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cherubispunk · 11 months

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ICHOR. BLOOD. WATER. (part ii // blood.) - Din Djarin x Witch!AFAB!Reader

summary: stranded. alone. a traitor to your people, your family. aeaea is the prison of paradise you call home, and he is the prophecy you like to call an enigma. the 'man made from metal', forged in fire, melted by your spell that is no witchcraft on your part. he is the hunter, you will always be the prey. it is the way as the fates designed it.

a note from lucy: this was meant to be posted earlier and it was also meant to be longer but ive been through so much these past few weeks i couldnt bring myself to write much more. for those waiting on dealer!Joel, its coming. it might just take me a little while. thank you all for your patience. i love you all, look after yourselves.

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wc: 1692 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! mythology!au, no use of y/n, dubcon, smut, p in v sex (unprotected), reference to , cussing, mentions of witchcraft, voyeurism, mentions of drinking alcohol, mentions of food and descriptions of eatin, oral sex - m receiving, orgasm denial, toxic relationships, dom!din/sub!reader dynamic, sex as a means for manipulation and control, manipulative!din, stockholm syndrome?

series m.list | m.list

You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite. — Madeline Miller ‘Circe’

‘Strangle me with Aphrodite’s very pearls. What a beautiful creation. Funny how we will all die but seek love for a pitiful salvation.’ Words engraved, etched into the gravestone of…this. This creation of torture. Of serpents’ forked tongues and gnashing lions teeth. Silence so large and gaping it made your heart dare to beat only in the ricochet of the shiver down your spine. He was the sharp blade of a knife, you were the wetstone he used to perfect its slide of slice. Bleed ichor from your veins while he grazes blunt teeth over the shallow skin upon your collarbone.

You didn't care. ‘Give me that pointed, glimmering blade’, you thought, its vermillion stain now smeared too with gold. ‘Give me that blade. Some things are worth bloodshed.’

He was a killer. And his bounty was set on your spirit. Your calm. Your superiority over him. In his field, he was a master of his art. His armour gleamed as a trophy for his succession of rank. His clan– Here…he was a novice once again. Knew not a drop of knowledge of your craft, nor the whispering properties of each flower bud, fruit pit and herb stem in your garden. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme were nothing but cooking materials to him. And even that was a stretch to his mind.

You wished to be Anothny’s Cleopatra to him. Not a wicked witch of the western tides. Toughened beauty, once black coals under pressure, now gleaming in diamond and its own giant covalent structure. Him swooning over your flesh for months and his tongue speaking within your mouth. There was no turquoise over your eyes, nor the stain of the madder root over your lips to paint him with. His face was still an image that belonged to your mind. Not the reality you lived now with him tangled in your sheets. Rippled muscled under a tapestry of scars and skin.

He did some things. Mainly doted care to the child whom you sense properties in. A magic akin to your own, yet not all the same. His was one of energy, a flowing combination of entities, living a breathing through you, him, the mandalorian and each living being on this island. Mauve further. It was a balance that even you did not know the tipping point of nor the origin of its birth. It was shaking. It crumbled under the erosion of water to salt pillars until its foundations skimmed to their very bare bones.

It took with it the light of your sanctuary and morphed into Tartarus, so your soul may burn in forged cast iron chains. They were white hot in the black soot tinders. Glowing violently in your corneas while they singed sight. Scorched touch. Seared taste. The battle of yours and the child's power.

You watched in awe one night, the lights out, but a single sliver of silver from Artemis’s glow caught the sharpened tip of a knife you know strapped to your thigh under the skirts of your dress. Would his blood sizzle when it touched the blade, as you only imagined it ran hot and thick with the brazen burn of his anger. Ichor? No. He was no god. But his touch was of divinity. And left a tingle of power in its bone cramping wake. Wailing for more.

Only just the night before you had dropped to your knees in the doorframe of your chambers. Took off his armour beforehand in wordless undoing. Your tragic hero ending. And then gave him your mouth. Not words. Nor cunt. Just the mouth. Tip of the tongue, the lips and teeth. The stretch of his cock still wrung out your throat. Slick and wanting while it mimicked the way your cunt hugged the tip so well. Tased of salt and something more. Something forbidden or taboo. And he took his time with slow shallow thrusts at first, a large gloved hand cradling the curve of the jaw that went slack to let him buck deeper.

This morning was one of the first times you lamented over the now restricted motion in your jaw. The ache still nagged into the later hours, when The Mandalorian returned from your gardens, the bloody and mangled caracas of a rabbit thumping down on the table. He sat at the head of the table opposite you, cleaning the blood from his knife on his cape. You thought if you saw his eyes — be it hickory, azure, or pine — you would have crystallised in that very moment and that very form. Cured oak table under your fingertips, feet planted into the terracotta floor. His irises setting your thrumming heart dead still.

This was the man you let into your bed.

He remained there, sat still in his chair while the child babbled in the kitchen with you. You took that rabbit. Skinned it. Dressed it. And roasted the meat in a marinade of white wine and spices from the edge of your fenced garden. Later you would hang the pelt and let it air — make something for the child. Mittens maybe.

For now, you took your time circling the table to place each plate down: cheese, seasoned greens, a cup for the vessel of wine to his side. The silverware gleamed menacing in dim candlelight while he awaited each plate, unmoving in his armour while each delicacy was gifted to him upon his high table. And when you retired to your seat, the child had taken his too and started his feast, sticky plum jam smeared over his lips as he dribbled innocently and unaware over his rabbit leg.

But upon your silver plate was a single strip of black cloth, folded over twice on itself.

Your eyes lifted to meet him, wide in wondering question. Only to hit a barrier of beskar when you see his visor still covers his face. Not a scrap of food had been helped onto his plate by his still gloved hands. His boots that traipsed dirt through your door were still on his feet, caked in mud on the soles.

“What’s this?” Nothing. Not a word past his lips. “Am I to figure it out for myself?” He cleared his throat, raising his head so his chin jutted out towards you. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.”

You pouted, pressing your tongue to the flesh on the inside of your cheek, then kissed your teeth.

“You mean to dictate my freedom in my own home.” You scoffed and slung your arms across your chest, crossing them. “At my own table? You are sick in your own head, Mandalorian, if you think I am one to bend my will to the whims of others. Especially in my own house.” And he repeated,

while his shoulders drew taught under his pauldrons with the armour gleaming in the silver glare of Selene’s chariot. And he planted a seed in your stomach, turned in it, and made you feel sick. You preferred him between your legs, his name between your teeth and tongue.

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.”

Eyes fell to the plate, that cloth once more. Would it be poisoned? The fabric snared with nettle to sting your eyes. Here you had two choices. Stay, blind yourself, yield to him somewhere other than your chambers. Or stand and leave. Either way, it was an act of submission.

You did neither. Instead, you stood, kicking your chair back behind you before swanning over to the seat next to him, taking the other leg of rabbit and sinking your teeth into its cooked flesh, all the while your eyes on him. To tartarus with xenia, he outstayed his welcome long after he passed the threshold of your home. Helios could come and smite you for all you cared, the fates could snip your golden immortal line of yarn. No horror could compare to the satisfaction you had as you stuffed your face with food you'd slaved over for him. His refusal was your gain and soon you moved onto the plumbs, sticky sweet juice dribbling down your demented smile.

You wafted the half chewn and mangled fleshy bone in his face, smirking with your mouth full.

“Go on, Madalorian.” You crooned, “have a bite. Give in a little.”

His hand snatched your wrist the moment the words left your stained lips, gloved fingertips making something click in your bones. You bit down the pain with a swallow, smirk remaining triumphant across your features.

“Put it down.” He grimaced, curling his helmet covered lip at the state of you. Unkempt and wild, shrewish in your dignity.

“Or what?”

He let go. Sat back, pushed out a huff through his nostrils.

Then he stood. You watched unphased and delighted with yourself as he took the child who cooed up at him. And listened out for his heavy footsteps as he climbed the stairs to his and the child’s room. Then silence. All the while you tossed the stripped bone to his plate and licked your fingers.

You didn’t know what you would rather prefer. Him to come back down. Or stay and retire to bed. Regardless, he’d take you eventually. Here or up in your bed chambers. Unlace your corset or nightgown. Use you as his nightcap before slipping off. Without getting a look upon him. Not a sliver of his visage to hold to in sleep.

He did come down. And with a heavy hand bent you over the head of the table, a gloved palm pressing your face into the wood.

Physically you were here. Mentally, you were back against the silver birch. His cock splitting you in two once again while you smiled sadistically in candlelight. Him seeping into you through the cracks of your ribs, the gaps between your teeth. The opening of yourself to the twisting knot of denial within you.

Between your thighs where he belonged.

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t-top-apologist · 4 months

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Texans are terrible drivers born with the innate need to run red lights whenever possible, but much of the insanity of Texan driver is attributed to the interstates, where 65 miles per translates to "95 in the slow lane" through the magic of the southern drawl.

The Buick Century got its name from the term "doing the Century," its marketers boasting of the ability to reach the unheard of speed of 100mph with the help of a hotrodded inline eight engine. Nowadays Your average Texan V6 Ford driver hits that on their way to sit in Dallas traffic for 2 hours.

The beauty of the highway is that there's generally nobody on it, which allows you to go speeds that-- why yes officer I must have just been a little road weary and zoned out, I'll stop at the next rest stop a few miles down the road. Except Texas seems to hold an ungodly amount of people for a state proclaiming to be very big and full of open spaces, and all of them are mad at you and your four cylinder compact for not letting them take their F150s to what would be felony speeds anywhere else. They're even madder in Dallas Traffic, because "the city of a thousand overpasses" is somehow always one overpass away from solving the automotive bottleneck that turns perfectly good interstate into one long parking lot.

That last bit is the kicker. The Texas driver is a bad driver in all environments, but straightline highway is where the reputation thrives. Urban traffic, with its turn lanes and roadsigns (other than the ones that say "Stop," they know to ignore those) robs them of the power to tailgate at velocities previously reserved for Maglev trains.

Enter the Italian Driver, an invasive species born for bullying their way across eight lanes of dense urban traffic in a vehicle that looks like a car if you squint and ignore both the two stroke motorcycle engine powering it and the fact that you can adjust both door mirrors from the drivers seat. At the same time.

The italian will do its best to keep up at highway speeds, but soon as traffic slows down, it's all over. The average texan is left utterly bewildered by the maneuvers of the Italian driver. The average italian regularly makes illegal turns so heinous as to earn their own section in the geneva convention. We simply cannot let this take root. San Antonio has Terracotta roofs already, the soil is ripe, it'll be like Kudzu in the south all over again.

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averbaldumpingground · 10 months

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Poetry Prompt: "I think of lovers as trees, growing to and / from one another, searching for the same light." (From The Unbearable Weight of Staying by Warsan Shire)

The dream begins the same: the roots where the old women sit, their tangled threads already dyed with madder. The one that holds the distaff smiles.

He screams himself awake, the poison burning through the muscles of his stomach. Prophetic dreams like these can only bring more ruin to him now.

But there is something in the spinner's eyes. As she bends, winds her skein, it's almost like she's offering a promise.

It's always then the pain begins anew. His fingers being flayed, his magic gone. He doesn't have the strength to make it stop.

And always in this dream, there is another thread. Much shorter than his own, and tangled in the lowest hanging branches. He knows exactly whose it is, despite the pain.

The one who holds the spindle laughs. The thread has not been cut. Not yet.

#fanfiction #Loki #December 3 2023 #Kind of left field but this is what I thought of when thinking of tress and love.#Not very happy with this but I'm falling asleep.

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ourmotherthemountainfic · 1 year

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2. Visitors

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance | Action, Sci-Fi

This is the third book in the series. Book One | Book Two

Full Chapter List

Ethan’s Journal

September 30

Donna’s doing better today. She had trouble seeing and walking after whatever the hell Karl and Moreau did to her. I wish they would have just let me handle it. Still, she’s recovering, and Evie’s been doting on her so it’s okay I guess. After the surgery Karl came up to smoke and his hands were shaking. Never seen that before. I’m not going to let them do that to Salvatore, there’s no point. I’ll just sneak up from behind him and take it out…I’m just biding my time until I show them that I can actually do it. I also plan to check on Donna myself soon, just to make sure there's no lasting damage. (I don't know how to do that, but the thing in my head tells me not to worry about it-it can be done.)

Karl is still mad at me and hasn’t talked much this week since I brought up the fact that his brother gave his one chance at preserving his own life to MIRANDA. I’m still mad about it, so he can stay quiet for all I care. He’s been in his own room every night, probably obsessing over that stupid key, or some other mechanical thing. I think he likes them because they don’t talk back. So he has nobody to challenge his thoughts.

We buried Colm’s crystallized body last night….well, our group minus Donna, because she wasn’t able to walk that day. Godric said ‘somewhere beautiful’, and I figured he’d want to be far away from the castle, since he was imprisoned there. We chose a spot by the waterfall. Close to where we had Eva’s ceremony. Water is supposed to make the Mold’s powers stronger. Plus….can’t see the castle from there. It probably doesn’t matter since he’s hundreds of years dead, but you never know around here. I thought maybe he would get absorbed and appear or something “magic” would happen, but nothing did. I really hope there’s some way for him to be reunited with the King.

Guess what? No fucking purifying crystal in his tomb. Because OF COURSE nothing is ever that easy around here. I was so mad. The Black God was madder. Now we have no other leads on where it might be. I’m not sure it’s necessary to defeat Miranda, but things would be really bad if she found it before us. And she’s really trying.

Eva was really intrigued by the crystal on the tomb crest though. It’s one of the original crystals in the ancient root (she was shocked I knew that) So we have that one now, but none of us can touch it. Karl had to pry it out and it made his nose drip with black fluid. He put it in a magnetized box and carried that, but it still hurt him somehow. He said energy was moving through the magnetic field. That thing is more dangerous than the explosives Chris brought. It’s in a locked safe in our basement.

Alcina came with us to the castle when we unearthed the underground chamber, but she didn’t stay after. She more or less locked herself in the castle. I told the others about her plan and they were really upset. Well, Karl wasn’t upset…he was quiet. I think Donna and Moreau have been brainwashed by Miranda into thinking their lives are only worthwhile if the Lords are all together.

I don’t know if they think she’ll go through with it. They weren’t there when she talked to Godric…I can feel it….she wants this. I honestly don’t think Alcina cares about saving the mold or any of us, and that might not happen anyway–she just seems lonely. I told her I would stop by tonight after the girls are in bed and see how she’s feeling. I’ll invite Eva with me, she’s always better at talking than I am.

Moreau moved back to his cabin, which is now finished. There are several other buildings getting built down there too. They even have electricity. He and Karl have been working like crazy…he says it’s because government workers are supposed to start the sluice in a few weeks. I just feel like everybody is still avoiding me, because they are. I don’t care.

If I squint when looking into the valley it almost looks like a shadow of a village. Roofs, and smoke, and a road, and some fencing. It should make me feel better-Chris said to blend in, after all- but it doesn’t….I hate looking at it. I feel like Miranda is lurking just under the ground like some kind of Billy Goats gruff troll, waiting to pop up and ruin everything.

—--------

Ethan’s pencil hovered over the sketch; his phone buzzed, and he turned it over. A text from Chris.

Convoy headed your way.

The blond frowned, and he responded, Who ?

Donno. The picture I got just looked like wagons. From the east mountains.

Oh, that’s where the Roma village is. Wait, you have eyes on me?

Not on you, on anything suspicious with the mold.

They’re not suspicious. You’re suspicious.

Fine, next time I’ll just let you be surprised.

Ethan smirked and tucked the phone in his pocket. He stared out at the stormy afternoon sky; even cloud-covered days were difficult for his eyes. He wondered how Miranda dealt with this, if she’d gone through similar. Or even Godric. He left the journal sitting open on his desk as he left the office, and headed downstairs.

The girls were in the parlor, with Donna laying on the couch. The children were on the floor playing with toys–was that a dollhouse? Ethan shuddered imperceptibly as he moved past it, hearing the familiar rumble of Karl’s voice in the front yard. When he exited, he saw the engineer and his ‘sibling’ loading some of the recently shipped parts into Karl’s truck. Ever since the bank moved funds for the construction effort, more and more supplies arrived, delivered to the property’s address.

Karl’s eyes only flickered toward Ethan for a moment before he resumed his conversation with Moreau, and the tall blond put his hands in his jean pockets as he approached the pair. Salvatore may have been a doofus, but even he recognized the strain between the two men, and his watery eyes jumped cautiously between them before he backed away. He stuttered about forgetting something in one of the work sheds that sloped away from the tall home.

Karl made an annoyed noise as if he were disappointed that the other gave up so easily. But then he turned right back to his work, inspecting a large stack of PVC pipe. Ethan was undaunted by Heisenberg’s clear lack of desire to talk.

“Why are the Roma coming?”

“What?” This was not the banter Karl expected. His suddenly piercing stare was something Ethan didn’t even realize he missed; his heart picked up, and then he saw the hardness in Karl’s eyes soften. Karl’s gaze changed from confrontational to something else….adoration? Right, the bastard could sense heartbeats. Ethan was utterly flustered and he turned bright pink, winning a lopsided smile from the engineer.

Ethan tried to recover after the fumble. “There’s a convoy of carriages, apparently, from the East.”

“How d’you know?”

After a tense moment, in which Ethan kicked at the gravel, he mumbled, “Chris told me,” before he dared to look at Heisenberg again. He saw the other’s fixated gaze, almost a hungry look, aimed at Ethan’s lips. When Ethan caught this, Heisenberg squinted as if angry, and then turned toward the lumber pile instead. “Uh huh.”

“I didn’t ask him to spy,” Ethan hissed, instantly defensive, as Karl picked up an armful of lumber and began to move it into the bed of the truck. “But if you didn’t know about it….has Eva said anything?”

“No,” Karl said in a clipped tone, returning to the pile, dusting his gloves as he moved. “It’ll be fine, Ethan.”

“I…” Ethan was bewildered. “I know it’ll be fine. I’m not worried about it. I just wondered why they were coming.”

At Karl’s aimless shrug, the blond’s temper threatened to break. He pursed his lips. “You’re being an asshole.”

“Probably.”

“Care to enlighten me as to why?”

“Just tryin’ to avoid a fuckin’ interrogation, that’s all,” Karl responded in twice as bitchy of a tone as the original question. He moved back toward the truck, arms full of more two by fours. “Apparently I’m not succeeding.”

“Forgive me for having your best interests in mind, for wanting to make sure I understand a situation I know nothing about, since the guy supposed to be telling me about his life has fifty year gaps between stories, speaks two words every twelve hours, and would rather be alone and hang out with ghosts than….”

There were a few problems with Ethan’s rant. The first was that he realized, more or less, any of them could be considered ghosts, himself included. The second was that Ethan had been referring to Karl’s brother, but he remembered the figure in the garden, and instantly felt regret at his words.

The third problem was Karl’s expression; instead of the usual headstrong, stubborn anger, the engineer’s scarred face was painted with hurt-a new look, and not one Ethan had ever wanted to see. He swore the yellow irises lost their luster for a moment as Karl panned his gaze away from Ethan, turning on a heel toward the same work shed that Salvatore was probably huddled in.

Ethan let him go without further protest, and shook his head at his own temper after several moments.

Way to keep it together, Ethan . That was his own voice.

As he re-entered the home, he heard the different, softer voice, whispering at the edges of the back of his mind. It sounded confused, and perhaps affronted at the deep sorrow that Ethan transmitted to it unintentionally.

Should we….eat him?

Ethan responded aloud, drawing a strange look from Donna. “Nah…too gamey.”

—---

Eva hadn’t heard anything about a visit, but she was delighted. Ethan felt so out of place after his outburst that he stood in the kitchen, doing whatever she asked him to. Eva was undaunted at the idea of preparing food for an unplanned group. He felt like more of a menace than a help, despite her patience, and was relieved when he heard a horse whinny from the road that wrapped around the east side of the manor, away from the village overlook and the factory remains.

“Come on, girls,” Ethan said thankfully, “Let’s go say hello to our guests.”

“Why are there guests?” Evie said, puzzled, and Ethan answered honestly, “I have no idea.”

Rose hopped up, and immediately pulled Ethan’s hand in her own tiny one. She was talking excitedly, though he couldn’t catch most of the words. Together the trio exited the home and stood in the large front area, awaiting the caravan. It wasn’t long before several carriages lined up in the wide stretch of dirt and gravel, and Ethan stared past them in confusion at –

“Horsies!” Rose exclaimed. “Dada, tell Papa.”

“What?” Ethan picked the toddler up, in case she decided on a kamikaze sprint toward the row of approaching wagons. She bounced on his hip, babbling about horses again. Evie tilted her dark head, her waves cascading across her oval face. “Why are there extra horses? Nobody’s riding the ones in the back.”

“No clue,” Ethan repeated, and he stepped aside as Karl sauntered out toward the convoy, waving amiably at the drivers, some of whom Ethan recognized from the night of Eva’s ceremony. His heart sank a little when he remembered how well he and Karl were getting along then compared to now, but he was soon distracted by Rose again.

“Papa!”

Not only was she reaching out toward Heisenberg, but the engineer turned abruptly at the word, looking slightly stunned at it. Ethan’s eyes widened and Karl turned fully toward him, holding his hands out uncertainly toward Rose. Ethan had no reason not to hand the girl to him, and as he did so, she informed Karl, “Papa, horses!”

Both men were rendered speechless, but Eveline was not, as she said rather matter-of-factly, “Ohhhh, I get it! You’re Dad and you’re Papa, that makes knowing which is which waaaay easier.” She stared past Ethan at the engineer. “Should I call you Papa too? But you can’t be our Papa, you two are not married. Are you going to get married? Do you have rings? Are you not going to get married since you’re mad at each other right now?”

“Okaaaay, Evie, let’s maybe-talk-aboutall-thislater,” Ethan sputtered, his cheeks flaming, and put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. She stared in confusion while Rose continued to excitedly shout about horses. The wagons were parked along the end of the driveway, and some people were beginning to exit them. Karl held Rose on his hip, engrossed in what she was telling him.

Luckily Ethan didn’t have to wrestle with all of his emotions for long, as Maricara was approaching, a wide smile on her face. She walked with assistance from one of her sons, and a cane. When she got to Ethan, she embraced him in the warm way she’d formerly reserved for Karl. After the greeting, she chuckled, “I suppose this is very unexpected–”

“More or less–”

A man approached. Ethan recognized him-he’d been at the village mass funeral, as well as led the carriages for Eva’s ceremony. Manfri. His English was very broken, but he was friendly enough, and heartily shook Ethan’s hand–so hard the blond’s teeth chattered in his skull.

“Mister Winters,” he said formally, and even more formally, “My Lord Heisenberg.”

“Manfri has a surgery scheduled in a month,” Maricara explained. “It’s his hip. His son is out of the country for work, and he worries about these–”

“Horses better to overwinter here,” he said proudly, as if he’d rehearsed every word. Eva approached the group from behind as Manfri continued to explain, “You have stables! They come home.”

“O-over winter–here?” Karl’s eyes were wide. “I…didn’t, I haven’t…”

Maricara was having none of it. “Did you not spend the entire month of July repairing the main stables? What were you planning to store there, more trucks? Tanks? Keeping your goat company with metal structures?”

Probably , Ethan thought with a satisfied smirk as he met Karl’s eyes. Karl looked troubled, overwhelmed. “But–I–there’s no hay–”

Donna had been walking slowly behind Eva, also utilizing a cane, and Maricara stepped forward to hug both women, tutting at Donna’s delicate state, before she withdrew and chuffed at Heisenberg’s hesitance.

“Nonsense, it’s harvest time, and we have many strong young ones.” Her careless arm waving made Ethan wonder if she was somehow related to Karl after all. “These youth have been begging to come, truly.” She poked a finger at Ethan with a wink. “Your talk of helping them with computers, for one. For other, they wish to make a settlement down there. By the river. You know, they are not afraid, they have no regard for tradition. Only want to be here.”

“They do?”

She waved a hand as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “They think it is strange and different, your world. Ceremony made quite the impression. All I hear about is fairytale this, magic that, they wish to stay…so I told them for permission, first they must help set up the horses. Help with stabling and overwintering, what you need.”

Manfri was nodding, and he gestured toward the row of horses behind them. “They miss their Papa, you know?”

Ethan was unsure how to accept the news of being given ownership of horses apparently descended from Heisenberg stock. But when he turned his gaze from the horses to Heisenberg, who was quickly running out of excuses to say no, the expression on the engineer’s face said it all. Ethan’s hardened heart melted as he saw the way that Heisenberg gazed toward the animals. Without a word Heisenberg broke away from the group, still carrying Rose, and strode toward the horses, heading first toward the black draught horse that he’d ridden several times.

In the dimming light, Ethan watched as Karl ran his palm down the animal’s neck, and actually put his forehead on its mane, a gesture that it returned by turning its head, pushing forward with its nose as if to embrace him. Rose laid her curly head onto the wide, smooth neck as well, patting it with her hand in an imitation of Karl’s motion. The other horses were restless, stomping and chuffing as if they too wanted recognition. Ethan counted seven in total–SEVEN horses. He’d been overwhelmed with just one goat.

Then again, he’d also been overwhelmed with one daughter. And he’d gained an entire family since then. When Heisenberg turned back toward them, his questioning expression was clear. He wanted them. But he was deferring to Ethan.

Ethan only had one question–the sight of bloody, decapitated, sometimes half-eaten horses was only one bad night’s sleep away, after all.

“Will they be safe here?”

Donna’s voice was more steady than he’d heard in awhile. “The stable is wonderfully sturdy, it was rebuilt well.”

Manfri chipped in, “All our boys have guns. Ready to shoot wolves….” his grin turned into a grimace, “...or ….other…. They will protect.”

“The stables are on this property, where there doesn’t seem to be as much of a reach…,” Eva offered, her blond eyebrows raising. “She cannot cause things to manifest closely to the edge of that border….you now know why.” She was referring to the garden.

Evie was bouncing on the balls of her feet, each word more loud than the last. Maricara chuckled as she witnessed this. “Can we can we can we oh please can we? HORSES, are you kidding me? I would be just like a fairytale princess PLEASE CAN WE.”

Rose agreed with this. “HORSIES! PAPA, DADA–LOOK! LOOK! HORSIES!”

The commotion quickly wore Ethan down; Eva was bouncing on her toes as well, Donna’s large brown eyes stared at him, full of hopefulness. Karl was still stroking the neck of the draught horse.

After laughing, Ethan shrugged. “All right! How can I say no?”

Manfri beamed, and began to walk in his odd, stooped way past the group and toward the stable. He called to the young handlers in Romany, motioning them all forward. He happily moved across the front area and toward the trail to the stables, as though he’d lived at the manor his entire life.

Ethan watched him go with a continued smile; everyone else was happy, and Evie bolted to walk next to Manfri, pelting him with questions he didn’t know enough English to answer. Ethan was pulled away by Maricara as she explained the dinner she’d brought, and as Eva began counter-explaining that they were also cooking, the tall blond caught one last look over his shoulder at Karl.

This time, the new expression on his face was infatuation, a heady, overwhelmed look of gratitude and wonder. It made him look decades younger.

#ethan winters #karl heisenberg #resident evil village

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ivywing · 4 months

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The Dragon's Son- Training

Jarek stalked through the underbrush, his belly flush with the ferns and lichen that made up the floor of the forest. His pupils, once rounded, were now with magic transformed to thin slits to aid him in the capture of his prey. The claws on his gloves were so unlike his dull fingernails, but they would ensure a quick kill. His senses were heightened, and his target was within reach.

About twenty yards away grazed a snow-white stag, its horns just barely starting to grow in. Mother had tasked him with catching it, and he wouldn’t come back empty-handed. Not again. He prowled forward, each step a careful placement on the soft moss, muffling his approach. Closer, closer-

The stag lifted its head and fixed him with a look. “Nice try, hatchling. You’re upwind of me, I could smell you coming for leagues.”

Jarek groaned, rising from his stalking position. “Come on! If you knew I was there, why’d you let me think otherwise?”

A yipping laugh filled his ears as a madder-red fox wound her way around his legs. “A lesson, o prince of dragons. For the bitterer the loss, the sweeter the victory.”

The stag- great Herne, Prince(1) of the Red Deer, and a friend to Mother’s Flock- tossed his head. “Sionnach, don’t tease the boy. Come, there’s a field nearby with plenty of dandelion and sorrel, we’ll feed you and try again.”

“I hate dandelion,” Jarek muttered, but he still stood and followed at Herne’s shoulder, eyes wide and ears pricked as his guides pointed out parts of the landscape- a nest, where the eggs could provide valuable protein if he could brave the parents; a cache of nuts, hidden by a bluejay, if he grew desperate; a slow, sedate river, which bred sickness in its waters and was to be avoided at all costs.

Finally they came across the field, and Herne nodded his great head. “Go on, then. Forage, eat, and nap, and we’ll try again later.”

Jarek grumbled under his breath but did as told, moving through the field and gathering greens in his empty game bag as he did. Sionnach moved with him as he did, pointing out edible plants as she did- dandelions and dock, a flowering hawthorn tree, plantains and wood sorrel. By the time he was finished he had enough to eat well, and when he returned to Herne the great stag had gathered up a pile of sticks and twigs. “Firewood, if you need it.”

Jarek laughed- for all their wildness, his teachers did their best to help him keep his humanity. “Thank you, Herne.” He lit the fire and set a kettle- one of the only items Mother had given him before leaving him with his teachers- over the flames, to boil for clean water.

The stag knelt down. “If you’re boiling water anyway…”

Jarek tilted his head. “What is it?”

Sionnach yipped. “Oh, is this about the brambles? Fetch some for me while you’re at it!”

That caught Jarek’s attention. Bramblebushes were messy, painful things, but the fruit and leaves hidden in the thorns made it worth it. “Where?”

Herne nodded his head off to the east. “‘Bout a hundred paces that way. Take care not to disturb the snake living in its roots.” He huffed softly, the warmth of his breath soothing an ache in Jarek’s knuckles.

Jarek followed the small trail down the hill towards the bramblebushes, grinning as he caught sight of the plump black-and-red berries behind the fuzzy leaves. It took some finagling, and an arm scratched to hell and back, but eventually he had stripped off a quarter of the berries- no more, or Sionnach would have his hide.

As he was stepping out he caught a flash of movement, yelping as he stumbled not to step on it. “Sorry, sorry!” he yipped, stumbling back. His foot caught on a root, and he shrieked as he tumbled to the ground. “Ow…”

A small snake raised its pointed head, copper-yellow eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Stupid boy,” it hissed, winding its way around him. “I nearly bit you! What were you thinking?”

Jarek winced, sitting up slowly and reaching for his ankle. It was hot to the touch and quickly swelling, and as he ran his fingers along the muscle he felt the tell-tale signs of tearing. Damnit, last thing I need is a sprain.

The snake tilted its head. “Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as stupid, boy.”

“I’m not stupid,” he spat, pain clouding his vision and making it difficult to focus on his manners. “My teachers told me I could find berries here, and that I shouldn’t step on the snake living in the roots. I’m guessing that’s you?”

The snake heaved a heavy sigh. “Yes, that’s me. Name’s Grimm. Stay here, I’ll fetch something for your ankle.” It slithered off into the brush, leaving behind nothing but a thin line of disturbed grass in its wake.

While the snake was off doing whatever snakes did in the grass, Jarek did his best to collect the scattered berries. Luckily only a few had splattered against the ground, with most being dusty but intact. Jarek sighed and popped a few in his mouth, enjoying the tangy sweetness of the ripe fruit.

Sionnach slunk out of the bushes, her ears pinned back. “Prince of dragons? Is everything alright? I heard a shout.”

Jarek sighed, rubbing at his tender ankle. “I tripped on a root and sprained it. Doubt I’ll be able to walk on it, at least for a few days. If I can just crawl to Herne, then maybe I can ask him to carry me for the next quarter-moon.”

“No need,” came a muffled voice. Out of the ferns slithered Grimm, with three leaves grasped tight in its mouth. It moved until its mouth was just above Jarek’s ankle, before dropping the leaves next to it. “Watch closely, boy, because I’m only going to show you this once. Place the leaves exactly where I show you.”

Jarek sat up and leaned forward, his spine aching from the stretch. “I am at your command. Just tell me what to do.”

Grimm gave a sharp smile. “Good. I don’t want to bite you for being a fool. Better to use my fangs for my prey.”

Sionnach growled slightly, her hackles raised. “If you try to hurt the little cub, I’ll eat you, Sage(2) or not.”

Jarek startled. “You’re a Sage?” he asked Grimm.

Grimm shrugged. “Eh, if that’s the title we’re using. Earned it a hundred years ago, and been living in the thorns ever since. Not like Smooth Snakes have much use for Sages and Princes, what with our solitary lives.” He nudged the area where the bone made a bump right at the joint. “This here is the Lateral Malleolus. Put the green leaf there and hold it.”

Jarek nodded. As he did, the leaf tingled and eventually settled into the skin, producing a slight warming effect. “It feels…”

“Odd, right?” Grimm chuckled. “These are Paradise Apple leaves. The apples will revive you from even the worst illnesses, the sap can clot any wound, the roots restore youth when boiled, and the leaves- well, you’ll see in a minute.” It flicked its tail dismissively. “Paradise Apples only grow on untethered islands, so you’re not likely to find more. So don’t go haring off into danger seeking them, got it?”

Jarek bowed his head. “I understand, great Sage. Thank you.”

“None of that ‘great Sage’ nonsense.” Grimm made a motion which, barring the lack of shoulders, looked rather like a shrug. “Might as well put my knowledge to some use. And if you’re some “Prince of Dragons,” as the vixen says, I might as well share it with you.”

Sionnach harrumphed, sitting back on her haunches. “Well, I suppose if you don’t need Herne and I, we’ll just go off into the wild and rejoin our people. The strait will be closing in a few weeks, how hard could it be to slip back to the mainland?”

Jarek laughed, reaching out to rub Sionnach’s ears. “I’ll always need the guidance of my teachers, both you and Herne.” He smiled as she leaned into the touch- for all her wisdom and guidance, Sionnach was still as flesh and blood as the rest of them, needing to touch and be touched in turn.

Grimm hissed, fangs out in annoyance. “Stop distracting him! You want the boy to heal, let me do my work!”

Sionnach snarled at being interrupted, but stepped back a few paces and sat, glaring at Grimm. “Fine. I’ll be over here.”

Grimm turned back to Jarek, eyes something approximating softness. “The other side. That’s where your Medial Malleolus is. Place the yellow leaf there and hold it.”

Jarek did as ordered, and the warmth increased to a heat bordering on the verge of pain. “It got stronger!”

“It’ll become unbearable once you apply the last leaf,” Grimm warned. “But, it’ll only be for a moment, and then your foot will be healed. Are you ready?”

Jarek nodded. He’d endured worse than heat before- the bite of a blizzard as his human family were turned out of their home, where he’d lost two toes; the gnawing and ache of starvation as he’d wandered in the woods, where his brothers had left him to die; the jolt of electricity as lightning raced through his veins, the only attack Mother’s jealous suitor had been able to land on him before she tore the other dragon’s throat out. Pain was a fact of life, one taught to him at a young age and reinforced even after Mother took him in as her Calamity. “I’m ready when you are.”

Grimm sighed, shaking its head. “Foolish human. Fine, then- the tendon, right on the back of the leg. Red leaf goes there.” It flicked its tail. “I’ll place it. Brace yourself.”

Jarek nodded, forcing the muscles in his legs to relax. “Ready.”

As soon as the leaf touched his ankle, the sensation of boiling raced up Jarek’s leg, consuming him entirely until all he felt was coals and embers. He couldn’t even scream, all the air knocked from his lungs, his muscles seizing.

And then, as soon as it started, the pain fell away, leaving nothing but the aftershocks. Jarek gasped, falling to his side, coughing from the lack of air. A strangled groan left his throat as he massaged at his ankle- the leaves had fallen away, but the muscles were pliant and relaxed, if still twitching in pain.

Grimm scoffed. “I warned you, boy. At least be glad you were alive to feel the pain.” It flicked its tail. “Those leaves can heal any wound or death- provided it’s in three places or less. Any more than that, well… let’s hope it never comes to that.”

Jarek panted, sweat dripping down his brow. “Wait, are you saying--”

Grimm hissed softly, more an acknowledgement than an act of hatred. “Keep them, boy. I’m old enough at this point- if I die, then I die. You’re still young, you’ll find more use with them than I ever could.”

Jarek grinned. “Thanks, Sage Grimm!” A thought struck him. “Say…”

Sionnach spat in outrage. “Oh, don’t even offer it! Two teachers is enough, you don’t need a third!”

Grimm tilted its head. “Me, a teacher? To a human child?” It scoffed. “And why would I do that? Even if you are some ‘Prince of Dragons’, why should I be bothered to care about that?”

Jarek cast a fond look at Grimm. “Because you have nothing better to do?”

Grimm hissed for a few minutes, before eventually settling. “I hate it when people are right… fine. But you’ll be my warmth from now on.”

Sionnach screamed and cussed as Grimm wound its way up Jarek’s arm, wrapping itself around his neck contentedly. Eventually she managed to get a few intelligible words in. “Jarek, you- you- you thrice-faced rainseller!”

Jarek pulled out his best ‘sad face’. “But Sionnach,” he pouted, “I just want to be the best I can possibly be. Isn’t more teachers better?”

Sionnach probably would have said something else, had Herne not pushed his way past the bushes and into the area. “You were all yelling so loudly, I thought perhaps someone was murdered. Instead, I find that you’ve acquired yet another Sage to keep you on your toes.” He huffed and nudged Jarek’s shoulder, ignoring Grimm’s hiss. “Berries?”

Jarek pulled out a handful and handed them off to Herne, who took them delicately. The purple juices stained his pristine white muzzle, but Herne seemed unperturbed by it, eating until Jarek’s hands were empty. “I also tried to get some leaves, for brewing.”

“Brewing?” Grimm asked, giving Jarek’s neck a gentle squeeze. “What ale can you make with bramble leaves?”

Jarek laughed. “Not brewing ale! Brewing tea. You can make a kind of tea with bramble leaves.”

Herne shook his head, leaves jostling as his antlers caught them. “When we first got him the boy wouldn’t drink hot water on its own. We had to find some way to keep him hydrated.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Jarek insisted.

Herne and Sionnach gave him a look. “Yes you were,” they said in unison.

Grimm laughed, a thin, rasping sound. “You’ve been outvoted, little Prince. Now, show me how this is done.”

And so, with another teacher on his shoulders, Jarek returned to that sunny field, the taste of berries on his tongue and the wind in his hair.

----

1- A Prince is the ruler of any given species of Animals. Dragons don't have Princes, instead preferring council rule, so Sionnach's nickname for him is a playful jab at his status of being a human adopted by a dragon.

2- A Sage is any animal that's achieved enlightenment.

#my writing #dragon's son #jarek #my post

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deportefree · 2 years

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NIKE React Pegasus Trail 4, Zapatillas de Running Mujer

Deporte en Lugo Nike Women’S Trail Running Shoes React Pegasus Trail 4, Arctic Orange/Magic Ember-Lt Madder Root, DJ6159-800, 41 EU (9.5 US)

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toverijenspokerij · 2 years

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Madder.

Tomorrow I will dye some yarn with madder root and I am so excited! Most if not all dye recipes with madder say it needs to soak over night. So I am doing just that. This rich redish-brown is just after three mins after I put the madder in. And I suspect that this will give a beautiful rich hue when I let the yarn soak in it over night as well. So when it comes to extracting the colour from madder, the over night soak is your new best friend. Or so I just learned.

Magically the colour red is equal part protection, agression, life-force/blood and the primal forces of creation and destruction. Madder itself is a plant under the influence of Mars, according to Harold Roth's website, Alchemy Works. My plan is to dye my yarn red and to make charm bracelets with them, against the evil eye.

#toverij & spokerij #folk catholicism #catholic folk magic #folk magician #het toverboek #catholic folk witch #dyeing with plants #dyeing yarn #magical madder root

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judaic-myth-n-mysticism · 4 years

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The Jewish Approach to Herbal Magic: A Metaphysical Framework and The Legal Guidelines.

(TLDR at very bottom)

It is no secret that the sages were masters of using herbs in all sorts of miraculous matters. So common were these practices that they warranted being given a name by the sages, “Kamea shel Ikrin,” or an amulet of roots. We see several instances of this craft throughout rabbinic literature such as the garlands of the madder plant that Abaye discusses in Shabbat 90b. So potent were these knots considered that the Mishnah actually allows them to be worn on shabbos!

However, the Sages also make it very clear that the use of herbs is a core piece of forbidden and goyische magic. We see this in Ameimar’s incantation against witches (kind of peak irony there if you ask me) where it refers to herbs saying, “You’re spices, which you use for witchcraft should scatter.” (Pesachim 110a)

This leaves us with the question: What makes one mixture permitted and the next forbidden?

For this, I draw on the Sefer HaChinukh, a Spanish legal text of the late 13th century, which devoted a chapter to this very matter.

In explaining the nature of forbidden herbal magic the Sefer HaChinukh writes:

“And according to my opinion, the matter of magic is that at the beginning of creation, God, blessed be He, placed for each and every thing in the world a nature [through which] to accomplish its action well and straight, for the good of the creatures of the world that He created; and He commanded each one to act according to its species, as it is written about all the creatures, in Parshat Bereshit (Genesis 1:12), “according to its species.” And He also made a higher force govern each and every one from above, to compel it to perform its action; as they, may their memory be blessed, said (Bereshit Rabbah 1), “There is no [blade of] grass below that does not have a constellation above that tells it, 'Grow!'”And besides the action that each and every one does according to its nature, there is another action that they have, by mixing one specie with another. And in the craft of this mixing there are some angles that were not permitted for people to utilize, because God knows that the end result that will come out for people from these angles will be bad for them...And there is another matter in these forbidden angles of mixture and machinations for which they were forbidden. [It is] because the power of this mixture is so strong that it negates the power of the constellations that are assigned upon the two species.... It comes out that the grafting negates the power of both of them. And so we have been prevented from bringing up to our minds to switch the perfect acts of God, even if something that appears to be pleasing comes out in our hand.” (Sefer Ha Chinukh 62:2)

We see here how the combination of herbs yields its affect. By combining the correct herbs with kavanah, we bring together the ministering angels over each of the herbs used into a “new” ministering angel which is then channeled through the herbs. This is the function of both the permitted and the forbidden herbal mixtures. However, the distinction we strike is that the prohibited mixture causes this angel to go against the laws of nature by breaking free of its Mazel whereas the permitted mixture’s angel works within said Mazel and the natural order.

(Rue, a staple of Jewish herbal tradition. It is commonly carried as an amulet for protection, particularly in regards to protection from sickness where it is immensely popular in Hasidic communities)

From the above passage we derive the two main features of a forbidden herbal mixture:

These forbidden mixtures are dangerous to us and so HaShem forbids their use for our own good.

These mixtures subvert the laws of nature and pervert the natural order that Gd has created. The reason this is problematic is that to do so is to say that we know better than Gd, which of course is not the case. This all goes back to the commandment of “You must be wholehearted with the L-RD your G-d.” (Deut. 18:13)

Either of these criteria being met would disqualify the use of an herbal mixture within Jewish law.

However, this leaves plenty of room for herbal mixings and charms that, most modern practitioners would call “magic”, that are permitted. The Sefer HaChinukh actually goes on to elaborate on this saying:

“...And this is what they, may their memory be blessed, said more generally (Shabbat 67b), “Anything that has healing in it does not have the 'ways of the Amorite' in it”; meaning to say, it should not be forbidden from the perspective of magic – since there is a benefit to it that is found from true experience, it is not from the forbidden angles, as they are only forbidden because of the perspective of their damage (Sefer Ha Chinukh 62:2)...”

It continues on these permitted practices, writing;

“...And the knowledge of the difference [between] these things – which is the mixing He permitted to us and there is no angle of magic and which is the one that has an angle of magic and is forbidden as the science of magic – is well-known...”

While this quotation does little to directly explain how to determine wether a specific mixture is forbidden or permitted, it does in fact confirm that there are herbal mixtures that are permitted for use. However, if we give it some thought we can come to some conclusions of what would be permitted, at least on a philosophical level.

My interpretation of this would be that while herbal mixtures that work to override the laws of nature are forbidden, ones that simply attempt to influence the outcome of a situation within the framework of the natural order are acceptable and have been used by great sages for centuries.

This can be boiled down to 3 key markers of a permitted herbal mixture. To be considered permissible these mixtures must:

Be proven effective for their desired, beneficial, purpose.

Not be damaging to our health physically, emotionally, or spiritually. (Looking at you mugwort tea -.-)

Not cause the laws of nature to be overridden to serve us.

These are the mixtures we see used in many herbal amulets and segulot throughout Jewish history, and these are the mixtures that I personally make use of in my practice.

(An amulet I prepared using a collection of herbs that I had previously shared on here.)

TLDR: Herbs that break nature and/or hurt us = NO!

Herbs that work within the natural order to encourage a desired benefit in a effective & safe manner = YES!

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spookydrreid · 3 years

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Can you please write some fluff where spencer helps reader quit smoking today is my first day of quitting and I need this so bad!

HI! I just want you to know that I am so proud of you for quitting! It wont be easy, but it’ll be worth it ❤️❤️❤️❤️ ---------------------------------------------------------- “Six minutes.”

You jumped, lighter falling from your hands at the sound of your husband. Spencer Reid hated smoking but he loved you. So much so that he’s tried just about everything in the book to get you to stop. From giving facts to buying you gums and patches. He’s tried it all. And so haven’t you.

“Jesus Christ, Spencer,” you gasped as you bent down to grab the fallen lighter. “You really can't be sneaking up on me like that.” You waved the lighter at him as you stood.

He shook his head, fluffy curls moving with him, “I wouldn’t have scared you if you weren't so focused on lighting this death trap.” He plucked it from between your lips, throwing it to the ground and crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

“That was my last one, Spencer!” You’d promised one more and then that was it. One more and then never again. And it wasn't so much that he didn't believe you, he just didn't want it to be one more. Because one more turns into two more. And then three. And then four.

“Exactly. Six more minutes I get to spend with you.” he shot you a smile and it was hard to stay mad when he smiled at you like that.

You shrugged, trying to keep the smile from your lips. He pulled you in, his strong arms holding you to his chest, “we’re going to do this together. It doesn't have to be an ‘only y/n’ thing.”

You stared up at him, a small pout on your face. “Even when I’m really cranky and call you a douche canoe?”

He leaned down, kissing you gently before saying, “even when you’re really cranky and call me a douche canoe, I’ll still love you the same.”

Month One:

The first week was the hardest.

Every little thing stressed you out, you snapped at your co-workers more times than you’ll ever admit, and you even cried a few hundred times.

And then there was Spencer. Your beautiful, helpful, loving, stupidly smart husband. The man you promised forever to in front of all your closest friends and families. Let’s just say he got almost a book or two whipped at his head.

Because see, the thing is, your husband doesn't know when to shut the actual fuck up. And on any normal day, you found it overly endearing but on that day you just wanted to kick him out of the house.

“But then Emily was mad because I made her turn around. But a magician never reveals his secrets and she was kind of aggravated but I didn't care. She wanted to see the magic trick and even though it was physics-”

You turned, frustration clear in your features, “Spencer Walter Reid if you don't shut the actual fuck up I will divorce you. Stop. Fucking. Talking.” And of course, you didn't mean it, but he really wasn't shutting up. Spencer stopped in his tracks, his mouth hanging. He looked like he was about to cry and the guilt ate its way into the deepest parts of you.

“I- I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His bottom lip quivered as he brushed past you, walking to your shared bedroom and closing the door.

You followed, knocking on the door lightly before entering. Spencer sat in the middle of the bed, legs crossed and his fingers gripping the roots of his hair. The guilt swallowing you, “Spence?”

He hummed, clearly trying to not make you madder. “I- I didn't mean that, Spencer. I’m sorry. That was - that was incredibly insensitive of me. I’m sorry. I would never divorce you. Ever.” By then you'd crawled into your bed, pulling him into you and running your fingers through his hair.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I love you, Spence.”

Month Three:

By the third month you were much less cranky, the cravings practically non-existent. You’d made it a point to not snap at Spencer, being more considerate with your words. Sure, you’d be grouchy here and there but nothing like the fight from month one.

Spencer was good with distracting you. He’d make sure that instead of smoking, you had something to occupy your mouth. He didn't want you biting your nails so he bought you a small teething ring. Like the ones babies use.

At first, you didn't think it would work. But then, you were having a particularly stressful week and were craving one horribly. You took the ring out, chewing on it lightly. And to your surprise, it fucking worked.

You sent him a text: You sly mother fucker, the teether worked! I love you and your big, beautiful brain so fucking much.

And it wasn't long before he answered: I’m glad it helped. I love you and your big, beautiful brain too.

Month Six:

By the sixth month, summer had started. The sun was warm, the days were long, and the serial killers seemed to have decided to take a break. You finished packing the cooler to keep the drinks and sandwiches cold.

You weren't sure how you did it, but somehow you managed to convince Spencer to go to the beach with the rest of the team. Even though you didn't work with Spencer, the team accepted you as their own.

“Babe?! We need to stop for ice! Are you almost ready!” You called out to Spencer. You heard his steps coming out of your bedroom and you had to swallow down the giggle when you saw him. Spencer was pale white in sunscreen that wasn't rubbed in.

“You need to put sunscreen on before we go, missy.” He said as he went to put on a t-shirt.

“Woah! Slow down, mister! We need to rub that in first.” You moved next to him and started rubbing in the globs of lotion on his body.

“Is it bad that this is turning me on?” He asked once you reached -- or barely because he's a fucking giant -- his back.

You giggled, “no, Spencer. I can only hope to turn you on forever.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, “happy six months of not smoking! I’m enjoying the knowledge of all the extra time I'll get to spend with you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his confession. He’d been so supportive over the last six months. Dealing with everything that came with quitting smoking.

One Year:

“I am so excited about dinner! I’ve missed you so much.” You grasped Spencer’s free hand as he drove you and him to dinner.

A year ago you quit smoking and Spencer felt it was an anniversary that needed to be celebrated. He was worried he wasn't going to be here, serial killers kept him away from you for the past month. But you got lucky and he was sitting beside you.

“I’ve missed you too, babe. I’m so glad the killers had listened to my speech. I said ‘I have to be home for this anniversary or I will be dead’ and look where we are!” He looked towards you quickly before he turned back to the road.

By now, the cravings were gone. They popped up here and there in extremely stressful situations but, by now, you’d learn how to cope. You’d eat something, chew some gum, or bite the teether. Your appetite was fully back and the whites of your eyes were white once more. You weren't freezing all the time from going outside to smoke. And your car and clothes no longer smelt like stale cigarettes. Life was good. Great actually.

You’d started exercising, your lungs working so much better since you’d stopped smoking. Now, it was easier to keep up with your long-legged husband. You could carry more without being winded. And walking upstairs was so much easier. Now, even the smell of someone else smoking made you nauseous.

Spencer parked the car, rushing over to your side to help you out. He tangled his fingers in yours, his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand. He seemed nervous, but you’d just wrote it off of the crowd. But when you entered the restaurant, you found it empty. You looked at Spencer confused but he just kept a straight face. The host brought you to a small area where you and Spencer sat over a candle.

“D-did you do this?” You asked him.

“Just wait.” He said with a smirk before yelling, “Okay guys!”

Out came every one from wherever they were hiding. His entire team was there, some people from your work, your family (which he flew in himself), his mother, and even Hotch and Jack. Your lip quivered and your eyes filled with tears.

“Wha- Spencer. You didn't have to do this.” You cried as he pulled you into a hug.

“I just feel that this is big. You have tried and tried for years and you actually did it this time. I just wanted to show you that you now get all this time to spend with the most important people in your life. You deserve this, y/n.” By the end of his speech, you were practically sobbing.

Spencer was the best man anyone could have, and he was all yours. And now, you had so many more minutes to spend with him. And you’d never take them for granted. Ever.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x gn!reader #Spencer Reid fluff #Spencer Reid blurb

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lailoken · 4 years

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‘Witch Powder’

“This is a most useful and general working powder of Cornish magical tradition . It is used to lift curses and drive away negative influences by casting it about a place or over a person , animal or object that has been ill - influenced . It may also be employed to cast powers and influences according to intent in general , and in generative magic it may be cast into a charmed fire to conjure that which is desired.

Make it by grinding together the following:

Camphor oil – 1 drop,

Dragon's blood – 3 tsp,

Earth from places of power – 1 tsp,

Madder root – 2 tsp,

Mugwort – 1 tsp,

Patchouli oil – 1 drop,

Salt – 1/2 tsp”

Traditional Witchcraft:

A Cornish Book of Ways

by Gemma Gary

#witchcraft #grimoire #traditional withcraft #a cornish book of ways #Gemma Gary #powder

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imaginethatneathuh · 3 years

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The Hanged Man: Mad Sweeney - American Gods

Mad Sweeney x friend!reader, platonic

Sweeney comes to you for a chat and you give him a wake up call.

Part of @dragon430′s Tarot Card Challenge, editing by her as well.

Requested by Anon - Can you do a Mad Sweeney using The Hanged Man?

CW: Disillusionment, maybe some hints at depression, and mentions of death.

Word count: 1.4+ K

The town and bar are real places in Michigan. If you ever get the chance and are in Michigan, stop by the place. The food’s good and the people are cool.

•

Slow days were pretty common on weekdays. Any bartender worth their shoulder towel can tell you that. Compared to Fridays and Saturdays, the rest of the week, especially where you worked, were slower than molasses going uphill in winter.

Working at a bar in small towns is either Hell on Earth because it’s pretty much the only place around, or it’s Heaven on Earth ‘cause the town is so small. Your place, the North Bar, was a small, albeit popular, place in a village nestled in a valley. Every major place was on one street right through the middle. Like something out of an Old Western movie, but that’s just how small towns are. The North Bar got busy some nights and not so much on others. Best food around (not that that is saying much), and everyone makes sure that there is something to do, like Karaoke nights, corn hole tournaments, or pool. There’s always something, even if it’s not fun or popular with people.

A cousin of yours called your little town the “Lakeside of Michigan”. You couldn’t say whether or not that was true, but you preferred to call Lakeside the “Luther of Wisconsin”.

You wiped some crumbs into a trash bin as you cleaned a table. The Lunch “Rush” was over, and no one but you, the regulars like Chuck, and the other employees were here. It’s not like there were many of you, just one or two servers, the cook, dishwasher, and another bartender. Plus the owner, but she was busy in the back.

Good ole Chuck mulled about in a drunken state before sitting at the bar. You tossed your towel over your shoulder and shook your head.

“Come on, Chuckie boy. I think it’s about time you head on home now. You’ve been here since we opened and had plenty,” you said.

The old, balding man grumbled.

“Don’t make me call your daughter.” You crossed your arms. “Cause I can, and I will.”

He muttered som protests but after a hard glare from you, he stumbled up and out.

It’s not like you wanted to kick him out, but, hey, last time you let him drink to his heart's desire, you ended up having to call the Sheriff. You liked Chuck too much to let him spend any more time down at the jailhouse. He’d come back later anyway.

As you got back behind the counter, the other bartender, Joan, nudged you.

“Can I take off? You ain’t gonna need me here till later, anyway,” she said, gesturing to the now dead bar.

You shrugged. “Sure. I ain’t gotta problem with that.”

“Thanks!”

Once upon a time, you were much like Joan, ready to get the fuck out as soon as you could. Nowadays, it wasn’t too much like that. To you, there wasn’t a point in running off seeing as how, from all the years you’d been working, things never changed. Well, not for the town anyway. For you? You lost that enthusiasm that Joan had. Wasn’t the big of a loss anyway.

You’d been working here since before the North Bar had changed hands. Hell, you’d been here since the place was first takin’ root. And before it, you worked at the Grocers. And before that, at the wood mill. Course, if anyone asked, you’d say it was your ancestors who’d gone and done all that. You took after your cousin like that.

Because you’d worked here so long, you were the de facto boss, especially when the owner wasn’t around or too busy. But even she referred to you when things were going nuts. She frequently asked you for advice, and you were happy to give it.

As Joan went to clock out and leave, a man entered your bar.

With just a look, you knew he wasn’t from here. You knew everyone in town, and he, sure as Hell, Michigan, wasn’t one of them. From the smell and the feel of the mountain of a man, you knew he wasn’t human either. After a look over, you recognized the pesky Leprechaun.

“Sweeney, you’d better not drink me out of my liquor, ya hear?” You growled, scowling at him.

The Leprechaun sat at the bar, the stool groaning beneath him. “Just because ‘a that, I think I might.”

You glared at him, arms crossed.

“Southern Comfort ‘n Coke,” he said. The redhead stretched and sighed. “Been stuck in that fuckin’ car too long. Damn thing’s got me all stiff.”

As you got him his drink, you rolled your eyes. “Try being smaller. That might help.”

It was his turn to glare at you. The tree of a man never really cared for your sarcasm.

“What are you doing here, Sweeney? This place is too outta the way, too ‘blink, and you’ll miss it’ for you to be here on accident.”

He leant against the wooden bar and rubbed his neck, groaning. “It took me fuckin’ ages to get ‘ere. Drove right past it more times than I can count. The place is fuckin’ invisible. Fuckin’ villages, I swear. Shite’s the worst.”

You slammed your fist down, the liquid in Sweeney’s glass jumping and spilling over the side. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here? I will not ask again.” You stared at him, scowling, with both hands on the bar top.

He held your stare. “You’re the only one I could think of to talk to, Y/N. You know things. Understand things. Things I can’t.”

Sighing, you straightened. “I’m a bartender. That’s our little slice of magic even in a world without it.”

Sweeney nodded slowly.

“What do you need to get out?”

You were a bartender. Everyone talked to you about everything. From marriage disputes to petty arguments, everything found its way to you eventually. When people needed an ear and advice, the people of Luther’s first thought was you. Just like Sweeney and others like him.

You supplied the drink as Sweeney talked. And, boy, oh boy, did he talk. His pain never seemed to end, and he never let up to let you say anything. Which was fine by you. Sometimes, people just needed an ear to rant into.

The Leprechaun started to slow in his ranting.

“I’m stuck, Y/N. So fuckin’ stuck,” he said. “I can’t stay ‘ere. It’ll drive me madder than I already am. But, I don’t know where else ta be or ta go. The bar life, the fightin’ life, it’s all I know. Everythin’ else is a blur. It’s not like I can leave the States either. I’m stuck ‘ere, in this rut, and it feels like if I move, I die.”

You nodded quietly and poured him another drink. “Then die.”

The Mad King looked at you.

You shrugged. “It’s better to die living than live already dead.” You pointed to the door, liquor bottle in your hand. “I seen too many folk come through my doors living like the dead do, same thing every day. They ne’er change and ne’er want to. Sometimes, I get them to live just a little with a game or two of pool or corn hole. Sometimes I even get people to play Euchre. Maybe some songs to lighten their mood and food to heavy their stomach, but ne’er for long. Some live like the dead, and some die living. Some live life, some don’t. I’d rather die living fully than live like I’m already dead. Maybe you should try it.”

He took in your words. Slowly, but he got there. Eventually. “Then why do ya stay here?” He asked.

You blinked in surprise at his question. It was true. You walked through those doors every day doing the same thing every single goddamn day, only sometimes changing it up. You lived like most of the folk ‘round here, but you always explained it away as: “They need me,” you said, shrugging it off.

Sweeney finished his last glass in one gulp before setting it down with a thud. “Seems to me, you need them more.”

They worshipped you just like your cousin’s town worshipped him. Albeit in different ways, but still. It wasn’t like you made this town or anything, but you had lent a helping hand. Their worship kept you alive. Of course, you needed them more.

He stood to leave, but first, he leant over the bar and said, “Thanks for the chat. It helped.”

You nodded as the redhead left. Quietly, you hoped you would never see him again.

You would, eventually, much to your chagrin.

#american gods #american gods fanfiction #tarot troop #mad sweeney #mad sweeney x reader #platonic!reader

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dulcimergecko · 3 years

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Sunday Six!

Not rodeo!lock, ‘cause the muse was being Herself. Have a bit of the plotbunny I mentioned the other day instead.

~*~

Summary: Set during Richard/John/Eleanor of Aquitaine mess. John, King of England is on the throne. Sherlock’s mouth gets him into trouble, (as usual) and he pisses the king off. Sherlock’s set to be executed, but Mycroft ransomes him free w/ family lands.Sherlock is placed under the guardianship of Sir James Sholto and banished to Scotland instead. There, he stumbled into a mystery involving the Faerie Folk, a missing child and a mysterious holy well…

~*~

A woman’s low-voiced laughter wound its way under the clamour of cursing men and upset horses, catching at Sherlock’s ear the same way the flicker of movement drew the human eye. He turned his head, looking for the source. There were no women in Sir Sholto’s caravan, just young boys and solidly-built men that were seasoned veterans of the road and thus disinclined to pay attention to anything except the weight in the wagons, the risk of ambush from wolfheads, and the state of the road before them.

Sherlock scanned the steep banks above the caravan. It was unlikely that a peasant girl was standing there–the laughter had been too rich, too deep for a child’s voice–but who else would be standing in the rain and laughing at the clumsy movements of men wrapped in burlap and wool struggling to free a sunken wagon wheel?

At first, he saw nothing–just trees, cold, drizzly rain, and the dead forest vegetation of the season. Then he saw her, materializing like magic out of the brush. A single white hand, adorned with an enormous ruby ring floated up through the air and pushed the hood of a cloak back, revealing a milk-pale face, dark eyes and a mouth stained the brilliant crimson of madder root. The folds of the woman’s heavy cloak were woven in a curious pattern of greens, grays and browns that tricked the eye and blended her form into the undergrowth. She caught Sherlock’s gaze and her vulpine smile widened....

#fic ideas #six sentence sunday #sunday six

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wolverinesorcery · 3 years

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Sprowl - as written about by Gemma Gary

Page 62 - 63

The Cunning path is first trod out in the land where the ‘novice pellar’ is called to go in search of the natural forces that will both empower and inform their craft. For the Cornish witch, one of the most potent and useful forces is known as the Red Serpent or Sarf Ruth. This is the spirit force or ‘sprowl’ that flows within the land, animates all living things and empowers the spirit within all natural things; for traditional Cornish witchcraft is an animist path which acknowledges spirit within such things as stones, streams and buildings.

Detecting and harnessing the serpentine flow is of great importance to the pellar, and they must know the ways to this and the places where this force will be best drawn forth. The desire to seek these forces and draw upon them, and indeed the ability to do so, should be naturally held within the true witch. It is a thing ‘deeply known’ and the ways of it are not easily put into words. Often it is just a case of fine tuning the familiar senses, desires and abilities within those who are starting their way along the path, rather than something alien having to be learned from scratch.

It is a regular practice of witches in Cornwall to walk out into the land to gather ‘sprowl’ to aid and empower their craft, such journeys may be known as ‘walking the serpent path’; a path of power and chthonic gnosis. The witches are very sensitive to the landscape in which they live and they know well the places of power around them where the sprowl can best be drawn forth and stored for later use; this is how the Cornish witch gathers power. The highly important tool - the witch’s staff is the traditional companion upon the serpent path, as the sprowl may be drawn forth and stored within this as well as within the body of the witch. The winding serpent-like paths that flow and meander through fields and valleys, alongside and through the magical thorn-hedge, following streams or along the towering and dramatic sea cliffs, are commonly travelled by the witch who ‘picks up’ sprowl along the way. These serpentine tracks also have magical & meditative uses. The hills, boulder strewn carns and other high places, where the ser[ent will coil cone-like in the land, are also places where this potent force may be accessed in abundance as well as within the ancient stone circles where the serpent is literally ‘danced alive’ by the circumambulations of the witch.

Page 99

[On traditional craft magical tools]

Natural materials not only contain the very sprowl or spirit of the landscape in which they were found, but more easily become a vessel and conduit for magical forces employed and directed and the working sprowl of the practitioner. Such tools become a magical extension of the practitioner's being and are seen as gifts directly from the land and the Old Ones.

Page 137

[On colours and animals sacred in cornish witchcraft]

Red is ruled by the serpentine fire in the land, it is magic of potency and empowerment, to charge an item, being or place with generative sprowl is an act of red magic, as are workings of sexual energy and the laying down or directing of protective spirit forces. The familiar spirit of red magic is the red serpent.

Page 149

[Working incense to raise sprowl]

Serpent Smoke

A general working incense for the gathering, raising and direction of sprowl. It is employed in acts of empowerment and all rites and workings aided by the virtues of the eastward road:

Bryony root ½ tsp, Cinnamon oil 15 drops, Clove oil 30 drops, Colophony 1 ½ tsp, Dragons Blood 2 tsp, Geranium oil 5 drops, Ginger powdered ½ tsp, Madder root 3 tsp, Patchouli oil 12 drops, Pine needles 1 tsp, Rue 1 tsp, Sloe berries 1 tsp, Wormwood 1 tsp, Alum 1 ½ tsp.

#cornish folkcraft #cornish witchcraft

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official-weasley · 3 years

Text

The Irreplaceable Charlie Weasley: Pt. 5, Ch. 6

PART 5: THE YEAR WHEN EVERYONE FIGHTS Chapter 6 - The Quidditch Love Triangle

Charlie

After two weeks I gave up all hope that Nova and I would ever speak again. I tried talking to her every day and she always stormed away. I have never felt so bad about anything in my life. I didn't even care anymore that I had a crush on her, I just wanted my best friend back.

She even went so far that she asked Jae if Tulip could switch places with her in History of Magic and Transfiguration as she didn't want to sit with me. I was miserable and I hated myself because I know it was all my fault. Even Bill was surprised at this point and thought, like me, that we would already talk it out.

The stupidest thing was, that I don't even remember why I was so mad about the whole thing. I just knew I could say some mean things when I was angry.

I tried to bury myself in my studies but I was doing rather poorly. I now spent most of my time with either Jae, Bill, or Barnaby. I don't know what Nova told the girls but I thought Penny was going to transfigure me into a rat the other day. They were all furious. Mum wasn't wrong when she said that girls can be dangerous.

—

The only time I had any fun these days, was playing Quidditch. It cheered me up, knowing that we won't play against Ravenclaw until next year and that meant I wouldn't have to play against Nova. Our Captain forgave me for giving up the Snitch last year and was happier than ever when I supported his decision to have even more practice. The more I was on that pitch the better.

I now had Bill to help me study for my O.W.L.s. He spent so much time with me in the Library and while studying for N.E.W.T.s still found time to answer my every question if one came to mind.

Jae offered to talk to Tulip and Tonks to see what was going on and why is Nova so mad. I was pretty sure I had the answer to that question and I really appreciated the help but I didn't want anyone to interfere. I reckoned it would make Nova even madder if it was even possible.

I am not going to lie, I did think about Jae's offer. I was getting desperate. She was either with the girls or her Quidditch Team and no matter how hard I tried I never got her alone. In the end, Jae asked Tulip about it anyway and she told him that it's none of their business and we have to solve it on our own.

I knew that much, I was just running out of ways to talk to her or say sorry. I wrote her a letter a few times but never got a response. I spent more time than usual at her favorite places but she seemed to never be there.

To make matters worse I saw her eating lunch alone with McNully several times. I was mentally preparing myself to see them holding hands any day now.

—

The match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff was approaching fast. I was excited about it as it would be a rare occasion these days where I would see Nova not being mad. One thing I wasn't looking forward to was listening to McNully commentate on every single one of her moves. I hated knowing he was watching her.

I made my way to the pitch with Jae and Bill.

“Jae, thank you for going with us. I know Tulip asked you to go with her.” Jae still fancied Tulip and it looked like they were doing pretty good but these days nobody really hung out with anybody because of me and Nova. Jae insisted that the whole thing between us was rubbish and said that if Tulip can take Nova's side, he was going to stick with mine and I appreciated that very much. I knew he missed hanging out with her.

“Don't mention it, mate.” He smiled sincerely. “As I said, if they want to hold grudges against my best mate, then I don't want anything to do with them.”

“That's really nice of you, Jae.” Bill said and I agreed. Jae just shrugged his shoulders as if it wasn't a big deal.

On our way up to the stands, we ran into Tulip, Tonks, and Penny.

“Hi.” Tulip said awkwardly and waved to Jae.

“Hi.” He said back with an official voice but I saw his cheeks turn pink.

Penny exhaled through her nose angrily and walked past us. Tulip and Tonks looked sad but followed her.

“You know what, this is mad!” I heard Tonks say and we all turned around.

“Do you mates want to sit with us to watch the game?” She asked.

“Tonks, what are you doing?” Penny frowned.

“Look, Penny, this is getting ridiculous! Can we at least spend time with our friends when Nova's not around? She's not going to see us and Charlie apologized to her for the 100th time this morning.” She pointed at me.

“She's right, Pen. They are our friends too.” Tulip said calmly.

“I just don't understand why do you two need so long to make up? What did you say to her, Charlie? I have never seen anyone so angry as she is at you.” So Penny wanted us to make up too?

“I thought she told you?” I looked puzzled.

“No...not really.” Tulip admitted. “Every time we asked her about it she got mad at us too so we stopped trying.”

“Then why are you mad at me?” I frowned.

“Charlie, we are only mad at you because we saw how hurt she was. She came back from your fight as if a troll hit her on the head. She cried for hours.” Penny explained.

“I made her cry? Great, as if I don't feel like the worst friend already.” I lost all interest in Quidditch. I wanted to go to my dormitory and never come out of it again.

“I just think she needs time, she'll come around.” Penny looked so sad that I wanted to hug her.

“Yeah, being with McNully really will help my cause.” I rolled my eyes.

“Charlie, you have to get over that guy!” Penny sighed.

“Wait, was this all because of Murphy?” Tulip asked.

“I threw her crush in her face when we were fighting, yeah.” I admitted. “And I told her that we were drifting apart and that it was okay and I understood that she has other friends now.”

“You did what?!” Penny was furious. “You basically broke up your friendship and you wonder why she is so mad at you!” For a second I thought she was going to punch me.

“I am sorry but I don't know what the big deal is.” Tonks looked puzzled. “He was probably mad as she spent more time with everyone else and he said some bad things, he's only human!” She turned from Penny to me. “You said sorry on multiple occasions and it always sounded sincere to me...” Tulip nodded in agreement. “...and she can't take the bloody apology? Sorry, mate but you're not the one doing anything wrong here.” Penny glared at her and if it was possible I would say smoke was coming through her nostrils.

“Don't look at me like that Haywood, you know I'm right! She's overreacting and only thinking about herself.” Bill and Penny gasped. “He's obviously hurting too and she's punishing him for hurting her feelings.” She continued, completely ignoring them.

“You're right.” Penny sighed and finally calmed down.

“Charlie, don't you think we're not trying.” She bit her lip nervously. “We mention you all the time and encourage her to talk to you. She always says she's not ready to talk yet.” She said sadly, avoiding my eyes.

“Give her more time.” Tulip added. I nodded. I would give her all the time in the world if it means I get my best friend back.

“Now, what do you say we go be friends again and watch the match together?” Tonks pulled us all in a hug circle.

“Who are you two Hufflepuffs going to root for?” Bill asked.

“Ravenclaw, of course!” Penny beamed.

“Mate, she fancies Andre, who did you think she was rooting for?” I chuckled.

“Well, I'm rooting for Hufflepuff, I am done giving Nova a shoulder to cry on.” Tonks frowned, put her hand on my shoulder, and looked at me. “I am on your side now, Weasley.” She said and started going up the stairs. That made me smile, she was a good friend.

“I swear, sometimes she scares me.” Jae whispered. Tulip and Penny giggled.

We reached the stands and found a free spot just as Madam Hooch whistled. Both Teams flew to the pitch and the game began. I was curious how the game was going to turn out. I heard that Hufflepuff got a new Keeper this year and apparently she was really good.

I was interested to see her technique so I decided to stare towards the Hufflepuff hoops instead of following Nova's every move.

Were girls right? Was she the one overreacting? I couldn't believe Tonks was on my side as I still felt like I was the one who did everything wrong. She was indeed torturing me at this point, not wanting to talk but I did hurt her feelings, she had the right to be angry. Right?

“And 10 points to Hufflepuff, what an incredible technique that was!” Great, McNully! “If they have more tricks like this up their sleeves then their chance of winning...” I put my hands on my ears to muffle out the absurd percentages he was about to get wherever from. Bill and Jae laughed at me as they knew how annoying I found it.

I had to give it to the Hufflepuff Keeper, she was really good! I bet Tom was already debating a new strategy with our Chasers on how to score past her. Sometimes I was really happy I was the Seeker. I only had one job, catching the Snitch. Even though I admit that I did a poor job playing against Ravenclaw last year.

I decided to look for the Snitch to see if I can spot it from the stands. It was a good practice and it distracted me from listening to McNully's analytics. Seriously, what does she see in that guy!

My search for the Snitch was interrupted as I noticed one of the Bludgers acting weirdly. Both Ravenclaw Beaters were chasing after it, obviously noticing the same thing but just as one of them wanted to hit it away from the pitch, it moved and the Beater almost fell off the broom. It was now going straight for the students watching the match on the side opposite to ours and just as they ducked, it hit the wall behind them, making a hole.

For a second it looked like it was not coming back but then I heard a familiar sound right behind us.

“Down, everyone!” I shouted, putting my hands over Bill and Jae's heads and pushing them down. We ducked just in time as the Bludger made another hole, this time from the other side, right above our heads. “Blimey, Charlie. Thank you!” Tonks said, while Tulip and Penny looked terrified.

Just when I thought it calmed down I saw it going towards Nova. She was so focused on something and when I narrowed my eyes I saw she was going after the Snitch. The Bludger was approaching fast and by the looks of it, she didn't see it.

“Nova!” I cupped my hands around my mouth.

“Charlie, what are you doing?” Bill was holding his hands over his ears as I continued shouting her name.

“The Bludger! It's going to hit her!” I pointed at her. The ball was now catching up to her and just as she was about to grab the Snitch, it hit her in the back, knocking her off her broom.

Penny shrieked and Tulip and Tonks gasped. Madam Hooch used her whistle and all the players flew to the ground to see if Nova was okay. I tried standing on my toes to see what was going on. I needed to know if she was alright. Now more than ever I hated being so short.

“Bill, can you see anything?”

“Take her to the Hospital Wing, quickly!” I heard Madam Hooch shout just as Bill shook his head.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around.

“Charlie, you have to go.” Penny said. I looked at Tonks and Tulip and they both nodded.

“Be there for her, mate.” Bill hugged me and they stood up so I could pass them.

I needed so much time to get away from the stands as students started to panic. The Bludger was now more out of control than before and started making more holes through the stands.

I was pushing people away, getting a lot of angry looks, but I didn't care. I had to know if Nova was alright. I couldn't believe this was happening. We weren't talking for such a long time and now she got hurt. I felt guiltier than ever now and at this point, I promised myself that I would make her talk to me if nothing else will work. It was time to get my best friend back.

I ran through the Courtyard and down the Corridor as fast as I could. I could feel a sharp pain under my ribs but I didn't care. I had to know that she was okay. I stopped between the open Hospital Wing door, leaning on it and trying to catch my breath.

“Nova.” My voice sounded as if my mouth was full of sand.

I walked inside, still panting looking at the beds, trying to find her.

“She is going to be alright, don't you worry.” I heard Madam Pomfrey say. I ran towards the bed, ready to be by her side as I stopped, stupified.

I felt my heart shatter all over again and it seemed like I was about to suffocate, when I saw McNully by her bed, holding her hand and telling her she was going to be okay.

I stormed out of the Hospital Wing before he noticed me, out of the Castle and into the Forbidden Forest and I was never getting out again.

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mamashitty · 4 years

Text

Mama, why don’t I have magic?

Here’s a little first chapter of a fic that is sitting unfinished in my docs. I have vague ideas of where I want to take it. I love the world that this fic takes place in, because it’s a version of the world a novel of mine lives in. And I needed to shove Eric and Jack and the rest of the OMGCP characters into it.

Unfortunately, I’ve never gotten it much past this first chapter. I like it, though. I really like this first chapter so I’ve decided to share it and maybe one day, I’ll finally write the rest of it.

“Mama, why don’t I have magic?” Eric asked, his voice hardly above a whisper. He was unsure his Mama had even heard him as she continued to chop vegetables on the counter. Vegetables that Eric had seen her coax lovingly from little seedlings. Her love and magic poured from her hands into the soil, and then eventually into the seeds themselves as they took root and then sprouted.

She could do the same with herbs and fruits too. Probably entire trees and forests if she wanted, but his Mama was always content with her gardens and cooking from those gardens in her warm kitchen. And Eric, he liked to spend time with his Mama because her magic was soft in a way his Daddy’s was not. Her magic was quiet and he could feel the love. Daddy’s was…. well, it could be loud and scary.

“Not everyone has magic, sweetie.”

Eric waited for his Mama to say more, something in him needing her say more, but she did not. She shooed him away from the hot, hot stove and tossed the chopped vegetables into the pot. Eric watched as his Mama flitted about in the kitchen, looking over her shoulder to make sure he was not getting into any trouble. But Eric was too busy watching her, his fingers itching to help, but Mama said he was too young to chop with that big knife and she always worried so when he was too close to the heat. He watched, and he wondered why it felt like his heart was breaking.

His Mama had said not everyone had magic, but did that make him okay for not having any?

---

It was late.

Eric knew that he should be sleeping, that Mama and Daddy would be mad if he was still awake. They would be even madder if they knew where he was going as he crept through the quiet house. He could hear the noises of the party happening out in the backyard. His Mama and Daddy celebrating with the rest of the adults in the neighborhood. It was the anniversary of the end of the war, a war that Eric had never really lived through. He had been a baby when it ended, and any memories of it he had were more stories his Mama or MooMaw told in the kitchen when he was supposed to be busy working on whatever task they had set him to. But he always had one ear ready to hear what they said. Daddy never spoke of the war, even though he had fought in it.

Eric crept, not knowing why he was sneaking so quietly when he knew no one was in the house. He opened the closet door and found the pole he knew would hook into the trapdoor in the ceiling. He was short for a ten-year-old, and the pole was heavy too, but he managed to hook it into the loop of the door, and yank the ladder down. It was louder than he had liked, and he paused before he made the climb, listening as hard as he could with his ears for the sound of angry parental footsteps, but he heard none. He climbed the ladder into the attic, and then picking his way carefully, too scared to use a flashlight and possibly draw attention to himself, he made his way towards the window. He stumbled over attic debris once or twice. Old things his Mama wanted to keep, but always seemed to forget about once they moved up into the dusty old attic. He opened the window and there was no screen. He could squeeze his body out and sit on the roof to watch the celebrations.

He could have watched it from his bedroom window, but his Mama would probably have seen him. Besides, it was nice being outside in the cool night air. Summer was fading into fall. He had to be careful as he sat on the roof, hoping his Mama did not look above his bedroom window any. He brought his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them as he watched the adults below, their voices too muffled for him to hear what was being said. Some people were louder than others, but even the loud ones, he could not make out what they were saying.

Then his Daddy and his Daddy’s Boys. The ones who called him Coach. The ones who were a little older than Eric but had magic in their veins like his parents, the ones his Daddy was training up, stepped into the center of the yard. Eric watched with bated breath as his Daddy thrust his hands out towards the sky, and fire shot out of his palms. Fire that then arced into a beautiful display of loops and circles. Some boys threw their own hands into the air, some had fire magic like Daddy but others had different types that were considered war magic. It was loud, and the fire looked beautiful as it mingled with lightning magic from some, and he thought he saw shots of ice magic too. Somehow nothing burned. His Daddy was in complete control.

And the boys he trained didn't burn or scorch anything either.

Eric watched until the display was done. His cheeks wet with tears he had been unaware he was shedding.

---

“Bitty.”

“Lardo.”

The two friends stared at each other for a few minutes. It was Eric’s twentieth birthday and Lardo was getting him high on the roof of his childhood home. Mama and Coach were out of the house. Mama being needed in the hospital with her herbs and knowledge of potions. Her knowledge of what foods to make for the healers who would need to replenish their energies. Coach was down at the fields with his new crop of young Warmages, men and women alike, that he trained in the art of bending their magic to inflict the most damage on the enemy. An enemy who at the moment, did not exist but might in the future again, and it was important to train them up right.

Bitty was not bitter about it. Not really.

He also was not one to smoke much. He was higher than he had ever been. He noticed Lardo holding the joint out to him, and it dawned on him that that was probably why she had said his name earlier. He reached for the joint and took a pull. His lungs were full of smoke and then he coughed. A slow grin flitting across Lardo’s face as she watched him. Bitty stuck his tongue out at his friend.

His best friend.

Lardo and her family had moved into the neighborhood five years ago, and Bitty had instantly liked her. She was quiet and smart and so talented with art. He could watch her paint for hours or sculpt or do anything with her hands, and it was mesmerizing. She was the one who had given him the nickname Bitty. She had come to the neighborhood with her own already, Lardo. Larissa, she said, was what her parents called her.

She was also the first person with magic that Bitty had not felt envious of—or maybe he had at first—but the envy had left him once he realized how much she hated the powers she had. She could manipulate peoples’ dreams and she did not like it. What right did she have in crowding into peoples’ minds like that? She swore off her magic and pretended like it did not exist, despite the pressure from all around her, to use it for something.

“Let’s go, Bits. Get that pie you made yourself and we’ll go visit the boys.” Lardo said, as she finished the joint that Bitty had forgotten he had handed back after his coughing fit. She led the way to the window. It was a little trickier these days for the two of them to squeeze through it, but they managed. He shut the attic door and hid the pole back in the closet before he looped his arm through Lardo’s and down into the kitchen he went for the pie he had baked specially for himself and his friends. Then it was off to see the boys they went.

#omgcp #eric bittle #larissa lardo duan #omgcp fic #unfinished fic #mama shitty writes #mama shitty fics

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