the-trinket-witch

[the-trinket-witch]

Guillermo Del Toro on AI "art"

SDCC 2025: Lucas Museum Of Narrative Art

[the-trinket-witch]

Sriya comic

She is my oc! Inspired by maritime southeast asian culture :)

[the-trinket-witch]

my potion #MyPotion

[the-trinket-witch]

Talons - TWST ficlet

Word Count: 2,350

CW: None

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Mac and Wesson Nightwatch (my OCs), Jade Leech, Leona Kingscholar, Coach Vargas (mention)

A/N: I had been sitting on this idea for Mac's PE Vignette for a while, and in the process of writing it, I opted to change POV to Riddle. Honestly, I think it makes it funnier. I hope you all enjoy!

🧹🧹🧹

He thanked his mother silently for the high quality shoes. As he strode into the well trimmed field, Riddle appreciated how his shoes kept his feet dry as the trail behind him left residual beads of morning dew on his soles. Small things done right guaranteed the best outcomes. Much as he appreciated the quiet as only a few other students congregated about. A chance to stretch without interruption.

Placing his broom gently in the grass, the housewarden spread his stance just a bit. He brought his arm straight across his chest, pulling it back with his other arm as he stretched. While mentally keeping track of his time, the housewarden considered the tasks that still needed to be done in the day. Reviewing this morning’s Practical Magic lecture; examining all the dormmember’s birthdays for the month and scheduling the dorm’s next Unbirthday Party; preparing for the day’s history lecture… he lingered in his own thoughts as he continued to fulfill his pre-Flight Class regimen.

More students began to trickle out onto the field as time inched closer to its deadline. Idle chatter danced about the field in spurts, like a flock of birds indecisive on where to land. Riddle attempted to refocus his attention, avoiding the disrespectful habit of unnecessary or unwarranted eavesdropping. Their business wasn’t his, and he knew well to keep it that way. Though, he couldn’t stop his expression from flattening as he heard the voices of the Nightwatch twins cresting over the inclined horizon.

“I swear it to ya, brother, I didn’t think I needed ‘em,” Mac defended himself cheerfully.

A reassuring sentiment… whatever the Ignihyde student must have been referencing only registered to the housewarden like the end strands of some sort of trouble. He resisted the urge to look in their direction, but permitted himself this once to drop eaves. Considering it a preparedness to pay attention, and obtain context and insight to whatever shenanigantery would inevitably unfold, for better or for worse. As he touched his toes in a final stretch, the housewarden continued to listen.

“Whadya mean you ‘didn’t need ‘em’? You gotta wear yer uniform to class, else Vargas’ll make you run laps,” the other twin challenged the first, seemingly at wits end despite how early into the conversation it was.

“Why’d he make us run laps in a flyin’ class?” the first twin pushed back, “Ya ain’t need to run when ya gotta fly. And I brought the ‘ppropriate foot wear fer flyin’.”

“Mac, you aren’t wearin’ shoes.”

The housewarden’s face blanched. His eyes widened as he stared straight into the blades of grass below, agog at the implication presented by the twins. The prospect of flying barefoot in an outdoor college class stupified the Heartslabyul student. How was that even remotely acceptable?

He blinked twice. A single breath protested leaving his chest as he manually exhaled out his nose. Coach Vargas hadn’t made his presence known just yet. Perhaps, the housewarden would have no choice but to intervene before the situation escalated. There was no sense in giving the impression that this sort of tomfoolery would be permitted.

Rolling up his spine, he straightened up. As he ensured that the blood wouldn’t rush from his head, he kept his focus mentally on the yapping buzzards. But when he reached his full height, he exhaled once more and opened his eyes. His gaze beheld the field before him. His body, turned to face away from the direction of the main campus. The moment of truth faced him quickly, sharply.

Without delay, Riddle spun about face. His eyebrows already creased into a furrow, as his eyes flared with perturbed indignation. Clenching his fists, he marched straight up to the seemingly lackadaisical duo. He crossed through the grass, charging through the flock of sophomores. Most dodged out of the way, though some stood fast, observing, commentating. He payed them no mind. As his feet escorted him, he kept his mind laser focused, his eyes unwavering, and his words standing by on the tip of his tongue. While the hornet’s nest had not yet been angered, his thoughts buzzed, alive between the crevices of his teeth. Ready. Waiting.

But as he got within 15 to 10 feet of them, he froze. His eyes widened as flabberghast smacked him like an opening door. They lowered, his ashen eyes now burning holes into a pair of… talons. Fully grown, human sized bird talons. Digigraded ankles poked out from underneath the Ignihyde PE uniform. He didn’t have feet.

Whatever Riddle had mentally prepared himself for, it certainly wasn’t this. And as it processed in his brain, he rapidly realized that the students he assumed were human instead were beastmen.

“Well, hi there, Riddle!” Mac greeted him with a friendly wave, “Hope the day is treatin’ you well! You look a little less red today, and it really suits you!”

Before the housewarden could even snap with a retort or a command, the slouching twin swatted his brother with an open palm.

“Mac- you can’t say that,” Wesson chided him, though he didn’t apologize, and neither did the idiot. He did, however, turn his attention to the housewarden fully and addressed him, “Didja need somethin’? You’re stormin’ over here all angry like and then you stopped. Can we help you with somethin’?”

His question, despite the defensiveness laced into his words, seemed at least mostly genuine. And to his credit, at least Wesson could read the room.

“I- well…” Riddle cleared his throat, regaining his composure with haste and class, “I overheard your conversation about participating in class activities without following the proper dress code. You know as well as I that’s a violation of the Night Raven’s College Code of Conduct.”

The Pomefiore twin practically deflatted. His expression, already a bit neutral, turned rapidly unamused. Eyes devoid of energy. His lips flattened, and the curve of his lips distinctly down-turned.

“And you’re thinkin’ recitin’ the rules is gonna make Mac follow ‘em?” the archer asked flatly.

“Follow ’em? But they’re not goin’ anywhere!” Mac cried in mild, yet delighted confusion.

Riddle couldn’t help but feel his eyes widen further, and his teeth grit in the open. Somehow… the housewarden failed yet again to estimate the garden paths of Macadamia's inner sanctum.

“Besides,” the Ignihyde student continued, “I don’t remember the rules sayin’ nothin’ ‘bout goin’ ‘round all free talon.”

Oh… oh no… Oh no, he had a point.

The housewarden couldn’t determine which struck him worse: the fact his assumption landed royally off target; how blatantly off base the candor of the one twin was; or the fact that even in his stupidity, Mac managed to actually make a valid point. His face contorted. Much to his dismay, the idiot spoke the truth. And he’d have to stick the landing, or else risk being made a fool by other onlookers who didn’t have his best interest in mind.

Bringing his fist to his now tightly closed mouth, he cleared his throat. Another short exhale allowed him to release at least some of the ever building tension, searing behind his temples.

“While I suppose that is true, and our uniforms are largely designed to accommodate beastman features, I’d expect you both to have adequate footwear, as to prevent scratching up the premises,” Riddle elaborated, holding firm to his position.

For a moment, he noticed a slight grimace from the slouching vulture; perhaps wince better suited as a description. He made a mental note, but refrained from commenting.

“I guess yer right about that,” Mac stated, placing a finger to his rather defined chin, “But I dunno how I could scratch up the sky while I’m flyin’. Usually my claws go through it…”

Oh… oh, he was thinking really hard. Riddle half expected for steam to start wafting from the beastman’s ears.

“Regardless,” Wes cut in, clearly over the conversation, “It’s a little late now. Here comes the Coach.”

The Pomefiore student pointed a finger toward the looming castle. Down the path, what only could be described as a mass of muscles on legs strutted towards the lingering cluster. Wherever he intended to take this dispute would have to wait. Nothing, nor anyone, stopped the battering ram of a professor from accomplishing what he set out to do.

🧹🧹🧹

A blast of air became realized as a shrill, metallic shriek pierced the open field. Riddle halted in his movements, the handle of the broom firmly grasped between his hands. His gaze shot up, alert and attentive, as he searched for the positioning of the class instructor. Coach Vargas stood several feet away. But to the housewarden’s surprise, his attention seemed directed upward.

Up above, a single student soared through the open sky, accompanied only by the wind, and the clouds that resembled toy stuffing. However, unlike the techniques that the instructor intended for them to practice, this sole student stood - literally stood - with his arms open wide as the broom circled about the field. Before he could even get a solid look at the culprit, the behavior tattled on itself as dots connected and gears began to turn. The arms open, the downward gaze, and the circles that resembled more of a floating or gliding stasis over actual flying… such scavenger behavior. If Riddle didn’t know better, he’d half expect Macadamia Nightwatch to use the broom like a perch in a bird cage.

Oh… Oh, no, he was. He absolutely was.

“My, my~,” the commentary of one Jade Leech cut through his mortification, “The surface continues to surprise me.”

Despite holding his hand up to shield his eyes, the moray eel stared straight up at the circling buzzard. A smile, jagged and resembling a predator’s, crept across the eel’s face. And even from what little glimpse Riddle caught, the sight sent shivers down his spine.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the housewarden asked flatly.

"I suppose it's only reasonable to assume a vulture beastman would have equally unique physiology,” Jade explained, all but answering the question directly.

"Yes, this is true, it's not unreasonable to make a guess, especially since bird beastmen are so rare that we-” Riddle halted his curiosities as a realization set in, “Hang on, Jade. Did you know this whole time he was a vulture beastman?"

"Who can say~?” replied the eel, deliberately being passive once again. And of course, the housewarden recognized that mystery very well may have been one of many that the vice would take to the grave. There was no sense in prying further.

That didn’t stop the lack of amusement from deeply rooting itself into Riddle’s features. His expression dropped yet again. His hand, initially raised from speaking, then flipped, drooping and devoid of energy, bent at the wrist.

“Right.”

Another shriek of the whistle cut off any chance at prolonging the conversation, not that either of them would. Vargas proceeded to bark orders at the chaotic beastman. Yet, despite the expectations of many of the students, the housewarden included, Mac did in fact lower himself to the field and step, yes step, off his broom. The grace from which he landed with seemed rather jarring, considering the clumsy disposition that both twins maintained. The whole situation, everything that unfolded in front of Riddle, struck him as borderline outlandish and yet it made a world of sense.

But before his train of thought could go anywhere, and before Riddle could even comment with a peep, a growl broke through the air, one he knew shouldn’t have been there.

“Want to explain to me why the hell you all are being so loud? A guy can’t get any shut eye with all this noise,” growled the lionbeast, suppressing a yawn.

“Good morning, Leona. Macadamia Nightwatch would be your culprit,” stated the Heartslabyul student, before adding, “Though, I’d like to know what exactly it is you’re doing here, in the 2D Flight Class. Shouldn’t you be in Changes and Comparisons of Abbreviated Spells in Ancient and Modern Magic History right now?”

Leona visibly rolled his eyes. The frustration dripped off of him like a frigid downpour. Serrated and ruthless. And without a second thought, he fully ignored Riddle’s comment about his class schedule.

“Unsurprising,” sighed the beastman, referring to the initial explanation, “There’s nothing going on up there.”

Taking the moment to rub it in ever so slightly, Jade piped up, “You sound as though you have experience, Mr. Kingscholar.”

A groan. As if the lion had already become fed up with the antics of the eel. Riddle watched the two as the thought crossed his mind, making him question if Jade felt invigorated enough to prod further, not that he believed Leona would tolerate it. And yet the housewarden wanted to do his own prying, as he hadn’t explained himself for violating the rules.

“Leona, you really ought to get to your class. Cutting is a violation of the college ru—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” chided Leona, “I’ve got no reason to listen to the scoldings of lowly herbivores like yourself.”

“EXCUSE YOU-”

But he already turned to leave, no longer entertaining the anger that simmered in Riddle’s chest. As Leona waved him off, he felt the rage beginning to bubble up, as the blatant display of insolence set him off. The quiet sneering from beside him nothing more than an escalator in his frustration.

“Ah, I have to wonder if Mr. Kingscholar had been taking a nap out in the field,” Jade mused aloud, answering the unspoken question he’d been circumventing.

“Regardless, it’s no excuse for his tardiness.”

And in all this time, he’d largely lost his focus on the beastman. Quite frankly, not enough people seemed to value the sanctity of the rules and policies. Skipping class. Not wearing the proper uniform. It grinded his gears.

He glanced back over at the other questionable beastman, only to find the nutcase seemingly swaying to a tune only he could hear. Perhaps, he could let this one slide. With Vargas clearly not penalizing him, he would take a step back. But not without first making a mental note.

🧹🧹🧹

Tag list: @the-trinket-witch @ramshacklerumble @twstinginthewind @cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind

@twistedwonderlandshenanigans @elenauaurs @sunsmilu @theleechyskrunkly @thehollowwriter

@oseathepebble @twstchaos @cyn-write @ice-cweam-sod4 @twst-the-night-away

@tinyvirgodoodle

Lmk if you want added/removed

[the-trinket-witch]

Part 17 in my weekly poster series of 2025

[the-trinket-witch]

spamton is will wood

YOU APPEAR FAMILIAR, DEAR ! [You look just like my bathroom mirror]

[the-trinket-witch]

Meetin' You Is a Real Treat - TWST ficlet

Word Count: 1,179

CW: None

Characters: Wesson Nightwatch (my oc), Beau Fowl (Bobbi St. Robins, @ramshacklerumble 's OC)

A/N: This originally was an idea Gar had and I sort of just took it and ran with it. Hope y'all enjoy!

✨️✨️✨️

“Hey there, stranger!”

An unfamiliar voice, crackling and full of accented vibrancy, hailed from down the hall. Like a bird song in the dead quiet morning, they chirped, attempting to steal the attention of a designated other.

Designated other…

Wesson’s eyes shifted back and forth, sweeping across the hall. His eyes never once landed on another student. Then swiveling, as he searched for any other person who could possibly be the target of the greeting. To his dismay, he stood alone, the only other person in the hallway beside the stork beastman, waving enthusiastically at the end of the hall. The stork began to bound in his direction, clearly having acquired his target. The vulture beastman let out a slow exhale through his nose. He tried to place this stranger in his mind. He knew of this stork, though placing how and why proved difficult. Galavanting in an RSA uniform, the stork didn’t exactly make it any easier, his lanky legs striding with such a confidently awkward strut. And his voice, Wesson failed to place it, even as he scrounged the inner caverns and alleyways of his brain.

“Uh… hi?” his salutation aired more on the side of inquiry than proper or delightful welcome.

Nevertheless, the stork closed the gap between them. His steps reminded him a bit of his twin, bouncing with a rhythmic energy best suited to match a tune no one else could hear.

“Hi hi hello!” repeated the stranger. The grin on his beak jovial yet sincere, “A pleasure to meet another friendly face in an establishment like this. Not every day I see another man with a head full-a-feathers just waltzin’ about the dorm.”

At the mention of his feathered scalp, the vulture froze. Palid, his face blanched of all color, minus the scarlet marks framing his beady eyes. Before Wesson could react, the stork swooped in and stole his hand, seemingly right out of his coat pocket.

“Meetin’ another beastman in this here dorm is a real treat, I tell you!” the stranger practically croaked with excitement. With the vulture’s hand firmly in his fingers, he shook it almost violently. Up and down, yanked nearly out of the socket, he refused to let the vulture’s hand go. “A real treat!”

Wesson wasn’t sure he owned his hand anymore.

With a firm grip, he pulled his hand from the assault on his limb. The act seemingly left the RSA student completely unphased. Unbothered by the general air of off-put suspicion, the stork merely beamed at the vulture, anticipation radiating off of him like a sun-lamp.

A sun-lamp…

Perhaps that simile reigned truer in a way that he originally anticipated, but to pinpoint why? Impossible feat.

Regardless, he’d been locked in now, and the conversation clearly couldn’t just end.

“You got a name?” the vulture asked, trying to push the conversation along.

“Beau Fowl, at your service!” the stork answered, bowing deeply as he removed his hat. His bowed leg stuck out, permitting the other to lower him almost to the ground. As he raised back up, his eyes met the ever shifting eyes of the NRC student, “And what do I call you, my scavenger friend?”

Scavenger. How did he…?

“Wesson- eh Nightwatch,” he stammered, “You can uh… call me Wes.”

“WESSON!” cawed the stork- Beau- “Like the crossbow?”

Wesson narrowed his eyes, almost defensively, “No, that’s Old Betsy. And you’d do well to put respect on her name.”

“Ah- I didn’t mean nothin’ by it!” Beau clarified quickly, “I just meant your name was… well, nevermind. It’s not important. What is important is that you’re another feathered friend in this here dorm!”

The vulture put the palm of his hand to the tip of his other fingers. Subconsciously, he signalled as he paused, “Hold up…”

With a looming sense of forebodding hovering over his head, Wes glanced in all directions of the hallway. His eyes swept about the room, scanning for any other signs of life or scrying. When the coast seemed clear, he lowered his voice to prod, “How do you know?”

Frog blinking, Beau asked, “Know what?”

“That I’m a beastman…”

“Well, my good sir, your feathers do gleam in the light. An awfully purdy color at that too,” complimented the stork, his dopey sincerity far more on the mark than he was anticipating. Clearly, he had more brain cells than Macadamia, even if only by a few.

But to that point, the statement threw him for a loop. Few students noticed his feathers for what they were.

“They look a lot different then mine,” not missing a beat, the stork began to show off his feathers, white and a bit ruffled, but nevertheless clean. “But a feather’s a feather.”

“I see…”

He couldn’t stop his face from falling, even from its neutral state. His eyes softened, but not out of compassion or familiarity. Defeat. It lined his brow. Arched his spine more ever so slightly.

In contrast, the stork’s brows raised. His eyes widened slightly, softened instead by confusion. He craned his neck closer to Wesson, to get a good look at the shorter bird.

“Something the matter?”

“Ah, no–”

“Cause I wouldn’t want to trouble a pal-” Beau interrupted.

“I just- could you keep it on the down-low?” Wesson requested, the peeved attitude slipping into his words.

“Keep what? That you’ve got feathers?”

“That I’m a beastman all together,” the vulture clarified.

“I mean…” Beau’s own smile fell, “If you want, but I don’t see what the problem is.”

With a slight grunt, the vulture shook his head, “Don’t uh… don’t worry about it.”

He felt awkward. This small talk thing blew up in his face and trying to recover only seemed to dig the hole deeper.

“I uh… are you staying long?”

The stork seemed to instantly brighten up yet again, rebounding as if nothing happened.

“Actually,” he explained, “I’m just here for the SpellDrive squirmish! Just wanted to explore a bit before the game starts!”

Something about that didn’t feel right either. But he also knew it wasn’t his business. And he knew it was his business to stay in his lane. Better than getting involved in something he had no interest in being a part of.

“Ah, okay,” he nodded along, “Makes sense. Get yourself a break from Vargas.”

“Yeah!! You get it!”

Questionable.

“Anyway, I better get going,” the stork gave him a hard slap on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his balance, “Don’t wanna be late.”

A second slap and the stranger, now acquaintance, began bounding down the hall in the direction from whence he came. But with a pause, he spun about face. Beau gave him a mighty wave and called back, “See you around!! Meetin’ you was a real treat! We must do it again!!”

And like that, he waltzed away. The stork didn’t wait for a reply or a protest- not that he wanted to.

Wesson blinked. He barely knew how to process it all. Yet, it sure happened. And he guessed he would just have to deal with it.

✨️✨️✨️

Tag list: @the-trinket-witch @twstinginthewind @ramshacklerumble @cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind

@thehollowwriter @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @theleechyskrunkly @sunsmilu @elenauaurs

@boopshoops @starry-night-rose @tinyvirgodoodle @cyn-write @oseathepebble

@twstchaos @twst-the-night-away @ice-cweam-sod4

Lmk if you want added/removed

[the-trinket-witch]

[the-trinket-witch]

TWST fic: that's the catch

Word count: 2,027

Content warning(s): altering of mental/emotional state via inhalation [of airborne toxin]

Characters: Headmage Dire Crowley, Professor Cicero Cerulean (my OC)

Additional notes: I originally began writing this back in...I want to say late March, early April? I began it during a burst of wild ADHD energy but crashed before I could finish it, had left myself no notes or hints for where I wanted to take it, so it sat, maybe only a third of the way finished if that since then in my drafts. Last night I managed to rattle Cerulean's enclosure enough that finally I got another wild burst of steam and finished this. Wasn't quite planning it to go this way but here we are, and I'm not complaining.

Years ago, at Night Raven College…

The headmaster of Night Raven College stared incredulously at the proposal in his hand, not entirely sure he was able to process exactly what it was aiming for. At a loss for words, he briefly looked up from the papers and at the one who had handed them to him. From the other side of his desk a pair of dark gray eyes studied him right back, the face they were a part of completely, patiently blank. Crowley glanced back down at the proposal, eyes going over the most salient line again, before he looked back up at the man, hoping his body language would be enough to prompt the new professor to speak.

It was an exercise in vain. Cicero Cerulean was never forthcoming, and he certainly gave no indication he planned to elaborate.

"Professor Cerulean," Crowley began, unable to hide the slight warble in his voice that gave sound to his shock, "would you answer a question for me, and be direct, would you please?"

The professor adjusted his position in the chair, and Crowley realized he was getting comfortable. Oh dear. Not good, not good at all.

"Within reason," he replied smoothly, his face still giving nothing away. The curling, twin flyaway strands of hair at his temple looked like moth antennae and Crowley half-thought perhaps they twitched like them too. Clearly a sign of sleep deprivation. And coffee deprivation. And vacation deprivation too, he had to make note of that for later.

"Am I to understand," Crowley began, deciding that the best recourse was to simply plow forward, "that you are actually suggesting you won't drop a single student from your class?"

"And why should I?" Cicero asked, still speaking quite smoothly, studying the nails on the back of one hand.

Crowley was stunned into speechlessness again for a brief second. He managed a brief splutter, a tiny half-squawk, and then finally managed to articulate, "If a student wishes to drop a class or proves incompatible with a teacher, it's standard practice to allow the student to drop the class! Most of your peers are quite content to—"

"Comply with standard practice?" Cicero interrupted, still examining his nails. His expression hadn't made any drastic shifts and yet, Crowley now had the indisputable sense that the younger man was already growing bored of this particular point. "Bully for them, whom I am not. I am myself, and I rather have other views in mind."

Crowley took a second to sit back in his chair and regroup. He studied Cicero as he did, took in the long ice-blond hair, the eyeglasses that seemed fiendish and a bit too round, the immaculate blue three-piece suit, and the fae ears that tapered up to a sharp point past a jaw that was just a little too square to be completely fae yet also too delicate and sharp to pass as human. Crowley could recall when Circero was a student, not too very long ago, and how he really had been a thin, knobbly sort of boy. Young men like that often grew into their bodies as adults, going from their awkward stage and blossoming into, if not handsome or beautiful adults, certainly comfortable ones. Cicero defied this as he did most things; though he clearly possessed a confidence in himself and his body he didn't have as a teenager, he only seemed to grow more angular, more sharp, almost more alien in his features, as if he now waited patiently to be the knife most unsuspecting, foolish people might cut themselves on.

The headmage needed a different approach.

"Surely you understand, you cannot force students to come to class," he pointed out, hoping this would be enough of a lead-in.

"I'm not going to."

"Which means you—ah…what?"

"I'm not going to force students to come to the class."

"But, y-you said—"

"I am aware of what I said, but you don't seem to be."

"Er…nooo," the headmage admitted slowly, reluctance written in everything about his body language then. He very quickly had to remind himself he must not clench his jaw or grind his teeth. "I am afraid I am not aware of what you're driving at, or how anything you said just now is supposed to reflect your point, Cicero."

The younger man gave him a flat look, clearly unamused, and then began to speak much more slowly and with precise enunciation, which immediately made Crowley feel like he was somehow deliberately misunderstanding something exceedingly simple.

"Philosophy is a requirement for a well-rounded education for any mage," Cicero said. "I cannot force any student to come to the classroom if they have no desire to, and I won't if they insist they will not participate or engage with the course. But I won't drop them. I will simply grade accordingly."

Crowley actually sat further back in his chair, feeling like he'd been lightly shoved into it.

"You mean you intend to fail them?!"

"Excuse you, Headmage," the professor said coolly, "but I won't be failing anybody. They will be failing my class, and I shall make certain that is reflected in their final grade."

Okay, Crowley really needed a vacation.

"You appear distressed, Headmage. Do I need to simplify it further for you?"

He looked up with an aggravated noise and lifted a hand for silence as he tried to gather his composure. This was really proving entirely too frustrating.

"Cicero, please be reasonable—"

"I am. Perfectly so, I shall impress."

"The parents of our students won't stand for this!" the headmage spread his hands somewhat frantically, before the full weight of that statement and its subsequent implications sank into him, making him moan a little in distress. "Think of all the lost tuition…the lowered monetary investment…"

The motion of Cerulean standing from his chair was so violently abrupt it jolted Crowley, and he shrank back in his own seat as he beheld Cerulean, whose entire body began to glow an alarming bright red as his eyes went wide and his nostrils flared.

"And it's my fault if some blind individuals can't hold their children accountable for their own lack of application?" he demanded, advancing to get into Crowley's space. "The next thing I know, if you choose to coddle and enable that sort of nonsense, you'll be telling me there should be a pocketwatch at the end of my watch chain!"

"Erm, that, uh—" Crowley cleared his throat rapidly, then tried again, "Cicero, please calm down, I wasn't insinuating you would—"

It was too late. Too little, too late, and he could see that, even as he watched the diurnal fae struggling to get his temper under control. But Crowley couldn't think of what might calm him down in time before he realized Cicero's glow of temper was starting to shimmer.

"Now let's just- wait, stop!"

"My request is the most reasonable you'll deal with in your tenure, I assure you, but it seems you'll need some persuasion."

"CICERO!"

The shimmer wasn't his latent magical nature, or some pixie dust or trick of the light, because it was rapidly building and growing. And perhaps Crowley might have been able to counteract it, had he remembered not to inhale.

But the toxin was already in the air, and he hadn't stopped breathing.

"Do keep your temper, it is wrong from beginning to end," Cerulean's voice came out in a low hiss of fury, even as his face gradually resumed its normal color.

The room was getting hazy, Crowley's vision beginning to blur like watercolors at the edges. His breaths started coming deeper despite his attempts to stop inhaling the toxin released by the young teacher's Unique Magic, and his body began to forcibly relax.

"You'll get used to it in time. Are you content now? Caterpillar Languor."

Crowley slumped a little, but managed to glare at the professor he'd hired for the position of Ancient and Modern Magical Philosophy.

"Using your Unique Magic on your employer!" he huffed. "Honestly, this is grounds for termination, Cicero!"

Cerulean lifted his chin and stared imperiously down his nose at the older man.

"You won't," he said, voice so relaxed and gentle it could have given witnesses whiplash. "You're cheap and desperate, there are no other candidates suitable for the position who are interested, and we both know that not only is my teaching policy reasonable, but you're going to blame yourself for not shielding against my magic."

Normally, the headmage might have been more animated in his argument but…well, that just took so much energy and he felt so relaxed. What was the use wasting that energy on emphasis? He tried to shake his head, but it was slow, and he felt vaguely like he was moving through water, as though he were in a warm bath.

"You're being quite bold…" he mumbled.

"I'm being honest. I expect now you will be, too."

"Oh all right," Crowley said with a deep, deep sigh. "I'll admit I should have seen that coming… It doesn't inspire confidence that I-" he paused to yawn tremendously, just barely covering it with a hand, "-ooh, that I…didn't stop to think about your magic."

"Or that I have a point."

"I…well…"

"You see now, don't you, that my approach is perfectly rational. If a student succeeds or fails, should those things not be determined by their own merits and efforts?"

"That's…you're not wrong…"

"Am I right?"

"Are you attempting to philosophize me, right here? Right now? In my own office?"

"I don't know, am I?"

The headmage desperately wanted to say "confound it all, you know you are," but he wasn't sure any more, if he was being frank with himself. He could smell something sweet, like vanilla and warm sugar. He tried to wave a hand, but his wrist gave a limp half-flop. "You know, I'm not sure. I don't know, myself."

"Nobody does, sir, not truly, if one thinks about it."

"About what, Cicero…?"

"Not whatever you're on about, get back to the matter at hand!" Impatient, the younger man clicked his fingers twice. "I'm going to proceed to implement my policy from now on, as it is truly the only way I can be as a teacher."

"But you could be different," Crowley mumbled, though even then he said it with no conviction, and it must have been obvious, because Cerulean shook his head with pity.

"I cannot," he answered. "I am what I am, and so I shall be only what I can be. And I will not be what I cannot be, you see?"

"You really should have stayed in Heartslabyul as a student…" Crowley muttered. Truly, it had been the best fit, and he would never understand Cerulean's desire to transfer to Scarabia. Even now, he felt like Cerulean's contrarian nature and tendency to self-contradict (surely he was self-contradicting somehow in all this, right?) fit right in with the peculiar nature of Heartslabyul.

But what did it matter? The room was warm, the day was peaceful, and he could relax.

He was still breathing in the toxin of course, but that really seemed like such a small thing.

"Alright, alright…" he finally said. "Do as you wish. Seven knows you'll probably make some people happy. Assuming any students ever pass your course."

"They will," the professor said, resuming his seat, the lines of his body relaxed once more. "I want to see the students who are hungry to succeed and I want to push them to be great. I will push them to be great. I simply won't refrain from holding any student accountable. Their actions will inform their grades."

Cerulean gave a nod, merely stating, "We should. Now is the perfect time. The toxin is meant to facilitate discussion, sir. So you see, we were headed here all along. Wouldn't you agree?"

Crowley gave another yawn, and forced himself to focus on Cerulean. "We…are, however, going to discuss your Unique Magic. No using it on students except in emergencies…and no using it on fellow staff. We should…we should discuss that, yes."

Final notes: Trying to characterize Professor Cerulean and make him himself while also making it clear he's very much the Blue Caterpillar and all that that entails is a bit of a challenge sometimes. I enjoy it though, and I absolutely had fun making him difficult here. I'd originally never intended him to use his Unique Magic in this ficlet but it just unfolded the way it did last night, so it was a decent way to showcase Caterpillar Languor. Essentially, Cicero's physiology results in him generating a toxin that can alter the mind, making the target more relaxed and pliable and inclined to discussion, but it remains contained within his skin and (hidden) butterfly wings, unless he uses his Unique Magic, at which point it becomes an airborne thing that can be inhaled like smoke. Technically he's not supposed to use it. But, well! Crowley was being difficult, you see. Also yes, he's not dropping students. You don't show up for class, you're not getting dropped, he's just going to count your absences against your grade. You don't like it? Do better.

Dividers used found here

Taglist: @elenauaurs @inmateofthemind @ramshacklerumble @tixdixl @winterweary

@distant-velleity @rainesol @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @twst-migraine

@harryinramshackle @the-trinket-witch @twstinginthewind (DM me if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist for my TWST OCs stuff)

[the-trinket-witch]

HERE IT IS: THE FINAL FULL SELF-iSH COSPLAY!

[the-trinket-witch]

skelet for @/kitys.bksy.social

[the-trinket-witch]

－•・ ARTFIGHT LOG:

Concept of a Eternity Float outfit for @cozymochi's stunning prefect oc, Tia!

[the-trinket-witch]

Jamil Doesn't play around bro

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[the-trinket-witch]

Older Octavinelles

In this series:

Older Scarabias

Older Savanaclaws

[the-trinket-witch]

[the-trinket-witch]

I'm truly glad Shonen is finally solving its terrible portrayal of romantic relationships between their leads! And all it took were two necessary ingredients to make it all work!

1.) A generous serving of actually making the woman a fucking person with an actual personality and their own motivations.

2.) A dash of neurodivergence.