, and he can't hear the last movements of her lips, her last words goodbye as he pulls his body to the edge with his dying gasps.

It's his fault she lies below him, the white of her dress spread like wings around an angel, complete with golden halo.

It's his fault that her eyes are wide, staring, emeralds in contrast to the dark seeping spread that stains her.

It's his fault that his last words are her name, and they are drowned out by the laughter of the conqueror of their lands.

“Emma.”

He wakes, cold and shivering, wet dirt clinging to his body. It isn't quite mud yet, frost heavy in the air. He's naked, skin the color of the overcast sky above. There's a heavy fog laying on the ground that swirls almost up to his thigh, obscuring where he is. He hears the sound of scraping, walking towards it as the mist roils.

A man in a peasant shift digs a grave, stone shaped crosses of the new God laid out in crooked lines as he whistles a merry tune. The wind clears some of his surroundings, trees bare and a sprinkling of snow on the ground and gravestones, more blowing off the belfry of the tall steepled church that stands in the foreground. The bell rings from the wind, and the grave digger pauses to wipe his brow, before grunting and dropping a body in the shallow parcel with a grunt.

“Ay, don letye ‘self work ta hard now. These lot ‘n nuthin but ‘tem godless pagans from the Vale ‘a Starry Brach. Ain't worth ‘ta dirt ye be trowin’ on ‘tem.” A man calls in robes from the church. His beady eyes survey the stones. “Woulden wont ‘me honest folk of ‘t true lord ‘t rest next ‘ta ‘tem.”

“Aye, but ‘t wans I be dropping, ‘tay aren't bein’ ‘t common folk. Royalty, these lot. Lord Gold an’ his son ‘ad ‘em baptized at ‘t weddin’, before ‘t madman spilt all ‘av ‘tems blood. Last of ‘t clan Jones. ‘N orphan ‘t Nolans of Vale Starry Brach took ‘en as ken. Lookit ‘ow ‘e repaid ‘em. Shame. Youngun’ Gold mighten be filt’ wit’ a cruel streak…”

“Didya at least bury ‘t Grimm?” The robed man asked.

“Course I did. Can't ‘ave ‘em all going wiffout judgment by ‘t Lord.” The grave digger spat, and pointed to a plot far to the edge of the grounds. Beyond that, a bonfire burned bright in the woods, the smell of meat cooking wafting out of the dense trees.

“An wots dat ‘en?” The robed man asked, nodding his head towards the forest.

The grave digger made a sign over his forehead. “Dat’d be ‘t common folk.”

Killian moves toward the smoke, his skin unable to feel the heat of the fire and lungs unable to feel the burn of the smoke in his eyes. The flames are bright orange, burning high and sending ash into the still air like snow. When he looks down, he sees it and knows why he is here, his chest numb with no heartbeat to speak of.

Unburning in the fire, his family's crest is glowing red on the bronze of the ring, his hand it once graced blackened to charcoal.

There's the sound of scraping again from this yard of bones, what Emma had laughingly called a skull orchard, scoffing at the invaders and their piety over a wineskin. The monuments of their people were much more beautiful - mounds, giant rocks or cairns, beautifully decorated mosaics that graced vaults to honor the strongest warriors or wisest teachers. The sun, moon, stars, and breeze all calculated to capture shadow or light in ways that told time and held great meaning.

To be called barbaric set her teeth on edge. The old magics were strong, she would proclaim. She was right, even now their stories, culture, superstition and ritual leaked into the newcomers like the snow streams from up the mountain. They had buried a black dog, a Grimm, in hopes that it would shepherd the wicked to their version of the afterlife. The spirits of the dead were many, but the black beast of death with its eyes of fire was a favorite story to frighten wee children. Emma loved dogs, frequently slipping her favorite hounds bones from the table to their delight.

Killian had been cheered by her when he was brought to despair over his family's passing. She said that the Grimm in their woods was the largest of them, and fueled by the many burial sites of their ancestors. Even if his family's bones were not resting in their cairn, the Grimm would scare them for they were not wicked. Liam would most likely scratch its ear and send it to destroy the invaders.

It brought his heart joy to think of Liam wrestling a great black dog as his spirit hunted in the forest for all times.

The night came at last, and Killian felt sensation in his cold limbs, unpleasant and electric. It felt as if he was in the cold of a spring fed pond, while being gnawed on by angry rats. He fell to his knees, his bones cracking and searing heat licking along each muscle and tendon, pulling taut and stretching thin. A howl left his throat, unnatural and wild, and then there was blessed darkness.

He woke with difficulty, dreaming of chasing his beloved through a garden of flowers, their beauty never comparable to her own. He woke to fall into a waking nightmare.

He was no longer in the graveyard. Another graveyard, yes, but it was Summer now, his eyes blinded by the sun as it blazed down on grass, moths dancing over interspersed wildflowers. A willow tree swayed lazily, as if dancing. He was kneeling in rest, eyes barely over the top of the green shoots, when movement caught his attention. Emma stood frozen, watching him in what appeared to be terror. He tried to call out, but the cold had affected his voice, a rasped bark all he could manage as he stood -

He stood on four legs. Well. Four legs, and three feet.

She shrieked, trying to run, but his movement and size blocked her escape easily, surprising even himself. He could feel muscle in his shoulders and what he now recognized as haunches as he turned to look at the curse on his form. Black fur covered him completely, including the long straw brush like tail that was raised above him in shock. Paws with long nails dug into the warm dirt, pads rough against the sun kissed grass.

He swallowed hard, and tried to speak once more, with no success but a growl. Emma closed her eyes tightly, covering her face.

He was a Grimm, huge, larger than even the great heavy hoofed work horses they used to till the fields. He towered over Emma, and his tongue probed his canine teeth, as long as what had once been his forearm. His paws alone were the size of a serving platter in the feasting hall. 

The noise of a woman's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see an older woman looking at them both with vague annoyance.

“Excuse me, Dear Death and her Grimm, but may ye judge my soul and let me be free yet of this place?”

Emma peeked open an eye, and looked between the woman and his massive form. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, looked at both of them again and then spoke.

Her voice was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard, more so now that he could hear the full tones of it.

“Excuse me, but, what now?”

“Ye be Death, are ye not? The pale rider all in white? Judges souls with her Hell Hound, who may whisk those who be wicked off to hell?” The old woman looked cautious now, eyes narrowed. “If be ye Fae, be of keen mind, my grave is salted and I am warded against your tricks by the love of his chosen son, sent to free us from sin-”

“Stop. Please.” Emma held out a hand, pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. “I am definitely not Fae, but I don't think I'm Death, that seems -”

“Well, take me hand, and we'll see if it is so. Be ye not Fae, and be ye with this manner of… Er… Beast,” Killian growled, and Emma laid a hand into the thick fur of his shoulder, carefully. He looked down at her, and she tentatively looked up at him, with the beginning of an amused smile. “Let us keen wot ye be.”

Killian felt himself exhale as Emma lifted her hand from him, watching her anxiously as she approached the woman. Laying her gnarled palm in Emma's hands, there was a beat as nothing happened. As Emma bit her lip, there was a sudden great burst of golden light from her hands and chest, a burst of wind making the grass and leaves of the willow stir in the ripple of the gust.

When the light cleared, a young woman stood before Emma, eyes closed and smile serene. A door appeared made out of the same golden light, and Killian watched in wonder as the woman turned, stepping through.

“Well, love. I'd say ye be Death alright.” The woman called from the door, turning to Emma. “Good luck to ye, and ta the both of ye. I hope you find the way to truth.”Emma swallowed hard, the light from the door framing her silhouette before it closed and disappeared with the woman inside.

“What. the. Fuck.” Emma said, falling back and sitting stunned in the grass. Killian made his way over and settled his large body around her, nosing his snout under her arm. Emma scratched absently, and his tail wagged, much to his annoyance. “I guess… This is a thing.” she sighed, leaning back further. “I wish… I wish Killian was here.”

She sighed again and he whined, looking at her and begging her to recognize him. She looked into his eyes, searching them. With a smile, she scratched his head and he felt his tail wag excitedly.

“I guess this isn't terrible. I do like dogs. What do you say, you help me find my Killian? We were supposed to be married but I can't seem to remember why I'm here or where here is or where he is. I'm sure a Grimm could help.” Her green eyes reflected the ice blue flames that burned in his, fire flickering outwards. “What do you say, boy?”

Killian felt his heart go as cold as the icy grounds he knew she had been buried in. Nuzzling into her softly, and cherishing the sound of her laugh, he gave a slight bark.

It was his fault. He'd follow her forever, for all time, in this life and the next...

He just hadn't said as human.

[red-5]

You and Me, Hale.

A story idea I’ve been playing around with featuring an OC heavily inspired by the sweet lil’ pibble Bucky Barnes. 

Summary: Derek discovers that, after believing her to be dead for almost a decade, his best childhood friend is alive. But she isn’t the girl he remembers. 

Pairings: Derek x OC

Derek grimaced in agitation as his cell buzzed in his pocket, nearly groaning at the name that flashed across his caller I.D.

“What, Stiles.”

“Heyyy Derek, look man you really need to get back to the loft.”

He lifted the microphone away from his mouth long enough to let out an irritated sigh.

“Like I said, we’ll all meet up in the morning-“

“No, Derek, look, we have a bit of a situation-“

“Peter and I have a lead, we’re on our way-“

“Derek, this is really something that I think only you’re equipped to handle-“

“We’ll see you all in the morning, just go home Stiles-”

“It’s Shara!”

In that moment, Derek wished he had just let Peter drive as he fumbled to right the vehicle back in his own lane.

“She’s there?”

“Yeah, we got back from searching the hospital to regroup and she was just…here.”

“Is she okay?”

“Well, that would depend on your definition of okay.”

He was sure Stiles could hear his eyeroll.

“Is she hurt?”

“…no?”

“Just, we’re on our way.”

He ended the call before the spaz on the other end of the line had another chance to speak, slamming his foot on the break and simultaneously twisting the steering wheel. Tires screeching, the engine roared and protested as he pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

“I understand she’s your friend, but we’re no use to her dead.”

Derek hardly registered Peter’s words, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as the street lamps flew by.

Derek’s booted feet thundered up the steps. He had hardly even taken the time to lock the car, flinging the front door of the building open and barreling in. Peter’s iron grip closed around his upper arm as they reached the door to the loft, spinning him around to face him.

“Now are you really sure you want to just charge on in there?”

Derek looked from the fist closed around his bicep to his uncle’s face, rage boiling in his chest.

“Don’t give me that, you go way back, I get it, but you don’t exactly know what you’re walking into here.”

Derek shook him off, holding his stare.

“I know she needs me.”

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. We don’t know what they did to her, what they turned her into. You think you’d be the first werewolf she’s ripped to shreds?”

Just when he thought Peter couldn’t give him another reason to hate him.

“She’s family. Something I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He didn’t wait to see the hurt flash in Peter’s eyes, knowing it wouldn’t be there, instead turning to wrench the door to the loft open with a loud screech. Scott and Stiles looked over to him instantly, though he didn’t need to see their eyes to sense their anxiety. The whole loft was ripe with it. Stiles’ eyes darted to the dark corner below the large window, Derek following his gaze to the figure huddling in the shadow. Scott stood closest to her, leaning over slightly to mumble quietly, Stiles a few feet behind.

“See? Derek’s here”

“Shara?” He called to her softly. Taking a hesitant step forward, he ignored Liam’s vicious head shake as Scott dragged Stiles out of the way to join him where he and Isaac hovered by the couch.

He startled when her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, unnerved by the intensity behind her glowing blue eyes. Peter’s words rang in his head.

“We don’t know what they did to her.”

He shook his head, moving slowly to crouch beside her as if he were approaching a wounded, feral animal.

“Shara?” He whispered, eyes taking in her tattered appearance easily despite the dark.

Her cloth pants and tank top were torn and dirty, mud caked along the scarred expanse of her arms.  There were dozens more underneath, visible only to those with sight. The remnants of deep, cutting wounds created by specialized blades and whips laced with weaponized wolfsbane. Rage and hatred rose in his throat like bile. They had used it to ‘hurt her in every way imaginable, using their knowledge of wolfsbane poisoning to keep her suspended in a dissociative state, cutting at her flesh, and stripping away layers of her mind only to rebuild it, piece by piece, swimming in pain and torment.

Her eyes studied his face. No longer the eyes of his oldest friend, the girl he would catch fireflies and look for shapes in the clouds with. The life was gone, the laughter was gone. They were the eyes of a predator, cold and calculating. A whisper of recognition flared there, breaking through the ice as their familiar caramel color peeked through.

“Derek?” Her voice was soft, a whisper muffled by the titanium muzzle strapped over the lower half of her face.

What was left of his heart shattered. He had wanted to destroy the infernal thing, thankful they had to cut through the collar they of her fixed her with and leave it behind. It was never meant to be removed, especially by contractors. The thick, angry red band across her neck was a constant reminder. She clung to the mask as if it were her lifeline. She never told him why she kept it, but he was sure she believed it to be the only thing that kept her from tearing his throat out when she had a bad day. He remembered the way she had begged Cora to stay away, to stay in South America where she was safe until his little sister finally relented with a promise to come visit as soon as she was well enough.

“Yeah, starshine, it’s me.” He hoped his smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Let’s take this thing off, yeah?”

She flinched violently as he raised his hand, pressing herself against the wall and watching him filled with panic. Déjà vu flooded through him. The first time she had regressed, she had yelled at him until her throat was raw for not putting her to sleep when she came back around. He couldn’t use that word, the one simple thread that tethered her to consciousness meant as a failsafe if she turned on whatever hunters had the balls and money to dance with ‘the devil.’ It felt wrong in his mouth, tasted foul and made his stomach twist.

He paused, hand frozen in mid-air as he waited for her to settle.

“Your name,” he began firmly, keeping his voice low, “is Shara Wilson. You were raised by a Druid named Atticus Bryant.” He allowed nostalgia to consume him as he continued his mantra. It was advice Melissa had given him, any memory he could get her to remember was another rope tethering her to reality. “You used to tell him you were coming over to my house to study, I’d tell my mom I was going over to yours, but instead we’d disappear into the woods behind my house for hours. We would come back at dusk, filthy and full of the wild blueberries that grew in the clearing and fail the algebra test. You taught Cora how to braid her hair and crashed every Hale family Thanksgiving of my entire childhood. You know me, you’re my best friend, you would never hurt me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, hands fisting in her hair in a desperate attempt to make the images flashing behind her eyes stop. It was too much, it was all too much, she couldn’t process the information that flooded her mind. Too much, too loud, too bright.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” she whimpered, the heels of her hands beating against her scalp.

His hands itched to stop her, but he knew better than to try to touch her like this.

“You were there for all of it. Every good thing, every bad thing, right up until-“

He stopped himself, unsure if it was the pain he still felt from the fire or desire to protect her fragile mind. He hung his head, arms dropping lamely by his side.

“Do you remember what you used to tell me? When things got really rough?” He smiled sadly. “I never forgot it.”

The silence that stretched across the open space was tense, the only noises that kept the deafening quiet from closing in completely were thundering heartbeats and shuffling feet. She lifted her head after a long moment, staring off at something unseen. If he wasn’t a werewolf, he wouldn’t have heard her next words.

“You and me, Hale.”

His eyes snapped to her face, meeting her eyes as she looked back at him. He didn’t recognize them fully yet, but she was there, like seeing her through frosted glass.

“Yeah.”

Her hands dropped from her face, maintaining eye contact with him as he reached forward once more. Brown eyes tracked his hand until it disappeared behind her head, fingers feeling for the clasp that held the muzzle to her face. She jumped when it released with a snap, eyes flashing blue, and he paused for a moment before pulling it away and dropping it to the floor beside him with a clatter.

“That’s better,” he whispered, turning back to her. She stared at him, eyes wide. His chest tightened as a different emotion warped her features with an intensity he had never seen.

Fear.

Tears pooled in her bloodshot eyes.

“Make it stop,” she whispered.

“I’m trying, starshine,” he whispered back, wiping her tears away with feather-light touches even though fresh ones immediately took their place. A tightly suppressed sob tore from her chest. She was too tired to fight it.

Within seconds, she was gathered in his arms, fingers curling in his shirt as her face buried in his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears through the fabric, his eyes slipping closed as his own slid down his face and dropped into her hair. His subconscious was vaguely grateful for Scott for corralling the rest of the pack out, even going so far as to flash his eyes red at a stubborn Peter. He couldn’t bring his conscious mind to concern himself with his sociopathic uncle, rubbing his hands down Shara’s back as she sobbed into his chest.

“You and me.”

[snowinabottlearchived]

headcanons

BOLD any which apply to your muse! Remember to REPOST! Feel free to add to the list! 

Tagged by: @reckless-wildfire ( thank u dear ! )  Tagging: @stcrstalk, @the-storm-within-me, @warrioroflondonbelow, @voiceiinyourhead, @silvcrlightning, @thefleetsfinest, @thedemoninsidemyheart ( should I add Liam somwhere to this list ? ),  @astrohistoria, @drdumaurier and everyone else who want’s the drill!

[ COLORS ] red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver.gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green.apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green.

[ ELEMENTS ] fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset.dewdrops.

[ BODY ] claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canines. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular.slender. trained. piercing. tattoos.strong. weak.

[ WEAPONS ] fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer.shield. poison.guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls.

[ MATERIALS ] gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur.lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

[ NATURE ] grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. Sunflowers. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow.forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. Rain/ thunder storms, vines

[ ANIMALS ] lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans.snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats.dogs.bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus.dragons. foxes. phoenix.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ] sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer.coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts.cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. ambrosia., pancakes, pasta,ice cream. quesadillas.twinkies.

[ HOBBIES ] music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting.singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice.motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. running, bike riding.history.baking.working.taking baths.

[ STYLE ] lingerie. armor. cape. dress. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt.sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sun glasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup, sweaters, flats. uniform.

[ MISC ] balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity.sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs,  messy braids, libraries so big they make you feel small. hanging plants, sunhats, mix match earrings, stained glass windows, old suitcases, tea stained cups, long hugs. long bike rides, worn books, shooting stars and full moons, picnic, midday naps, hands covered in flour. candybars. perfume.

[alivingfire]

For the fic name thingy: A Drop Of Liquid Sunshine

okay i’m gonna try and get back into doing these, so if you’re new (hello!), these are synopses of fics that i would write based on the titles people sent to me. and with this one, literally the only thing i can think of is felix felicis, so this could only really be a harry potter au. 

so. harry’s a sixth year ravenclaw hell bent on creating potions to cure – not just ease – muggle diseases and cancers. he’s muggleborn, and the moment he learned about magic and found out that he had that power in him, he wondered why everyone didn’t just, y’know, use it to help others. he gets the whole statute of secrecy thing (because he read the whole thing as an eleven-year-old), but he doesn’t understand how anyone could see the suffering of others (magic or muggle or anything in between) and be okay with it. 

he’s been locked out of the common room for arguing with the door knocker about her logic again (she said that the answer to “what flies without wings?” was time which, yeah, harry gets that, but also he learned a spell in his very first charms class ever that proves that clever bit of wordplay wrong so, because wingardium leviosa is a thing that exists, everything has the potential to fly without wings and if she can’t accept that then fine) and so he’s down in the library, compiling texts from the restricted section about early wizard-muggle relations before the statute of secrecy was adopted. he opens the first one, sees a graphic illustration of a witch being burned at the stake, flips to another page and sees a muggle being burned at the stake instead, and closes it, realizing why the books were there in the restricted section in the first place. 

for a while, he just sits there, his head against the pile of deeply disturbing books, considering going back up to the tower and apologizing to the door knocker. it’s not her fault he was in a bad mood, he’s just stalled on the progress of his potion to cure heart disease and can’t move forward until he figures out how his latest attempt reacts to niffler hair, which just went on the ministry’s restricted materials list and is now impossible to get ahold of. 

suddenly, someone takes a seat across from him. 

“hi,” says the someone. he props his feet up next to harry’s pile of books. “you look a bit distressed there, mate. thought i could help.” 

harry looks up, and his heart beats weirdly against his ribs. louis tomlinson, seventh year, slytherin. eyes that look like the frost on the great lake in the winter, a grin that looks like snow on the castle turrets. harry swallows. 

“not distressed, no,” he replies. “stuck.” 

“stuck on what?” 

“niffler hair.” 

“well,” says tomlinson, the corners of his mouth twitching downward as if to say, yeah, that’s a bit shit. “sorry to hear that.” 

harry assumes he’s taking the piss; most people like harry, and he has more friends than he knows what to do with sometimes, but they don’t really get his potions… thing. or, at least, the non-ravenclaws don’t get it. the ravenclaws understand hyper-focusing on one specific interest, but they don’t understand the fascination with helping muggles. so, basically, harry doesn’t talk about his potions issues much, and he assumes this is another one of those times he’ll politely end the conversation before it starts. 

“thank you,” he says, though, because he’s polite. he stands and starts to gather the books full of burning people to stack them back on the shelf. 

“it’s a class IV non-tradable now, isn’t it?” tomlinson says, and harry lays the books back down. “what with nifflers being endangered.” 

“yeah,” harry says, slightly agog. “yeah, that’s- that’s my issue.” 

tomlinson hums. “that is a tough one.” he scratches a hand through shiny-messy hair. “can get it for you, though. if you’d like.” 

harry sits, his legs gone to jelly. “you can?” 

tomlinson’s grin turns sharp. “sure.” then, “for something in return.” 

so they strike a deal; tomlinson bet his friend (fellow slytherin niall horan, chaser for the quidditch team, all around Everyone’s Best Friend and future hogwarts gamekeeper) that he could successfully brew liquid luck before tomlinson’s birthday in december. unfortunately… 

“potions is, sort of, well…” tomlinson trails off. “a weak spot, you could say.” 

“a weak spot,” harry repeats. 

“yeah, mate. i’m training to be a wandmaker, i’m not even in NEWT-level potions. can barely brew a sleeping draught, let alone felix felicis,” tomlinson admits. 

“but you bet that you could make one of the hardest potions possible,” harry says blankly. “even though you aren’t good at potions.” 

tomlinson grins embarrassedly. “right, well. that’s why i have you, yeah? i asked around, and everyone said you were the best.” 

harry flushes. “well. yeah, sorta.” 

tomlinson claps his hands together, and is immediately shushed by madame pince. he doesn’t seem to notice. “excellent.” 

so it’s a deal: harry will help him make his liquid luck, and louis will get him his niffler hair. they shake hands, and make plans to meet up in the potions dungeon the following night. 

“wait, tomlinson,” harry calls in a whisper before tomlinson leaves. 

“call me louis,” he grins, then nods for harry to go on. harry’s heart thumps like a hiccup got stuck in his throat, painful and sharp. 

“louis,” harry tries out. “what do you need felix felicis for?” 

louis just grins wider, nods again, and walks away. 

so they start. they spend a week gathering ingredients and setting up in the dungeon, in the corner where harry usually leaves his long-term potions brewing. they juice squill bulbs and chop up thyme, measure exact perfect portions to store away in case they have to start over and try again. they spend the first hogsmeade weekend together a few weeks after that, shopping for occamy eggs and grabbing a drink at the three broomsticks to celebrate when they find some. 

their first attempt goes horribly, terribly wrong, with far too much horseradish making the mixture curdle up and smoke. louis, who’d been the one heavy-handed with the horseradish in the first place, smiles apologetically and clears the cauldron with a flick of his wrist. 

“sorry,” he says bashfully. “like i said, rubbish at potions.” 

“right,” harry says. “well. time to start over, i suppose.” 

so they do. the second attempt goes better; harry’s hand shakes as he squeezes out just a drop of squill bulb juice, but then a drop of his sweat rolls off his nose and into the cauldron, ruining that attempt too. by then it’s october, and he and louis are no closer to a finished batch of felix. 

so they’ll try once more. 

it’s a long process, if only because they run out of occamy eggs after the second attempt and miranda at Herbs and Tinctures in hogsmeade was told they’d been backordered and it would be a few weeks before they got more. so, instead, harry goes back to work on his own potion; or, more accurately, to stare at his unfinished potion which is also very much stalled. louis thinks it’s funny to sit and watch harry gaze forlornly into his two cauldrons of unfinished potion, so he starts to bring his homework down into the dungeon to make up for all the time he and harry spend together. sometimes louis’ friend niall joins them, his exuberance filling the dungeon, and sometimes harry’s friend liam, a gryffindor prefect who is terrified harry will blow himself up with a bad potion one day, checks in from time to time as well, but mostly it’s just harry and louis left to their own devices. 

suddenly, it’s november and they haven’t worked on a potion (either one) in weeks, but it’s okay. louis asks all sorts of questions about harry’s potions and their uses – “wait, muggles can get sick from what? and you fixed it? how?” – and is in awe at harry’s latest attempt. 

“’m pureblood, meself,” he says. “can’t imagine getting sick and healers – no, wait, what do muggles call them? doc-something. doctors! – saying that there might be no way for them to help.” 

“that’s what i want to fix!” harry says, and louis lets him rant about the state of muggle healthcare for hours, until his stomach growls loudly and he asks harry to accompany him to dinner, where he snags a seat next to harry at the ravenclaw table, takes a bite of pasty, and gestures for harry to continue. 

louis gets his chance to do the same, though; harry asks him about wandmaking once and it’s like opening the floodgates – louis’ eyes are always a bit unnaturally sparkly, but when he describes the different phoenix breeds and the strengths each of their tail feathers adds to wands, it’s like seeing a new star in the sky for the first time. harry’s heart does that hiccup again, the one that feels like an impedimenta straight to the sternum. 

the occamy eggs arrive in november, less than a month before louis has to have the potion done, and they arrive at exactly the same time as – 

“you niffler hair!” louis announces grandly, bounding up to harry in the entrance hall and handing him a small vial of coarse black animal hair. 

“where did you get it?” harry gasps, clutching the vial to his chest. 

“got a mate named stan,” louis grins. “he can get anything, for anyone.” 

harry’s torn; he itches to go try his potion with the new ingredient, but he also has to uphold his end of the bargain, and finish louis’ felix felicis potion. louis, like he can read harry’s thoughts, shakes his head good-naturedly. 

“go on,” he laughs. “we can make felix any old time. i have a good feeling about our next attempt. c’mon, i want to see how your potion reacts.” 

so they escape to the dungeon, and harry painstakingly adds three tiny hairs to his mixture, then holds his breath and waits. then, just like he’d hypothesized, the potion turns from clear green to cloudy, pearlescent blue. 

“it’s done,” harry breathes, and louis claps him on the back as he takes it in, his newest creation. 

“you did it,” louis says, and harry suddenly wonders how he was able to ever create a potion before he had louis with him to celebrate at the end. 

so all that’s left is the felix felicis, but harry finds himself putting it off when louis suggests they give it a try. he knows it’s because the moment the liquid luck is done, he’ll have no excuse to see louis anymore, but he also hates disappointing louis by telling him “can’t right now, have a defense essay. next week?” 

so he finally says yes, and they start the process. ashwinder egg and horseradish, squill bib juice and murtlap algae. louis watches with bated breath over harry’s shoulder and hands over each ingredient at the perfect time, until all that’s left is the powdered rue and to do a bit of stirring. 

“you should do it,” harry says when all the ingredients are in the cauldron, bubbling away. 

louis takes out his want, waves it once, and says a shaky, “felixempra!” 

the potion, which had been clear and smelling profusely of cedar needles, goes thick and molten immediately, shiny gold and filling the room with bright light. 

“we did it!” louis whispers, then, yelling, jumps into harry’s arms. “WE DID IT!” 

they spin around for a bit, lit by the golden glow from the tiny cauldron full of luck, then harry lets louis back down to gather up his supply. it’s only a small pot, so when louis carefully fills one vial, there’s only about another two portions left. louis doesn’t stopper it, instead holding it up to eye level. 

“are you going to tell me what it’s for, now?” harry murmurs, watching louis watch the gold swirling behind the glass. 

“nah,” louis says, then lifts the vial to his lips. “i’ll show you instead.” 

louis’ throat glows as he swallows, the potion disappearing. louis suddenly looks elated, eyes blue-gold and alight, and he drops the vial perfectly on the edge of the table instead of letting it drop and bust on the floor. he approaches harry slowly, like his limbs aren’t his own. 

“what are you doing,” harry mumbles, awestruck. 

“i needed all the luck in the world,” louis answers, putting a small, warm hand on the back of harry’s neck, “just for this.” 

when he kisses harry, he tastes like apples and honey and smells like rowan trees and cotton; it’s perfect, utterly perfect, mind-blowingly perfect. harry’s mind goes white, overwhelmed as his heart tries to thump its way out of his chest. 

when they pull apart, louis’ eyes are dancing. “so it works,” he whispers. “you kissed me back, i must be the luckiest guy in the world.” 

“you didn’t need a potion to kiss me,” harry says breathlessly. 

“well, drat,” louis says, sounding giddy. “suppose we didn’t need to go to all this trouble after all.” 

harry’s mind is still fuzzy from the taste of honey, but it clicks, and he laughs. “there was no bet.” 

“oh, there was a bet,” louis says, leaning in again. “niall bet me i’d chicken out before i kissed you.” 

“why would you bet that?” harry murmurs against louis’ lips. 

“because i’ve loved you for ages, and we’d never even spoken.” 

later, niall arrives back at the slytherin seventh years’ dorm and finds a tiny, glowing bottle of golden potion resting in the middle of his pillow. it’s got a ribbon tied around it, a note dangling from the end. 

thanks. xx it reads, then at the bottom, all the love. h. 

niall grins, then, for the first time, notices that the hangings around louis’ bed are shut tight, but there’s a familiar stack of potion books on the floor next to louis’ bedside table. he chuckles quietly to himself, pockets the little vial of potion, and leaves harry and louis to have their own little bit of luck. 

[bookofnottheaxolotl]

Chapter 0, part 3.

[Not according to plan]

_______________________________________

Two weeks earlier

It was a cloudy, moonless night. The three smugglers had planned for this, as they couldnt afford to be seen. Despite the darkness concealing their boat from anyone looking out to see, it still wasnt certain that the cargo the smugglers were transporting would reach its final destination. The magic gem had recently been stolen from a collector, who was hellbent on getting the artifact back.

"There are several ships headed in our direction." A red panda named Wilhelm, whom had previously been outside to look out for potential danger, hurried inside to warn the rest of the crew. "They cannot find the gem, or the whole operation could fail. Anyone got a plan?" The silence that filled the small cabin was deafening, as non of the smugglers could think of anything.

The youngest, a hegdehog named Charlie, quietly spoke up. "We could hide it inside a large muffin." While her plan was ridiculous, no one had any better ideas, so the crew quickly got to work.

They had just put the muffin batter containing the gem inside the small oven they had on board for long trips, when they heard footsteps on the deck. "This is the police, open the door!" Liam, the grey ferret who happened to be near the door at this time, slowly opened it.

As the cop walked in he was looking around the room for signs that the gem was there, but there were non. "Im very sorry for all of this, but there was a report made about a very powerfull artifact being stolen, and now we have to search every ship that we come across." After another quick look the cop nodded to the crew. "You're all good, stay safe out there." And with that, he had already left.

"That went well." About twenty minutes had past since the cop had left, and the crew had just started to catch their breath. "Does anyone else hear that noise?" They all heard that noise, and it was coming from the oven. Then, a blinding flash followed.

When they could see again, all the smugglers saw was a large muffin, surrounded by what left of the oven.

Exept, the muffin had grown legs.

And arms.

And it had a face.

Looking panicked, the muffin ran to one of the windows, wich had been blown open by the explosion, and jumped out, into the cold water. Even as the three smugglers looked from outside, they couldnt see a trace of the muffin, and they all realised what had just happened. "Were fucked."

[artliftcirencester]

I’ve been remiss in posting! But the Cirencester Artlift group is going great guns. In our last session, the group wrote a sonnet. Here it is:

Shore

It seems that life is ebbing away.

The waves crash up against the rocks,

though in their depths, they want to stay,

holding tight to these grey blocks.

The moon is holding back the tides,

keeping edgy loves apart.

White horses are neglected brides,

and granite shows its broken heart.

 But they will meet - again, again;

the tide will turn, and they will kiss,

turn blue with love; the sun’s red pain

will be made better, turned to bliss.

Light will sparkle on the sea;

love lasts for an eternity.

The group, May 2017

And David Shepherd wrote this sweet love poem:

Love

 Love is like a precious flower.

Watch it blossom,

hour by hour.

 Share laughter, smiles,

sadness and tears,

through seconds, minutes,

days and years.

 Love is warm

like the summer sun,

from the waking hour

till the day is done.

 David Shepherd

Last term, we wrote a lot of poems!

Water

In you I am equal, fluid in your fluidity,

as sensuous as chocolate melting

on to warm skin,

I slip and shimmer

in your supporting, affirming caress,

then shift like a side-stepping centre forward

as strong as a bull’s neck

I plough headlong

independent in movement

lithe, energetic and not holding on

Nicky Windle

 Wet wedding

A wedding day, caught in the rain

Hitch up your feet

Hitch up your hem

and smile,

shine as around you the light dims

Something is about to begin

 They all rush inside

their oohing and aahing hushed into whispers

but outside the rain continues

Rubbing clothes wetted with damp spots

busily

They’re glad to be out of the weather,

drizzly

 Under the cover of the marquee

I in kingfisher blue

a river bird, by a river, or a large puddle

or pool

ready to dive in head first.

 We have left some chairs outside

Their supporting roles are over and

bottoms are placed elsewhere but they

provided temporary comfort for those

who found it in their battered,

rain-splattered

seats

 We are engaged indoors

but they take their time to cool their feet

in the rising flood of water.

Nicky Windle

 Place 1

I have a favourite place of sorts

It is not a leafy glade

that I laughed in when young

and to some it may constitute just

space

but it is mine, nonetheless.

The day is over. I have dragged

myself through it and now comes

a celebration of cotton cushioned

comfort.

The weight of the covers squeezes out

pressure both infernal and eternal.

I unkink my body and seep into the

mattress

all my edges blurring into softness

The universe is inexorably expanding

but my world is wound up,

contained and controlled under the covers

 I am not being sentimental, this

bed could be anywhere

in the homeless hostel where

I am currently housed.

Nicky Windle

 Place 2

The refugee on the High Street

who scans the storm-tossed

for familiarity finds it

in the texture of polycotton sheeting.

Washing powder; the fragrances of

the domestic round

provide her with grounding,

recalling memories of laundry days

when thoughts of home seemed

less profound.

Nicky Windle

 Love poem

Spring has come to the winter garden

Your smile warms the hoar-frosted

earth and

she thaws

 Hands, your hands, with their gentle might

have brought bloom to the branches

of the withered tree.

New buds have burst

For years is has laid by, dry and

forgotten

but will now hang, petalled

in delicate colours of sweet-smelling

syringa and rose moschata.

Nicky Windle

    Heartbreak…

feels like a tear in the space time continuum,

a black hole in space;

painful as a ball hitting a bat in a baseball game.

My heart is shattered like a smashed window;

my tears are like a flowing river.

Liam

 Bad trip

Dark and cold,

biting cold;

wind whistling past

since times of old.

 A home to hard folk;

their homes of hard rock.

A dangerous landscape

just fools would mock.

 Driving rain soaks to the skin.

This could be hell, for those who sin.

 Climbing hills and over stones,

seeking a path, back to our homes;

trudging through the mud and marsh -

hard or soft, the landscape’s harsh.

 rest in peace for ever more,

those who are lost on the moor.

Jo

 I am amazing

I am amazing

because I live and breathe;

because I can help others;

because fear will end.

The day can be free

or it can be your enemy.

 Love makes me shine.

Happiness is divine.

When I die,

I’ll know I’m amazing,

because of what I left behind.

Matthew

 If I ruled the world

If I ruled the world,

I would live forever.

If I ruled the world,

there would be peace.

If I ruled the world,

money would grow on trees.

If I ruled the world,

policemen would be angels.

But I don’t rule the world,

so I’ll let it be.

Matthew

 Sound and peace

I need my noise, every day,

from morning till night,

to shut out the silence,

to fill my head.

Music, my love,

bringing love from above.

 When the music’s over,

life is tea and cake;

evening television

can also be great.

 When it’s time for bed,

I need to sleep.

I set my alarm, leave the radio on,

and then I’m done for the week.

Matthew

 Love

What is love?

A feeling? A sense? A moment?

What is love?

A focus? Or a dream?

 Love is yellow, sunshine,

gold like the purest metal,

strong like a diamond, clear,

determined, honest and clean.

 Love is a soft caress, a lover’s touch,

warm hands holding your heart, safe,

a sensitive massage from your inner self,

peaceful, calm, relaxing.

 Love is a laugh from a baby monkey,

or a happy child’s giggle in your ear;

cutting a cake, hearing the squidge

of the filling oozing out.

 Love is the rich, dark tones of a chocolate bar,

smoothly sliding down, warmly;

a strong cup of tea on a cold winter’s day,

heating the cockles of your cold joints.

 Love is the free, unerring joint heartbeat

between two people, lasting forever.

It’s the best gift one can give another.

Kate

 If I ruled the world

If I ruled the world, everyone would be nice -

smiling all day, please and thank yous would abound;

nodding good morning to all and sundry.

Meanness and gloom would not be found.

 If I ruled the world, everyone would wear

pink and yellow, bright colours, not dark.

there would be books everywhere,

and school lessons would be in the park.

 If I ruled the world, there would be

sunshine and snow on the beach every day.

We would eat chips, doughnuts and ice cream,

and not put on a pound. Wishful thinking, you say.

 If I ruled the world, I’d spend all of my time

asleep, as it takes so much energy.

But the sun would still shine,

the man in the moon would still smile,

and the evil people would have to live

dressed up like a tree.

Kate

 Mountain Dew

Soft, green and yellow, like a fizzy apple

Light as a feather in my hand

Smooth as a pebble with greeny-yellow moss

Sounds like it is whispering to you when opened

Tastes like a tropical rainforest,

with enchantment, and animals.

Liam

 Gone now

A swing without a child, moving in the wind

The shed door, closed

The weeds that form a barrier around the tree

The colony of plant life that is moss

 Elevator music in a shopping arcade

Unsauced pasta; overcooked potato; dark liquorice

The apron hanging on a hook, waiting to be used

Empty trainers with holes in, in front of an open door.

 The boring day that follows all the other boring days

Static from the TV; the game that never loads

The sound check: testing, testing, testing…

The group

 Our room

In front of a screen as hopeful as a broody hen

are people, varied as dolly mixtures,

with stares blank as paper,

sitting on chairs as comfy as old shoes.

 The clock is telling as a secret squirrel,

and the projector is suspended like a spider;

the signs remain ignored, like the last thing on a list -

pictures colourful as peacocks get the attention.

 But the door is solid as a safe,

and the carpet is as calm as clouds,

and lying on it is a dog,

cuddly as a teddy bear.

The group

 The abandoned sofa

It’s the reddish-brown of boxer dogs.

Puke yellow stuffing spews from tears

in worsted, with suspicious stains,

soggy from the rain, like a half-cooked cake,

or half-dried hair. Waves of ditchwater

sweep into maps, bottom-up. On the surface,

moss, and chewing gum, and coffee cups,

rest, uncomfortable; haphazard.

It’s cold as slime when you fall on the pavement;

a home for slugs and rats.

It smells of unwashed people at a festival.

It hisses like a snake; lets out wet farts.

Dragged by someone homeless;

fly-tipped by a husband, nagged.

Forgotten, unloved, displaced, invisible;

heartbroken.

The group

[bookofnottheaxolotl]

Chapter 0, part 7.

[Cat and mouse]

_______________________________________

A door slammed loudly in the southern most part of the laboratory. The news of the gem not arriving must have reached the lead scientist. The man looked like he was going to strangle someone. His footsteps echo'd trough the halls as he made his way to the package depot. Those three better had a damn good explanation.

"What happened?" The words cut trough the air like a knife as the smugglers struggled to come up with an answer. Charlie was the first to say something. "Were not entirely sure either, doctor Schrödinger. What I can tell you is that we werent found out." The scientist clearly wasnt satisfied with the answer.

Dr. Schrödinger was a tall, black and white maine coon with thick mustache, and the lead scientist on a whole array of shady projects. His current work: necromacy. The gem Schrödinger was after was the gem of immortality, and he strongly believed that it would help him.

"What do mean 'you dont know'? That gem must be somewhere. Are you trying to tell me the thing grew legs and walked away?!" This time it was Liam who said something. "It did, sir. We tried baking the gem into a muffin to hide it from the cops, but then the oven exploded, the muffin had grown arms and legs, and then it jumped out of the window. We tried to find it but we couldnt."

Schrödingers face showed a mix of anger and confusion as he tried to process what he just heard, before deciding how to proceed. "You three have got one more chance to prove yourselves usefull. Either you bring me that muffin, or your all fired." The smugglers all breathed a sigh of relief. That could have gone a lot worse.

[bookofnottheaxolotl]

Chapter 2

[Time and location]

_______________________________________

The light of the rising sun shined brightly over the calm surface of the ocean. The sky wore just a few small clouds, wich were carried eastward by a strong wind. In the midst of the peacefull scene, the waves only barely moving it, was a small boat.

Spread out onto a wooden table, surrounded by various newspaper clippings, laid a large map. Pins had been inserted at several locations, seemingly at random. "Why is it, that after almost a month of looking, we still havent a clue where that damn muffin is?" Wilhelm asked no one in particular. "It shouldnt be possible for that thing to be moving that fast. One day its in one place, and the next its practicaly on the other side of the world!"

"I think I do see some sort of patern." Charlie metioned while comparing the dates and locations of the sightings. "The muffin seems to keep returning to the same place near the coast, where it was first seen two weeks ago." Looking at the spot she had pointed at, Wilhelm replied: "I see what you mean. It could be worth it to go there, and wait untill the muffin comes back there again."

Liam, growing increasingly impatient, sighed loudly. "Out of all the white rocks in the world, we're after the only one that can run away! Why does Schrödinger even want that specific one in the first place?" "Well, Liam." Wilhelm replied. "Firstly, its not just any old crystal. It is a magic gem, the gem of immortality to be more specific."

"What does he even need it for, anyway? It's not like the man is dying anytime soon, right?" Liam asked, more hesitant than before. "I was just about to say that." Wilhelm said, peeved about being interrupted. "He's trying to bring something back from the dead. A year or so ago, dr. Schrödinger got his hands on some sort of dead golem, and he's been looking for a way to revive the thing. From what i've gathered, he believes the gem of immortality will help him with that."

Having heard Wilhelms explanation, and learning what was at stake, Liam began to put away the map. According to Charlie's theory, the muffin would be back at the same location in the late afternoon of the following day.

With the table being empty for the first time in weeks, and the fact they had the rest of the day to do whatever, Liam grabbed a deck of cards out of one of the many cluttered drawers. "How about a game of blackjack?" Both Wilhelm and Charlie agreed to the welcome distraction, and the group sat down in a circle at the table. While the game certainly would have been more fun had they been playing with more people, they soon lost track of time.