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yrluvjane · 1 year

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| 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 |

Chapter One: The Night it Bled

Warning: Angst, self-hate.

Summary: 8 years after the haunting incident of Lord and Lady Potter on 31st of October 1981, Harry and Jean finally visit their parents, However, Harry's feelings towards the trip are concerning .

Harry and Jean were met with the familiar smell of soaps and cleaners and the triggering scents of — well hospitals; which, ironically, made them feel sick as they walked into St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

They were in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests.

The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises... Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards. Jean noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone, crossed.

They followed through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking like giant soapsuds.

More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the passageway as they passed one door, and every now and then they heard distant wailing.

The fourth floor housed the Janus Thickey Ward, which was for the treatment of spell damage. It addressed unliftable jinxes, hexes, curses, incorrectly-applied charms,

"This is our long-term residents' ward. For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement." The nurse introduces. "We usually keep the doors to the door locked to stop patients from wandering about."

"We do, however, allow patients to surround themselves with their personal possessions to make them feel more at home and, in many cases, to help remember who they were." She says, and Harry doubts that anyone other than Remus is listening to her.

His uncle Sirius is busy trying to cheer his sister up with jokes that he doubted was appropriate at a hospital and evidence of that is when a passing nurse gaped at Sirius and immediately rushed to tell another nurse.

Though Harry did appreciate Sirius trying to put a smile on Jean's face, and he was sure she too was grateful. "Mr. Potter, Miss Potter..." The healer calls and faces the siblings with an unsure look, wandering her eyes to the two adults with them before crouching to their level.

Jean crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the Healer.

"This is the first time visiting your parents, no?" The latter asked. Both the ten year old and eight year old nodded. "Your parents were hit with a rather strong charm... when they came here, they were very hurt, and they were missing -"

"We know what happened to them." Jean says with a harsh edge to her tone. "Jean! Don't be rude." Harry stated, looking at his younger sister in disbelief. "Thank you, Mr. Potter, but it's fine. We expect this from everyone. I just want to warn you that they may not recognise you and to ask you not to mention anything related to the events of that night or your relationship with them." The healer asked, and Harry stared confusingly at his uncle Remus, then faced the healer.

"Why not?" Harry asked, sharing a worried look with his sister. Jean finally let her arms down. "Lord and Lady Potter seem to experience an unexplainable surge of pain whenever one brings up that fateful night, and sometimes these surges lead to excruciating mental pain or seizures."

"Why?" It's Jean that asks, her voice is soft and barely audiable with sadness, and Harry can see her chest rise and fall rapidly as she tries to prevent herself from crying. Sirius puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was must have worked cause the next thing she did was playfully push Sirius and send him a narrowed look.

Harry doesn't appreciate the pity he sees the mediwitch gives them, but he understands where it's coming from. After a rather long and partially unnecessary pep-talk from Remus and Sirius, Harry pulls his sister aside and takes her in a hug. The younger girl stares at him sadly before poking his face, "You're too emotional, y'know that right."

"Pads says I get it from dad. And you're too quiet. It's okay to hurt every once in a while." Jean only raises her brows, Harry grins they had only been arguing the other week on how he could lift one brow at time and she couldn't.

"Remus says I'm like mum, I'm taking that as a compliment." She says as she pushes his glasses back up his nose and smiles. Harry looks over her shoulder where the mediwitch is talking to their uncles in hushed tones and wary glances. Remus looks up and catches Harry eyes, he sends the raven-haired boy an encouraging smile.

"If you don't want to go in, we can come back some other time." Harry states, scratching mercilessly at his palm, his sweating in his clothes even if though the room they're in is spelled with cooling charms. "I can handle it, I'm not a baby, Harry!" She hisses at him. "I'm not! I– I'm not–" Harry can feel tear stinging in his eyes as he looks at the small creak between the ward's doors.

Behind those are his parents, his parents. Harry doesn't know what’s worse, this or not having parents at all. At some point in his life he forgot he even had those. It doesn't feel like he has parents. Remus and Sirius are his uncle's but Lord and Lady Potter were like fictional characters to him, they were heroes in the eyes in the wizarding world and for some reason everyone need to make it sound as though they were dead. And he has to wait, wait for that wave of emotion to hit when he realises they may not be buried in a coffin but they don't exist anymore, they don't even exist to each other.

He has to go in, he decides, next year he leaves for Hogwarts and he can't have—He can't have not met his parents! And he knows Jean wants to see them, she's stuck on it too. He doesn't blame her but Harry doesn't want go, he—

It's my fault Harry wants to say. The Dark Lord wanted him. Why did his parents and Jean need to suffer. He'd rather die than let his sister go through this. "I'm scared, Jean." He blurts quietly, and it's clear on his face and in his voice. Harry feels as though his under veritaserum. It comes out of him like a secret, and he feels a bit relieved when he says it. Jean's demenor immediately changes.

Despite Harry being the older one, his sister has always been the mature one. There it is, pity and sadness in her eyes, and Harry wants to hit himself against the wall. He can't handle it, not from her.

"Harry, why didn't you say anything?" She asks, pulling him closer and further to the side. She looks at him as though he's a wounded bird as though she might break him if she looks hard enough. "Because I'm not supposed to be scared!" But he is, he's scared they'll blame him. He knows it he's fault he sees every time Remus or Sirius or Jean look at a picture at mum or dad. But to hear it from them, the thought enough makes him feel sick.

He realises he's been for too quiet and Jean turns around towards their uncle's, no doubt about to ask them to leave. Harry manages to get there before her and declares they're ready.

He ignores the look of shock and disbelief from his sister and pulls his hand back when she tries to reach for him. The mediwitch puts an unnecessary hand on their back and whispers in their ear where they are. But Harry doesn't need her, he's already spotted his mum and dad the moment his stepped in.

They're far enough to not notice them but close enough for Harry to make out their faces. His dad is leaning back on a chair, his feet over the table, playing with a Snitch. His mum on the other hand is writing by the looks of it. While his father gives of an air of friendliness and companionship; his mother gives on of solitude, he head is hunched in her book and when Harry concentrates he can see her furrow her brows every once in a while.

He wants to see her and apologise and cry and be held and he wants her to hug him and tell him it's going to be alright. "I'll see dad." He mutters shamefully. It's truly a shameful Jean deserves to choose who to see first after all she was the one who was a baby and missed the chance to make memories with them then but Harry won't dare look at his mum.

He can't act as though he didn't sit there like an idiot that night and watched his mum and dad march to death just to save his useless existence. Jean is pulled by Remus for a hug, his whispering something while kissing her head, and Harry sees Jean nod. "How do you feel? Okay? Sad? Nauseous? We can get you something to eat. There should be a–"

"I'm fine, Pads." Harry whispers tiredly. He's so tired. He can't even bother to raise his glasses back up. He doesn't need to because Sirius does it for him. Harry smiles. It's mostly forced, but Harry can feel a genuiness somewhere. Contrary to popular belief, Sirius is the mum between him and Remus. Sirius kisses him on the head and ruffles his hair before playfully pushing towards his dad.

By the corner of his eyes, he can see Jean narrow her eyes at him with pursed lips and concerned brows. Now that he is getting closer to his dad, enough to make out the lightning shaped scar on his wrist, Harry gasps in a sharp breath before pushing himself forward.

"Hey!" Harry says awkwardly and is now aware of the itchiness of his hair. His dad, James Potter, turns toward him with a grin and suspicious eyes. He pushes his feet of the table and pockets the snitch. "Can I help you kid?" His dad asks.

Harry notes the dark curls they share, the glasses, the facial structure and it's almost like seeing an older version of himself. Everyone always tells him he has his father's look and grandmother eyes. It's Jean who is a complete copy of mum. Harry chokes on air and faces his dad with a worried expression.

"I'm...ahm...I'm Harry, Uncle Sirius' Godson?"

His dad's confused face almost instantly perks up, "Really? He talks a lot about you, y'know. His proud of you!"

"Oh uhm yeah, I guess...He's visiting someone and said I could come and hang out with you." Harry awkwardly lies. He begins to scratch the pad of his thumb in hopes to stop the bubbling sadness in his throat.

"You okay? You seem quite nervous? I promise I don't bite." His dad jokes and Harry misses the flick of an odd expression that sparks in his face. "Harry," James notes with a confused nod and said boy whips his head up in shock. "Yeah?" He asks unsurely.

"That's a really nice name." James says biting his lip and smiling, showing off his dimples. "So, Sirius tells me you're really good at Quidditch, a seeker right?"

"Yeah, my dad used to play." Harry replies with a small smile. Uncomfortable tears begin to burn his eyes and Harry needs to silently scratch at his thighs to prevent them from falling. "Is that why you play? Cause your dad used to?"

"I guess doing the things he used to do makes me feel as though he's doing it with me? It's crazy and weird. Whatever but I just...uhm...I just really make him proud." Harry admits, staring right back at his dad. The older man stares back it him with a soft smile and leans over to ruffle his hair. "You're a good kid, Harry. You're dad should be proud...I know I would."

"Really?" Harry asks and the tears that he's been trying to bury finally surface as James' scared face begins to blur. "No no no, don't cry. Please, don't cry." James' voice comes as Harry hangs his head down, tears falling freely. He feels his dad's hand over his shoulder and on his back; trying to calm him down.

"It's okay buddy. If it makes you feel any better my parents dead too." However, James realized that does not appropriate to say cause Harry let out a louder sob. "I'm sorry! I'm really sorry. I didn't mean too! I didn't know." Harry defends to his dad. He knows he won't understand what his saying or why he's saying it but Harry doesn't care. He wants to apologize, he wants his parents forgiveness, he needs it. He needs this pain, this guilt, to go away.

Harry's vision blurs as James takes of his glasses and wipes his tears with the sleeve of the red sweater his wearing. "Why don't talk about something else?...Remus says you have a younger sister! Why don't we talk about her?" James muses, hoping it will stop the little boy from crying.

Harry hiccups and almost laughs as his dad trips to get him water. "Here!"

Chapter Three: The Calm Before the Storm

Tagging: @sssstarstruck @cloudroomblog

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dani-says-stuff · 9 months

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The Art of Distraction

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❥ Back to the Control Center

❥ Nate Hardy Masterlist

- couldn't wait to bulk post, i'm actually pretty proud of this one

- i didn't end up using the exact line/prompt in the request because it didnt really fit, but it's similar enough for the point to get across

━─━────༺✧༻────━─━

Nate Hardy x fem!reader

Summary: Based on this request

i tried lol, i dont know if it's as spicy as you were hoping it to be, but i packed it with extra stuff just incase that part came out super cringy.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: cringe, suggestive(?), mentions of a haunting that i completely made up for background, very very loosely based on the witch's forest video, inconsistent capitalization, my usual grammar warning... i dont think theres anything bad in here but to be honest i cant really remember

Dialogue Key: Probably dont even need this, but just for consistancy

Y/N

Nate

couldnt really find a great gif for this fic, but i think its funny so im dropping it here.

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It had been a few hours since you had returned home and you'd yet to stop shaking. You'd been on investigations with Nate and the boys in the past, but this one in particular threw you way more than you thought it would.

For the entire car ride back home, the events wouldn't stop rapidly flicking through your mind. Nate's arm resting on the console and his hand softly placed on your thigh did little to ground you as it normally did. The thought of reaching down and intertwining your fingers as you'd done many times before didn't even come to mind, your hands too busy picking at your sleeves to do anything else.

Dark midnight skies barely visible through clusters of twisted curling tree branches.

Thick wooden trunks placed around you like a maze, they all looked the same no matter which direction you went.

Dry dirt and bits of gravel kicking up in clouds behind you, scraping up the backs of your legs from the speed at which you were running.

Branches strewn across the overgrown path splitting and cracking loudly beneath your feet.

Your throat, raw from screaming out to the boys.

Your heartbeat, deafening in your ears.

Nate's one-sided conversation through the duration of the ride back barely made its way to your ears, it felt like you were underwater or your ears were stuffed with cotton.

The only thing you could hear clearly was the memory of your own panicked screams earlier that night.

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It had started just as any other investigation had, and for the first time in a while, it wasn't happening in a building.

The first half of the video held a strangely nostalgic vibe. In the days of a better quality Sam and Colby channel, where they were now able to book the big shot hauntings and go to different countries with loads of equipment, would sit a small video similar to those of their early days.

They were once again investigating an area that wasn't highly publicized, the only ones to know of it being the eager locals with decades of ghost stories to share.

It was said that there was a witch who lived deep within the forest many centuries ago. She dwelled in a quaint cottage where she would practice her spells and hexes... or at least that's how the villagers of the time saw her.

It didn't matter that the woman was in the woods alone because her family had all perished from sickness.

It didn't matter that she was cooking up the same herbal home remedies as everyone else.

When the drought came and wiped out the village crops but the witch's garden in the woods flourished due to the untouched aquifer beneath her land, they were furious.

It was said that they marched upon her house late one night, torches and pitchforks held high, enraged at the witch in the woods. They yelled, taunting her to emerge so they could take her into the small town square. When she refused, they tossed their torches at the structure, laughter overpowering the screams of the woman inside as the house was engulfed in flame.

It was thought to be an old wives tale, the witch deep in the woods brooding silently as she worked on enchantments was hardly anything new. It was simply a story passed down from parent to child in hopes of keeping the energetic children from venturing off too far on their own.

But then they started finding things.

The ruins of a small house, a foundation of stone left behind in the middle of the forest.

Old, hand-made historic brick, placed in a careful circle like the makings of a well.

The bones found throughout the property, most likely scattered by animals and winds over time.

With the influx of people from the small town once again venturing into the forest, it was only natural that the witch would awaken.

So, you all ventured into the woods with no more than a flashlight each, a spirit box, and a REM pod to see if you would be able to communicate with the spirit of the witch that haunted the woods.

When the sun set was when everything went wrong.

The REM pod began going off rapidly, pointing in every direction, no clear responses being drawn from the item. The spirit box chirped to life despite never being turned on, spouting one word.

Run.

Branches cracked from close behind you, startling your group of four to do exactly that.

You made it a few feet when you tripped over something cold and solid, just tall enough to catch the end of your shoe as you ran. Your flashlight tumbled from your hand, rolling across the ground to show two very terrifying things.

One, the lack of the three boys running along behind you, meaning that you had managed to run off in a different direction than they had. You were now completely alone in the forest that was difficult to navigate in a group.

Two, a short stone wall standing before you, encapsulating the leafy floor you were splayed across. You had managed to run straight into the remains of the cottage.

If matters couldn't get any worse, the very thing commonly experienced by those who ventured to this area happened to you. It was said that if you ventured onto her land, the witch would drain the power of your devices and most often—the batteries of your flashlights.

Any sort of light brought near the ruins in the dead of night would be promptly snuffed out, assumingly because of the tragedy that occurred the last time beacons of light were brought to the location.

Your flashlight began to flicker.

Once.

Twice.

And then the light was gone, submerging you completely in the stale darkness of night.

Everything after that was a blur, all you could comprehend were the quick flashes terrorizing your mind.

Dark midnight skies.

Clusters of twisted tree branches.

A wooden maze of towering trees.

Dry dirt and bits of gravel stinging your legs.

Burning muscles.

Overgrown paths.

Panicked screams of both you and Nate as you scrambled blindly through the wood.

Your heartbeat pounding in your head.

Just as it felt like you were running aimlessly then, you felt as if you could make no progress now.

No matter how far you ran—no matter how much time had passed—you stayed terrified.

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Both bedside lamps were on as you burrowed yourself under countless layers of blankets and sheets, your body curled in a tight ball. After all, if your blankets are covering you, the monster under the bed doesn't know you are there.

All that peaked out from the fluffy mass on the bed were your eyes, gaze solely focused on the Disney movie you'd turned on moments before, proving to yourself that witches aren't really as scary as they appear.

Good always wins and bad things can't reach you.

Nate entered the room about fifteen minutes into your movie, hair still damp from the shower and one of your favorite shirts of his draped over his shoulders. It was an old T-shirt from who knows how long ago, but it was soft from wear and one of the most comforting things in the world to have pressed against your skin when he pulled you into his chest at night.

His eyebrows furrowed at your eyes, wide and alert, quickly darting to him when he entered the bedroom, "Babe?" he spoke softly, slowly approaching and kneeling down by the bedside, fishing for your hand beneath the blankets, "Are you ok?"

His eyes were sincere and brimming with worry as he looked upon you, gaze scanning over what he could see of you, assessing any damage that may have occurred in the brief time he left you alone.

You nodded slowly, eyes abandoning the movie and choosing to find solace in him instead.

Once deeming you in no worse condition than he left you in, his head moved finally noticing the laptop perched on the mattress and the movie that previously held your attention playing out on the screen.

A teasing smirk graced his features, "Really?"

Heat rose to your cheeks and you somehow managed to descend deeper into your cocoon. Your words were muffled by the comforter blocking the lower half of your face, "I needed to get my mind off of it." Nate laughed quietly at your explanation making you double down out of embarrassment, "I needed something to distract me so I could sleep."

"A Disney movie?" he spoke, equal parts teasing and condescending.

"What?" you whined rolling your eyes at him, "It always worked when I was younger."

He hummed, standing up and plucking the laptop from the bed, quickly shutting it off and placing it to the side despite your protests.

"Well," Nate spoke, waggling his eyebrows at you a few times in order to get you to laugh, "now you don't need 'em."

You raised a single eyebrow, scanning him skeptically, "Why's that?"

"Because," he trailed off, leaning to press a loving kiss to your forehead, "I'm going to be the best damn distraction you've ever seen."

"Oh really?"

He hummed again, pressing a kiss to your nose.

You tilted your head slightly to the side with wide puppy dog eyes staring up at him, not quite getting what he was implying, "And how exactly are you going to do that?"

Nate pulled the covers down to your chin with a soft, lovesick smile, "Like this." he whispered, finally placing a kiss on your lips.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a warmth flooding your body unlike the one gained from the blankets. This was a warmth that came from the innermost parts of your soul, igniting each and every nerve, setting them on fire.

He slowly peeled back the blankets to reveal your form, arms covered with goosebumps from the stark temperature difference flew up to wrap around his neck the second they were released, fingers sinking into his hair. His own arms swiftly moved around your waist, pulling your bodies even closer as he moved onto the bed hovering over you, never once daring to break the kiss.

The only time his lips left yours where when they moved to trace your jawline and trail down your neck leaving you breathless.

He moved across your skin, leaving a tapestry of red and purple in his wake, painting your skin the same colors as the fireworks dancing behind your eyelids. With your mind focused on him, there was no room to think of anything else, he moved in a way that you couldn't fathom wanting to think of anything else.

His hands dipped lower and lower, teasing beneath the hemming of your sleepshirt and caressing your warm skin.

He leaned back, removing his lips from you after what felt like hours, pupils blown wide and a loving, lustful haze clouding over his eyes.

The only reason he parted was to drag the shirt up off your body with his own quickly following suit to be thrown blindly into a corner, lips hungrily returning to your own the minute the barrier was gone.

He held your attention fully until the sun breached the horizon line, chasing the moon and darkness of night away as it found its rightful place up in the sky. The night was over, any thoughts you had of terrible twisting branches and evil witches dissolved in the light of morning—at least the ones that hadn't been valiantly chased away by your very own knight in shining armor.

You lay in bed beneath the single bedsheet, head resting against Nate's chest as he absentmidedly traced shapes across your back, humming a random melody as he did so. The warm light of day breaching through the cracks of the drawn curtains, bathing your tangled limbs in soft gold.

He was right, you didn't need to distract yourself with the technicolor animations of your childhood. You didn't need to dull your senses with endless hours of princes and princesses saving the day anymore.

Not when you had your very own fairytale sitting right in front of you, ready and waiting to do whatever it takes to give you your happy ending.

With that thought and a sweet smile gracing your lips you closed your eyes, finally able to get some sleep.

#nate hardy x reader #nate hardy imagine #sam and colby imagine #request

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arcane-trail · 2 years

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What are the different “types” of witches?

During the infamous witch persecutions that happened across Europe and America between 1450 and 1750, the members of the Church that led the inquisitions had a very clear idea of what they meant by a “witch”. These were mostly women, but sometimes men, who had entered into pacts with the devil and his servants.

But the term “witch” has been used to refer to many different types of people across the centuries. In the Viking age, Norse witches were principally seeresses who could also detect negative energies that might be affecting a household or community. In the Greco-Roman world, witches and magicians were again principally diviners. In ancient Egypt, they wrote down spells to heal or remove hexes. In early medieval Europe, they were often wise women and healers who provided alternative medical care.

In the modern world, when someone refers to themselves as a witch, it could mean various things. Witchcraft is a very open practice, and you do not need to fit into a specific mold. That said, the witchcraft community has coined some terms to help define the different types of witches. Below is a list of some of the most common types of witches.

Coven Witch

A coven witch is a practitioner who is a member of a coven, which is simply a community of witches. Covens gather to teach one another and to pool their energy and power to have a greater impact on the world around them. Covens will sometimes have formal structures and admissions processes and are usually led by a high priestess or priest.

Solitary Witch

A solitary practitioner is a witch who prefers to practice on their own. Their journey of learning and self-discovery is between them and a higher power, and they may choose not to tell others about their calling and practice. Solitary practitioners choose this approach and are not simply solitary due to a lack of other witches.

Hedge Witch

Hedge witches tend to be natural witches who use the power of nature to create remedies and harness certain powers. They have great respect for nature, will often work with the elements, and tend to be knowledgeable herbalists. Hedge witches are often minimalist and practical, cutting away much of the ritual that has developed around certain magical practices.

Ceremonial Witch

Ceremonial witches actively engage in rituals and ceremonies to tap into the magic that exists within the universe. This often involved being part of an order that teaches the required rituals. The most well-known example of a ceremonial magic order is the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

Baby Witch

The term baby witch is used for someone who is just starting out on the witchcraft journey, so it is just another term for a beginner witch. Very often, baby witches have eclectic interests as they are still exploring broadly to find the type of witchcraft that they feel most connected to. There is no specific point when a person stops being a baby witch, but it is usually when they feel confident to speak authoritatively about their craft.

Eclectic Witch

Not every witch chooses to specialize in a specific area, and some continue to have a broad and eclectic practice incorporating several different traditions. These types of witches are called eclectic, and they will often mi traditions to create new rituals and approaches.

Divination Witch

Divination witches concentrate principally on seeing the future or gaining a deep understanding of the current reality to make educated inferences about the future. The method of their practice can take many different forms. They may read the Tarot, cast runestones, read palms, commune with the spiritual realm, or something else.

Cosmic Witch

Cosmic witches, also sometimes called Lunar witches, use astronomy and astrology as the basis of their craft. They are highly aware of the impact that the movement of the heavenly bodies have on the earth, especially the moon. But rather than just telling you your horoscope, they use their knowledge of these energies to affect active change in the world.

Death Witch

A death witch is another term for a necromancer, but rarely does their practice involve bringing back and controlling the dead. Witches who work as mediums and gain insight and power by asking the deceased for their assistance.

Green Witch

Green witches are very connected with nature and the elements and principally work towards healing and nurturing. They may create herbal remedies or engage in natural powers, such as the chakras, to nurture balance and alignment in the body and spirit.

Kitchen Witch

Kitchen witches are a variety of green witch, but they focus on imbuing their cooking and baking with magic, often to heal and invigorate those who eat. They use their knowledge of the magical properties of ingredients and may engage in rituals to imbue their baking with specific energies.

Energetic Witch

Energetic witches are often drawn toward the vibrations of crystals and the auras of individuals. They are good at reading, harnessing, and directing the natural energies of objects to influence the energies of individuals and situations.

Sex Witch

Sex witches use the power and clarity that comes with orgasm to push into the spiritual realm. This can be a solitary practice, or one done with others. Probably the most famous sex magic practitioner was Aleister Crowley.

Folk Witch

Folk witches tend to preserve, maintain, and recreate historic magic and ritual practices established by pre-Christian ancestors.

Hereditary Witch

Hereditary witches come from a family of witches and will inherit or learn their practice from their elders. Their family has often been the shamanic heart of a community for generations.

Innate Witch

Innate witches are individuals born with certain abilities that look like magic. These can be hereditary, but this is not always the case. The ability, whether it be mediumship or the ability to heal, can vary greatly.

Grey Witch

People will often talk about black and white witches. The idea is that black witches use their power for their own personal gain, while white witches use their power for the greater good and follow the principle of “do no harm”. Grey witches, like white witches, tend to be driven by their desire to do good in the world, but they may be willing to do curses or hexes to punish those they see as evil doers.

You can see the broad number of different ways that a person may consider themselves a witch, and this is far from a comprehensive list. Plus, not every witch will fit into one of the categories that the witchcraft community use as shorthand to communicate about their practice. So, how would you define yourself as a witch?

[Full article here]

#grimoire #sex witch #kitchen witch #witchcraft #wicca #wiccan #witch #witches of tumblr #green witch #crystal witch #death witch #cosmic witch #divination #pagan #baby witch #beginner witch #ecclectic witch

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 2 years

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hi ari!!! how are apprentice and baby doing? have the rest of the batbrats met jilly?

"Gimme!" Cass demanded cheerfully, taking the baby gently from Jason's arms and grinning.

"Cass-" But he stopped himself when she cuddled the baby and cooed at her, delighted. He supposed, out of all his siblings, Cass was the least likely to drop her.

"You got lucky," Steph said, peering over Cass' shoulder, "Jilly looks like her mommy."

"She looks like a wrinkly alien," Damian scoffed.

"Master Damian," Alfred sighed, "I will not be helping you look for a remedy if Miss Y/N hexes you."

"She wouldn't-"

"Hormones, dude," Steph cautioned, "She can and will fuck you up- probably while ugly sobbing."

"It's not that bad," Jason said, watching Cass hand Alfred the baby. "But I figured I'd bring Jilly for a visit so she could get a shower and a nap without worrying about listening for Jilly to need something."

"Very sensible," Alfred said approvingly, shifting the baby over to cuddle her. Pleased to find her looking healthy, if not quite as plump as he'd like.

"Babysitting?" Dick asked, trolling in with Bruce, peering over Alfred's shoulder to look at his niece.

"It's not babysitting if it's your baby," Jason snorted, "Pretty sure that's just parenting."

#Jason Todd #Jason Todd x reader #apprentice!reader #ask answered #minors dni

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simlit · 8 months

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Chosen of the Sun | | forest // forty-one

| @sani-sims | @izayoichan

next / previous / beginning

KYRIE: I wish I was calling you both here under better circumstances. It’s been nearly a week since the ten of you first entered the forest. Taiyo and Tayuin have spent much of that time here recovering. EVE: Recovering? KYRIE: Yes. While Indryr has known of Taiyo’s affliction, this is the first you’re hearing of it. Taiyo was hexed in the previous trial. The curse is unlike anything the clerics here have seen. In the forest, Taiyo lost control, spreading his curse to Tayuin. For a while, they seemed to be doing well. Despite the circumstances, they were very nearly improving. But last night, things took a turn for the worst. KYRIE: They’ve been unresponsive. They’re breathing, but neither will wake. I know there is likely little either of you can do, but please, if there’s anything at all you can think of… they seem to be getting worse by the hour. INDRYR: I may have a few remedies that could, perhaps, stabilize them for a time. But without a certain cure… KYRIE: I know. EVE: I’ll do what I can to help, but I don’t know that I can succeed where other clerics have failed. KYRIE: I just need a little time. EVE: Yes, alright. INDRYR: I’ll get to work. EVE: Kyrie, are you alright? KYRIE: I suppose that remains to be seen. I can’t let them die. EVE: What are you going to do? KYRIE: What I should have done in the first place.

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #ts4 bachelor challenge #chosen of the sun #oc: kyrie loren #cc: eve ravenclaw-silvermoon #cc: indryr

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

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Welcome to Moon Siren Horticulture! - Morpheus x Witch!Reader

[MASTERLIST] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

SUMMARY: Running a plant shop known among deities and occultists just can not be a simple job. One day, the strangest client shows up looking for a remedy for a curse.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.5k

Dirty hands, strong smells that gave you a perpetual migraine, cuts from thorns all over your hands - running a horticulture store was a physically demanding job that became only more challenging when one considered a clientele of occultists, deities and pure madmen. The other side of the coin was the curious and hardly practical methods of payment you so often received like phoenix feathers, dragon scales, mermaid tears or sasquatch fur (you were never quite convinced about the authenticity of that one). Despite having no use for them, you had kept the strange artefacts patrons of the store had given you. It seemed like the more responsible thing to do rather than abandon them in the middle of nowhere for regular people to find.

The doorbell rang when you were repotting some plants. A heavy sigh left your lips - you didn’t want to leave your little maintenance task unfinished but you knew better than to make deities o cultists wait. As you had learned quite early on, sacrifices made one quite impatient if not entitled.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back in a bit,” you said to the plant. The stems and leaves waved in a disturbingly intelligent manner as though they had a mind of their own.

Rushing through the spacious greenhouse, you were frantically wiping your dirty hands on the thick apron you wore to work, although the dirt under your fingernails seemed humorously unimportant when it came to the entirety of your appearance - no matter how clean your hands could be, dust and leaves were still in your hair and your clothes reeked of nitrophosphate. Despite being unpleasant, you had a burning suspicion that it only added to your ‘strange plant expert’ image.

The man at the counter appeared about as bizarre as he looked charming. His dark hair was dishevelled as though he had only just woken up from a deep slumber. The black coat, if the night sky could ever be sawn into a garment, stood in contrast to his pasty skin. The stranger was quite thin, making his head look disproportionately big compared to the rest of his body. His protruding cheekbones contributed to his already quite strict demeanour. A raven’s croak resounded in the small shopping area of your store.

"Welcome to the Moon Siren Horticulture!” you exclaimed with a smile known only to people who had worked retail at least once in their life. “How can I help you?"

His glistening eyes of deep blue, a starry sky reflecting in a raging sea, stared at you with a disturbing lack of emotion. "I wish to lift a curse,” he said in a low voice. Paradoxically, the brooding ones were generally more pleasant than the giddy ones - mainly because they had a tendency to keep their thoughts to themselves.

"Of course, sir but I must ask: are you sure it's a curse?” you asked him in the most polite tone you could muster. Gods were often proud but rarely were they bright.

"Do not question me,” he warned you slowly.

Without a falter in your polite smile, you continued your inquiry: "Then tell me about this curse."

“A young boy,” he began in a breathy, low voice, “who’s neither asleep nor awake. He can not eat or drink and yet his body withers. His mind resides between life and death, inside a void between realms.”

You nodded to yourself. "Yes, I'm afraid it is a curse. A minor one, more of a hex but on a child nonetheless…” A shudder run through your body as you felt your skin crawl. "I’m sorry for being impolite. You have no idea how many old deities come through this door every day and talk about curses when they mean a common cold. Apparently, when people stop worshipping gods, the gods begin to lose their holy powers and need to wear scarves during colder months. Who would have thought?"

The sound of talons clicking against a clay pot swayed your attention. Looking away from the brooding patron, you saw the raven nip at a bell-shaped indigo flower with a golden stalk. The moment its beak touched the petals, the bird croaked loudly and jumped away from the plant.

"That's a Gilded Dendra, very poisonous. Turns your blood black. A truly horrible way to die,” you warned him. Disappearing into the greenhouse in the back of the store, you added: “You don't want to touch it, little friend!"

“Little friend? I’m kind of offended but I kind of like it,” Matthew bemurmured. “Hey, what’s a ‘moon siren’?” he asked loudly, partially expecting Morpheus to be the one who answers him.

“It’s not anything in particular,” you called back from the greenhouse. Grabbing the right pot, you were making your way back to the front of the store: “My grandfather was a sailor and had a tattoo of a siren sitting on a moon on his forearm. His wife, my grandmother, absolutely despised that tattoo, so when he passed away, she renamed the store in his memory.”

The clay pot settled on the counter with a muffled thud.

“What about this one?” the raven croaked. He was sitting on a branch of a small tree, or a big bush, with round, gold-coloured berries that looked a little too shiny and metallic to be considered ingestible. “Death by ambrosia?”

“This is Amberberry, safe to eat. It tastes like beetroot and honey. Some say they can also taste mint. Go on, have a few.” Your shoulders shrugged with disinterest. It was safe to say that working at a store that was fairly popular among the strange and divine, you were quite used to the ruckus. Redirecting your attention back to the strict-faced man, you presented him the plant you had just brought: "Long Verecund, Humilus Proceria. Often called Witch's Remedy. I’m sorry but I have to ask: have you ever prepared a cure for a curse?"

The flower generally looked like a rare specimen of a lady bell: small, lilac petals growing along a thin, long stem. Among all the other fragrances drifting through the air of the store, including the stench of nitrophosphate that stuck to your skin, it was virtually impossible to smell the faint, sweet aroma of the plant unless one had their nose right up against the lilac flowers.

He didn’t answer you - simply stared at you in anticipation. “It’s not complicated,” you gave him a nervous laugh. To be fair, you weren’t sure why exactly you were tense: was it because his ambiguously inhuman appearance had an odd charm to it or because his apparent lack of emotions made you unsure what reaction action to expect from him? “You need to grind two parts petals to one part moon water, bring to a simmer and keep slowly mixing until it's a smooth paste. The remedy should be either ingested or used as an ointment.” Here you made a small pause, for a moment pondering whether it wasn’t rude to inquire about the boy. But the image of a child being eaten away by a slow, malicious curse made your stomach churn and your sympathetic heart yearned to know more. “Who’s he to you? If I may ask?”

“An opportunity to pay off a very old debt,” the stranger answered. His response came off as assertive but not yet crude. “Name your price, witch.” For some reason, the title came out of his mouth dripping with venom as though the sole motion of his tongue pronouncing that word made him disgusted.

“I can’t take anything in return,” you said while shaking your head. “I don’t want to. The boy’s well-being is good enough for me.”

“I did not ask if you had a price. I asked what it was.”

Surprised, you lifted your eyebrows - he had to be the very first client that insisted on paying. “What do you think this flower is worth?”

“I’m not knowledgeable in plant maintenance.”

“You misunderstood me, sir. This Long Verecund, what is it worth to you? How much does it matter whether you have it or not?”

The stranger reached inside his coat. As though he had been prepared for your wish of strange currencies, he revealed… a snowglobe? It was a small trinket, couldn’t be taller than 7 centimetres. Once the golden sand, a curious element in a snow globe, settled, a statuette of a siren sitting on a moon was visible inside the sphere. It looked like something straight out of a souvenir shop but at the same time, it was strangely personal and thoughtful. He put the item on the counter before quietly saying: “The nightmares brought by the plant shall not bother you anymore.”

You furrowed your eyebrows feeling an odd sense of dread appear in your stomach. How on Earth did he know about Widow’s Woe?

The doorbell rang again as the man opened the door. The bright sound pulled you out of your own bewilderment. “Sir?” you called out to him before he could leave your store for good. Morpheus looked at you over his shoulder, silently awaiting whatever it was you needed to tell him. “I wish you all the best. I really do.”

“Thank you.”

Part of you wished he’d swing by again but maybe not because of cursed children that time.

____

I played "Strange Horticulture" and absolutely loved it. A chill game with plants and achievements for petting a cute black cat? Hell yeah!!

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alliaskisthepossibilityoflove · 3 months

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[podfic] do you love me? all you gotta do is say yes

written by fleetinghearts and read by All_I_Ask

9-1-1, Teen and up, Buddie, 31 minutes

summary:

two boy best friends and an ex lover walk into a grocery store. everyone is on their normalest behaviour.

the most important tag:

Friends to Fiancés

a snippet:

and the whole story is on AO3

This is written by Nina and recorded for Nina - go shower him in all the love @shitouttabuck and on AO3❣️❣️❣️💞💞💞 - and for James who has been q-worded at work today (go send him jokes and commiserations and jinx and hex remedies @diazsdimples) and also for everyone else who wants something silly to tide them over till TOMORROW 🙌🫶

tags below

Thank you @tizniz for tagging me for wip wednesday ❤️

I'm tagging @shitouttabuck, @cal-daisies-and-briars, @lover-of-mine, @try-set-me-on-fire, @diazsdimples, @acountrygirlsfun, @jeeyuns, @rewritetheending, @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels, @thewolvesof1998, @eddiebabygirldiaz, @bucksbignaturals, @daffi-990, @wikiangela, @rhea314, @glorious-spoon, @mistmarauder, @spotsandsocks, @aroeddiediaz and anyone else who is losing their mind today, too 😘

#My podfic #adventures in podficcing #911 TV #Buddie #Fic rec

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myhauntedsalem · 2 months

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The Grave of Meg Shelton

Lancashire, England

In the late seventeenth century the people of Woodplumpton, a small village in Lancashire, England believed a woman called Meg Shelton to be a witch. They claimed she would steal the milk from other people’s cattle and transform herself into animal form at night as she carried out her mischievous deeds. According to legend, when Meg was crushed to death by a barrel that pinned her to a wall when she was buried the town took extra precautions to prevent her and her powers from ever rising again. The townspeople buried her vertically, head first in the ground in a small, tight shaft so that if she tried to dig her way out she’d be going the wrong way. They then covered the hole with a large stone so that she may never escape. The stone remains to this day in the churchyard of St Anne’s Church accompanied by a small plaque warning visitors that the Witch of Woodplumpton lies buried beneath. This seemed to work as she was never seen again, although in the 1920’s a young boy said that he had seen a woman dressed in funny clothes wandering in the graveyard.

The famous Eye of God carved into the tower at Newchurch near Pendle Hill was said to keep evil at bay and similar symbols can be seen in ancient houses in the area. At a cottage in Rawtenstall is a witch’s post designed to stop evil coming down the chimney.

Many of the stories associated with Meg tell of her ability to change her appearance and how she would use this ability to cause mischief and steal from the local farmers. On one occasion a farmer became suspicious when he discovered that he had more sacks of corn piled up than there should have been. He grabbed a pitchfork and began to prod the sacks. Suddenly one of the sacks let out a scream and turned into Meg.

On another occasion a farmer looking into one of his fields where he kept his cows saw an old woman with a goose which was feeding on the grass. He thought nothing of it until he noticed that from the goose’s bill was dripping a white liquid. He rushed into the field and kicked the goose at which point it shattered into a thousand pieces spraying milk everywhere. Meg had been stealing milk and had turned her jug into a goose to fool the farmer. Meg screeched with rage and flew off.

One day a farmer saw a hare in one of his fields and set his great black dog after it. The hare moved like the wind but the dog was even faster and a desperate race ensued. Gradually the great black dog moved closer and closer but mysteriously the hare headed straight for Meg’s cottage and escaped through the front door but just at the last moment the dog managed to nip one of its hind legs. From that time on it was said that Meg walked with a pronounced limp!

So if you think someone has given you the evil eye, here are some remedies:

If you are bewitched

a cross made from rowan twigs is said to be effective

A lump of metal, such as an old key or sickle, put under the threshold stone or a broom laid across the doorway will keep evil at bay

Horseshoes nailed onto doors keep the luck in

Stones with holes in them, called hag stones or hex-stones, are very good when hung up at keeping out witches or devil-doings

In old houses have been found glass jars filled with bent nails. These were designed not only to ward off spells but to return the evil to those who had sent it

If this doesn’t work try salt. The purifying properties of salt are renown for destroying a witch’s power

Don’t forget to crumple old eggshells to prevent witches using them as boats or hiding in them

sounding church bells is a sure way to stop witches flying on their broomsticks.

#The Grave of Meg Shelton #England #a small village in Lancashire #ghost and hauntings #paranormal #ghost and spirits #haunted locations #haunted salem #myhauntedsalem #paranormal phenom

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thedustybunny · 9 months

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Chamomile kisses - Chapter 4

Viktor Arcane x Fem!Reader

You can find this series under the #chamomilekisses tag

As he entered his lab, the heart of his revolutionary research, he couldn't shake the lingering thought of you. He settled into his routine, slipping on his goggles, his focus on the complex equipment and intricate hex crystals that lay before him. He was driven by a vision of changing the world, of proving that science had the power to transform lives and offer tangible solutions to those who believed.

Just as he was about to lose himself in his work, the door swung open, and Jayce walked in – his one and only companion, the unwavering supporter of Viktor's ambitious endeavors. However, today Jayce's expression was far from pleased. "What is your deal, Viktor?" he demanded, his frustration evident.

Viktor huffed, readying himself for the impending conversation. "She's done nothing to you, and you're treating her like-… like she's some kind of a puppy-killer! What's your problem?"

"She might as well be," Viktor retorted, his voice carrying a mix of annoyance and conviction. "All that herbal nonsense, it's a waste of time and a mockery of real science."

Jayce's brows furrowed in disbelief. "Viktor, she's tried to be friendly, and you're shutting her down at every turn. The incident with the basket? That was completely uncalled for."

Viktor's gaze turned cold. "She's a purveyor of false hope. I don't need her sympathy, and I certainly don't need her so-called remedies."

Jayce's frustration reached its peak as he locked eyes with his stubborn friend. They argued back and forth, with Jayce attempting to reason and Viktor standing his ground with unwavering determination. "You're pushing people away, Viktor. You're doing yourself a disservice by isolating yourself like this."

"I don't need her. " Viktor snapped, his tone icy. "Now, if you're quite finished, I have actual work to do."

Defeated, Jayce sighed heavily, a sense of hopelessness washing over him. He had tried to bridge the gap, to get through to Viktor, but it seemed impossible. With a final, resigned "fine," Jayce took a seat nearby and picked up his own tools. The sound of soldering irons and machinery filled the lab, a stark contrast to the underlying tension that remained.

In the midst of their separate pursuits, Viktor buried himself in his research, fueled by a need to prove himself right and change the world. Jayce, on the other hand, worked beside him, torn between loyalty to his friend and a growing sense of frustration. The chapter of understanding and reconciliation had closed abruptly, leaving a rift that seemed impossible to mend.

A week had passed since your futile attempt at reconciliation with Viktor. As you walked by him in the hallway, you couldn't bring yourself to glance his way anymore. The polite nods and exchanges you once shared had vanished, replaced by an icy silence that seemed to be your new norm.

Then, the unexpected happened – the box full of papers he was struggling to carry slipped from his grasp, scattering its contents across the floor. Normally, you would rush to help, especially given that he was visibly struggling right in front of you. But this time, you held back a snicker, a small act of defiance that betrayed the frustration and hurt you felt.

His glare shot daggers your way, and he scoffed. "So mature of you to help me."

With a mixture of anger and bitterness, you shot back, "I'm useless, remember?" Without another word, you walked ahead of him, your footsteps carrying you toward your clinic.

Guilt tugged at you, a reminder that this wasn't who you were. You had never been one to be mean or callous, but the walls you had built were strong, fueled by the hurt he had caused. Why should you waste your love and kindness on someone so resistant to it?

You reached your clinic, where eager customers were already lined up outside. As you opened your doors, a wave of satisfaction washed over you. Today was about something positive – introducing your new line of herbal goat milk soaps. With a genuine smile, you greeted each customer, explaining the benefits of your products, and basking in the warmth of their enthusiasm.

You reveled in this new chapter of your life, one that was defined by your own pursuits and passions. As you stood behind the counter, engaging with customers who appreciated your work, the echoes of Viktor's muttered curses behind you served as a reminder that you were on the right path. You wouldn't allow his negativity to dampen your spirit any longer.

With every smile you exchanged and every product you introduced, you found a sense of fulfillment you hadn't known before. The cloud that had hung over you in recent times was lifting, and you were determined to let the light in. As your clinic thrived and your new line of herbal goat milk soaps gained popularity, you couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph over the negativity that had once weighed you down. The journey ahead was uncertain, but you were more than ready to face it head-on, leaving behind the memory of the man who had only served to sow discord in your life.

#viktor x you #viktor arcane x you #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #chamomilekisses #arcane #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader #arcane x reader #viktor arcane #arcane x you #now you’re enemies #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to lovers

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matt0044 · 3 months

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Morningmark's Viney and Skara spin-off is really cool.

Especially when he has the story beats fit seamlessly into the corresponding Owl House episodes. I feel like this sort of thing remedies certain shows similar to The Owl House have in terms of hang-ups: an expansive cast that's largely set decoration but one that'd be too overwhelming for the writers to juggle.

Even with all the seasons with Disney staying in their lane (the best timeline), Lux, the Hex Squad and Eda are a good anchor for the show to stay focused so we don't have to keep track of everybody's business. Buuuuuuuut there's still that allure of what else is going on in the Boiling Isles.

What other stories are going on while the main protagonists are being, well, the main protagonists? This is sort of why I feel like some show appear "rushed" or "stuffed with too many characters" even when most are secondary characters who share the spotlight for when an episode calls for it.

But I like this sort of storytelling where we ask what was going on elsewhere at that moment leading up to here. It's kind of way, for all our bemoaning, why Star Wars is this successful with series like Resistance and The Clone Wars' final season display what was going on while the main characters were doing their thing.

Frankly, it's the sort of spin-off stories that should be afforded to more popular series.

#the owl house #viney toh #toh skara #morningmark #spin-off #disney #dana terrace #owl house #luz noceda #eda clawthorne #skara x viney

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bodybeyondstories · 10 months

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Just ignore it - 1

David is teaching a course on identifying and managing magical anomalies, and begins to suspect there may be a reality-warper in class. Largely because everyone's butt looks too good to believe.

2 (Next)

(btw this is inspired by one of my favorite TF stories)

“Now the point of these journals is to start recognizing energetic and temporal anomalies, better attuning yourselves to…”

I paused mid-sentence, feeling that something was off, taking a beat before I continued with the lecture. I was hoping to have some time to settle into the Fall semester before having to deal with an inevitable minor metaphysical crisis, but a reality warper a few weeks in was not what I saw coming.

Having a job that includes resolving paranormal wrinkles in spacetime seems exciting until you realize that somehow they’ve found a way to turn it into yet another 9 to 5. People often expect some sort of imposing mansion or gothic structure whenever they hear “Center of Supernatural Sciences,” but it’s actually a squat concrete block cobbled together by a regional college in the 70s. The scariest thing for visitors is figuring out how to connect to the WiFi, though if you’re rude to Seema at the front desk, she will put a hex on you and that’s just your own fault. It’s been a mainstay on this campus for decades, but for how much longer was unclear, as administration has been defunding us relentlessly for as long as I’ve been here. The university doesn’t see our value in light of its own investments in mass surveillance technology and a more ‘hard science’ study of spookiness, but the work we do is still important. Supernatural phenomena are much more common than a lot of people realize–it’s just a matter of actually paying attention–and our work is split between teaching, research, and service, addressing issues locally and regionally as they arise.

And no, we’re not magic cops. We’re not out to punish or control, fist bumping each other as we shoot silver bullets first and ask questions later. That’s archaic. We investigate, mitigate, and remediate, stepping in whenever the fabric of reality gets a little too bunched or frayed and mending as best we can.

I teach a class called “Investigating Supernatural Threats” almost every semester, which is a title that I absolutely despise–I think it’s an insult to our more than human neighbors–but the department is worried that if we change it we’ll end up losing funding to the criminal justice program, and it’s a hill I’m only willing to get bruised on. But it’s a survey of identifying and responding to paranormal, metaphysical, and magical shenanigans, so it tends to get all kinds. It’s usually a relatively small group, a smattering of grad students from occult history to crypto-zoology, museum curators and archivists needing a refresher on what to be cautious of, and often–which I’m personally delighted by–new forest rangers sent by the state’s Department of Natural Resources who are doing overnights for the first time.

But back to the issue at hand. It’s my job to stay observant across multiple temporal and dimensional planes, so I’m known for picking up on minor phenomena and patterns that at first glance may not seem significant. So around week 3, I couldn’t help but notice that most, if not all, of the men in the class had near perfect, juicy butts, yet all unique in their own ways. I was used to commanding attention with a round booty sitting pretty on my 6’1” frame, looking downright disproportionate against my lean swimmer’s build–a blessing and a curse, really–but some of them were giving me a run for my money. Which isn’t really an issue, squats are en vogue and there are plenty of male leg day enthusiasts thanks to social media trends, not that I’m complaining, but in week 4, I picked up on the fact that all of their pants fit so well. Too well. Like not just fitted but custom made for each of their unique and sizeable proportions, as if carefully crafted to emphasize and display their bubble butts. A telltale sign.

During class, I kept my extrasensory eyes and ears open, seeing if I could pick up on any novel energetic shifts. And I felt something odd. Something deep and subsonic, pressing tentatively against the borders of our reality, like a sperm whale floating up to a kayak without making a sound. I could feel an energy seeping into local space, something building to some sort of threshold, before, with a submerged *pop* that I could ‘hear’ elsewhere, it was gone. It was like nothing had happened. In fact, nothing had happened. I turned to the board to continue writing something that I had forgotten, only realizing after class had ended that I had been writing about two inches above where I had left off. I did a somatic check, quickly scanning my body from toes to head to fingertips. I felt fine, had all ten fingers, only two eyes, an ass that could stop traffic, still a strapping 6’3”. But had that been true an hour ago? Doubt was setting in.

As someone who teaches the detection and mitigation of magical fuckery, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with a potential situation like this. You’d be surprised how often some horny gay warlock has a little too much fun and needs to be reined in, or someone’s chaos magic manifests without them realizing–even worse, with them fully realizing. If you’ve ever had to neutralize an entire college dorm (and a frat house to boot) you would understand why we need more funding and support in magical education, but this isn’t the time for my soap box. A mystery’s afoot.

My most important piece of advice: Just ignore it. The thing is, a reality warper is a serious matter. If you call someone out, you better come correct and prepared for anything. Even just them knowing that you know–or that you’re on the hunt–can get real messy real fast. So you have to act casual. Don’t let them know you’re on to them, and don’t let them know that you know that something is seriously off. This is why I always introduce an extended project around tracking anomalies in the fabric of spacetime, having my students keep journals of anything weird, unusual, or metaphysically wobbly. Don’t react in real time, just on paper and in private, keeping a record of things as they happen. But it seemed like whoever this was was influencing the passage of time in very subtle ways and everyone’s memories, for the most part, were adjusting accordingly. Which is why no one in class has batted an eye at the fact that the asses in this room look like they were expertly morphed to near-comical proportions. After all, what else is new? So I took a different strategy and laid a trap.

The donk on my 6’4” frame (Hmm…) was a sight to behold. All muscle with a healthy layer of padding ballooning out from my otherwise lithe form. It was leaps and bounds my best feature, had been for as long as I could remember. I was used to men staring dumbfounded in public as my cheeks swished back and forth, including my own students whenever I turned to the blackboard, pushing it out ever so slightly as I leaned forward to write, the globes of my ass encased in one of many perfectly tailored pairs of tweed slacks. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, seeing as any pants off the rack would either be way to loose in the waist or way too tight in the glutes, risking catastrophic failure. So I got my pants carefully fitted, but the thing was, so did everyone else. All the men in the class, from muscle butts to perky, round ones, to jiggly booties and wide hips, always had expertly fitted pants without fail. So we know what the focus of the shifts was, but it seemed like it was an expert reworking of time, and with that, memory. The phenomenon of unusually juicy asses in class pinged on my paranormal radar, but mine had always been this way. Right?

The thing is, the fit of everyone’s pants wasn’t just good, it was too good. Perfect, even. Yes, I had memories of having all my slacks tailored but they fit like they had been hand sewn on a lifelike model of my bulbous glutes with millimeter scale precision, not too little and not too much. So I found a pair that I didn’t much care for and took a razor to the back seam to weaken it just so. I squeezed into my form fitting pants and made my way to campus, careful not to stress the stitches too much and too fast, waddling into the room early and looking forward to this ordeal being over. Before anyone showed up, I cast a spell of detection around the space. Not detection of magical activities, which would’ve risked tripping any alarms that my possible warper may have already had in place, not to mention the possibility of interfering chaotically with their own spell whose function I was still unsure of. It was more of an emotional and energetic heat map, tipping me off to any sudden shifts in people’s auras.

Class began like normal as I offered some further thoughts inspired by the previous week’s discussion of AI programs as a potential tool of revealing and visualizing temporal anomalies. The discipline, in order to stay relevant, had been getting into the implications of digital technologies and new media for magical phenomena, so I figured we should spend a little more time on the topic. Also I was genuinely interested in hearing people’s thoughts, albeit distracted by the ticking time bomb of my basketball buns putting catastrophic pressure on my pants as I sometimes too excitedly paced across the front of the room.

Per usual, I could feel the crescendo of strange, unfamiliar power rubbing almost playfully along the barrier between worlds, but everyone’s auras seemed fine. There was no corresponding wave of connected energy from any one person, beyond the general simmer of erotic activation (i.e. horniness) that spiked every time I turned my back to the class. I had become familiar with the exact threshold that this power would hit before it seemingly reset everything to a new, slightly more enhanced normal, and I was counting on the regularity of that threshold with the timing of this next move.

The previous, and now continuing discussion of new media had led me to realize that the enhanced asses in the room really did look like expertly done morphs and the perfect fit of every pair of pants, no matter the material, was simply improbable. Whoever this was, whatever this was, was operating along the edges of possibility, letting fantasy seep into what we generally regard as the real (or what we think is the real). So I figured, why not use one of my favorite tropes and see what happens.

My tweed slacks were impeccable but not indestructible and as the energetic threshold was reached I just happened to drop my chalk, quickly bending down to retrieve it. The spike in erotic attention from the view of my ballooning backside paled in comparison to what followed, as the seam of my pants finally gave way, my cheeks spilling into view along with a pair of pink and purple polka dotted bikini briefs that did nothing to cover the shelf of my ass.

I played it off with my expert acting skills (this wasn’t the first time I had to feign surprise from some magical mishap), performing a practiced mixture of embarrassment and humor that I assumed the reality-shifter would expect. From the men in class was a mix of nodding in understanding and whispers of It’s even bigger than I thought and How did those pants even fit. I felt a wave of erotic energy move through the room, but there was a spike of something else in the back corner. Something sharper, a tendril of fantastical power peeking into our dimension, concentrated around Logan, who I found staring directly at me with a look of surprise and mild confusion.

I knew of Logan, he was an archivist based in the college’s paranormal artifacts collection, and I think he had signed up for my class as a refresher for methods and safety when investigating and collecting potentially powerful and chaotic objects. He was skinny all around, topping out at no more than 5’7”, his thick, hexagonal rimmed glasses sitting below a mop of bouncy curls with an undercut. He usually came in wearing a pair of loose, flowy drop crotch pants, a surprisingly bohemian look with his otherwise reserved demeanor and sensible button downs. He was demur and unassuming, not seeming like the kind of person to cause this kind of trouble. But at this point he was the only dude in class that didn’t have an absolute dump truck.

The following week, I wondered why I had even hatched that plan in the first place, seeing as I always wear a skirt over tasteful leggings. I had given up on wearing pants years ago because it was just too much of a hassle, opting instead to let the globes of my ass bounce back and forth with more freeform bottomwear. Slacks were constricting enough in the back, but I was also tired of my donkey dick being suffocated in the crotch. A blessing and a curse. It looked like a couple of the guys in class had followed suit, perched on their round glutes as they let some thick bulges snake down leggings or compression shorts.

No wonder those pants ripped, I thought. I probably haven’t worn those in–

Ah ha. Another bread crumb. And an added wrinkle. Time hadn’t been totally rewritten and my memory hadn’t been totally wiped, just altered in the most efficient way in that moment. In fact, I was still mentally very much on the case and making progress. It wasn’t the sort of loose thread that a reality warper this competent would leave, and by now they must realize that I of all people would be on to them. I began to surmise that Logan wasn’t the one pulling the strings, but was actually some sort of conduit. Maybe for a bored trickster god playing an erotic prank–which, frankly, happens much more often than you’d think.

That week, through irony or serendipity, we actually were discussing strategies for navigating the psychological and emotional games that tricksters love to play, but as the supernatural energy began building on schedule, that previous playfulness had hints of… irritation? The power was a little discordant and I could feel it somatically in a way that I hadn’t before; it seemed everyone else could too. We continued on like normal as my leggings felt fuller and tighter in the glutes, my shoes feeling uncomfortably snug as more of my ankles revealed themselves, my dick inexorably snaking its way towards my hip while staying totally soft.

This was new. And potentially a game changer. But I, along with my students, followed the central mantra of my profession: Note it. Track it. But until you have a plan in place, just ignore it.

#male tf #butt growth #ass growth #bodybeyond

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