#the great crested newt is so cute looking!!

[tangential-hooligan]

Amphibiuary 2023

Day 22- Dragon

A majestic creature! Inspired by pictures of the great crested newt!

I liked the spots of yellow I saw on some of them, so I decided to give this lovely lady some much needed orange! She is so elegant 🧡✨☺️

[aethelar]

For @captaineluniverse​ who wanted dragons with feathers

In the early 21st century, muggles became aware of the fact that dinosaurs, contrary to earlier beliefs, had a thick plumage of feathers covering their scales. It was a fact that the magicals had been well aware of for several centuries; not, disappointingly, because of dramatic time travelling escapades, nor because of inspired individuals taking a wild turn in their divination exams, nor even because of technological advancement in the field of magical paleontology.

It was simpler than that: what muggles called dinosaurs were better known in the magical world as dragons and the magical world knew that dragons had feathers because those that couldn’t walk out into the hills and find a dropped feather beneath a favoured preening station could walk into their local apothecary and buy one. The feathers, like the creatures they came from, varied in size; great crest feathers longer than a man is tall, tiny down feathers barely larger than a grain of rice, shimmering dimensional feathers that disappeared if viewed from side on.

Or, as Newt found one Thursday morning at far too early o’clock, small iridescent feathers precisely the right size to block up the spout of his favourite teapot.

Again.

“Look,” he said, reaching a finger in and rubbing it along a damp wing. “I know it’s the perfect temperature for swimming but it’s also the perfect temperature for drinking, so would you mind terribly waiting a minute before diving in?”

The teapot gave a sad, warbling chirp. Newt squinted at it.

“Well, if you’re comfortable,” he said dubiously. “But will you actually stay in this one if I brew myself a fresh pot?”

Happy chirrups. Honest chirrups, sincere as the day is long, very trustworthy, absolutely, much promise.

Newt nodded and shuffled over to the stove to collect his kettle. It whistled a good morning at him and waved a friendly tail when he opened the lid.

Newt blinked, debated turfing the occupant out, and decided that spelling hot water directly into his teacup was the better part of valor. 

Tea achieved, he balanced a slice of toast on the saucer and nudged a pile of drafts aside with his elbow to make space on the kitchen side.

Four tiny, hopeful faces stared up at him. The faces were attached to tiny, feathered bodies with tiny, patterned wings, all neatly sat with their tiny feather-tipped tails curled round their back paws. Their front paws were full of tiny, dragon-approved cookies. They had raisins in.

“You are not dunking in my tea,” Newt informed the cohort.

Four tiny, hopeful faces looked up at him with wide eyes and became somehow tinier and somehow hopefuller.

“No,” he said. “You’ll leave it full of crumbs.”

One dragon gave a tiny squeak.

“You’re apex predators,” Newt reminded them. “Your fire can melt stone. You’re feathered terrors and you’re perfectly capable of getting your own breakfast.”

Another dragon scooted forward and nuzzled against his fingers. It was about as long as his pinky, and when it wormed its way underneath his hand and curled up in a ball, it fit perfectly in his palm.

“Squeak,” the dragon repeated, butting against him until he ran his fingers down it’s feathery spine.

Its three siblings inched closer, draping themselves subtly over his wrist and burrowing into the loose fabric of his sleeve.

Newt huffed a laugh and summoned another saucer with a flick of his wand. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he told the horde, filling the dish with tea. “But you’re still not putting crumbs in my cup.”

And they didn’t - the cookies were dunked in the saucer, the toast crumbs were scavenged practically before they’d separated from the toast, and not a single bit of breakfast made it into Newt’s cup of tea.

Four dragons did, curling around each other and purring at the perfect temperature of the brightly painted nest they’d just found, and at this point Newt gave up and pointed his wand at his face.

It was far too early o’clock on a Thursday morning, he was in his dressing gown with a spectacular case of bedhead, half his toast had been stolen by a marauding band of thieves, and his tea and been cavalierly repurposed into a nice warm bath. If he wanted to conjure boiling caffeine directly into his mouth then he’d conjure boiling caffeine directly into his mouth and no one was going to stop him.

“Because I’m an adult,” he told the snoring pile of feathers in his teacup. “I’m an adult and a mother and I’m acing every part of it.”

Somewhere in the distance he heard the vague crashing sound that signified the erumpets were awake. The teacup dragons startled, and one let out a surprised hiccough that set half of Newt’s latest draft aflame.

“Every part,” Newt insisted, and summoned himself another slice of toast.

[xaz-fr]

Starting a new mini vignette series called Us Two. Basically: I'm my own dragon pairings biggest fan (except maybe newt....) and damnit I want to write my pairings doing CUTE SHIT (for the most part)

Up first we got Layali, my Progenitor, and Najaïr, a Shard of the Windsinger. I love them both SO MUCH like wow. I love them ;0;

@deadpool-scar-bro @hikayelastoria @cornsnoot-fr @redlion-fr @mushroomdraggo @murdoch-fr @tales-around-sornieth @frxemriss @rainhearts-hatchery @rexcaliburr-fr @starry-ampelope @reanimatedfr @ally-fr @golden-lionsnake​ @rookfern​ @khadjin-fr (let me know if you’d like to be added to the lore pinglist)

The wind made the bamboo wind chimes clatter softly. Layali had made them. Najaïr had never known anything like wind chimes before. With the Bamboo Snakes it was utilitarian or mechanical because of Kala. He’d never seen something to have because it made you happy unless it had another use. Bonten thought it was stupid to have extra ‘garbage’ to carry around with you. Najaïr didn’t totally disagree because it he did hate hauling stuff around. As the biggest of the Snakes other than Kala he always had had to carry everything and any extra thing was something he had to shoulder. So. Not fun.

But Nadalin just made the wind chime wherever they stayed for more than a few days. She hung it above their sleeping nest and when Bonten complained about she’d just look into his bright green eyes and tell him to do something about it if it made him so upset. Bonten, always more of a whiner than a dooer… never did. Najaïr didn’t mind. He liked them.

He was laid with Layali in their nest. Her slight form was curled against his in the pre dawn light, sleeping soundly as he was watching the wind chime. He liked that she slept so soundly. She said she used to sleep so horribly before, rarely getting a full night’s sleep, rarely sleeping without nightmares. But not with him. He had an arm around her shoulders as she cuddled against him, watching the sway of the bamboo and listening to the chime. He knew Jos was keeping watch a distance off with Green.

He sat up, still looking up when something started to move across the sky behind the leaves of the bamboo. It was a huge thing. Next to him Layali woke with a noise of complaint.

“Najaïr? What it is?” she muttered in Shingari, pulling on his arm. His ears perked when off in the distance he heard the high pitched thunder.

“Get up, c’mon,” he pulled her up.

“Whaaat?” she complained but did disturb their leaf and bamboo nest as she got to her feet, rubbing her eyes.

Using mostly his own magic and wing power he pulled her into the air. “You’ll see. C’mon,” he said urgently. Layali got her wings under her by the time they crested the bamboo tops.

Up this high dawn was more pronounced. The horizon was starting to lighten, the bamboo forest turning almost pink as a soft dawn peeked over the rising and falling mountains of the Ascent. “Look, look,” he pointed up and into the distance.

“Oh!” she cried. Out in the distance was a pod of sky whales. Three mothers with two calves and maybe a male. They played high up in the low hanging clouds, the young skimming against the bamboo to reach an itch they just couldn’t scratch. They were soft gray and green with curled and winding markings across their flanks with three sets of pectoral fins and short flukes meant more for speed that allowed them to swim quickly through the sky and clouds.

“C’mon, let’s go see,” and he grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the pod. She didn’t fight him and when two Wind dragons wanted to fly somewhere they did so at speed. It took them moments to get closer to the pod.

The calves noticed them first and swam close to their gigantic mothers. But the mothers recognized them as the Windsinger’s children, same as they and were unbothered by the two small dragonoids flying between them. Even the babies were nearly as large as Najaïr had been before he’d taken on this form, their mothers truly massive next to them, larger than Imperials, larger than anything Najaïr had ever seen.

Layali let go of his hand to go closer to one of the calves. He just watched curiously and smiled when she coaxed it from the shadow of their mother. The calves were quicker than their mothers with greater dexterity and could almost keep with Layali’s casual flying but were very excited and keen to do so. Najaïr watched for a moment not really knowing what he was seeing. It took him far too long to realize she was playing with them. He hadn’t grown up playing with anyone else other than Kala and Jeddie and even that was never like this. He didn’t really know what play looked like. And now he saw Layali doing it and it felt like his hearts were much too large for his chest in a good way? He was a confusing feeling. He quickly flew over to her to play a chasing game with the calves.

Layali was more nimble in the air in this form than he was and didn’t just fly circles around the calves but him too. Watching how graceful she was made him smile. She looked so different from the girl he’d found on the Plateau bleeding from the nose. It made him happy seeing her like this, flying freely through the air, catching both his tail and the calves’ tails as she flitted around them. She made him dizzy and he didn’t want it to stop.

But it did have to come to an end. The pod was moving on. The mothers sang to their children as the sun broke above the low clouds, bathing them in glamorous golden sunlight, beckoning them away from the dragons to follow the pod. Layali called after them in Sinhgari and Najaïr smiled. Then she flew back to him and he felt his skin prickle all over like his scales were raising as she brushed against him.

“That was fun,” she said.

Najaïr’s mouth worked a moment, caught off guard with being asked to speak. “Y-yeah,” he blurted out, feeling really stupid.

“Do you want to go after them?” she asked him, stopping to hover next to him, her butterfly patterned wings barely moving.

“I think Bonten would wonder where I went,” he said.

She shrugged, “I guess,” she said.

“But if you wanted to-- I’d go anywhere with you,” he blurted out.

She giggled. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But we shouldn’t make the “Shard Chosen” any more cranky than he already is,” she snickered.

“Right,” he said. “We could stay out here a little longer,” he said.

She flew a bit closer to him, the clouds beneath them turning the color of white gold. “That’d be nice. I like it when it’s just the two of us. No Snakes. No Bonten,” she curled her rosette patterned tail around his and Najaïr felt both his hearts pounding like crazy in his chest.

“Me too,” he said. They were closer now than dragons could usually get. Only because they were both so skilled at Wind magic could they get within touching range without needing to move forward.

“Najaïr,” she said, sort of looking at the clouds, sort of at him. He was only looking at her. “You know,” she tapped her lips thoughtfully, “There’s a thing my old clan would do- well, the couples anyway,” and he sort of stopped hearing for a moment. All he could hear was the pounding of his hearts. He was able to hear properly after a few seconds, “”Have you heard of such things?”

“I’ll be honest,” he said, “I didn’t hear a thing you said.”

“What?” she seemed hurt.

He grabbed her hand, which surprised her, and pulled her as close as their big wings could accommodate and keep up their slow beats. He put her hand against his chest and she could feel the furious beating of his hearts through his thin skin. “I can barely hear you over the sound of my hearts,” he said softly, the second one only started beating like this when I met you.”

Her face softened. She took her hand off his chest and instead put his hand on her chest. “Mine too,” she said and he could feel the pounding of her hearts in her chest, making her soft, brown, skin thrum under his fingers. He smiled slightly.

“They’ve never done that before,” he said, licking his lips.

“No?”

“No.”

She smiled softly, “You know why?”

“You know why?” he asked, green eyes getting big. She sort of giggled.

“So what I was saying before,” she said. “It’s something those in my old clan did when they found someone who made their body do things they weren’t expecting.” He nodded, he wanted to know. “Just, this,” and she carefully pressed her lips against his. It was a funny feeling but he liked it immediately. He didn’t know what it was but it felt great and he was sure he wanted to do that again even as she pulled away.

“Oh,” he said.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

“I think one; we shouldn’t tell Bonten about that at all or he’d get real mad,” he said in a sort of staccato sing song tone that made her laugh. “And two; we should definitely do that again,” he continued in the same verse.

She just laughed again, “You’re lucky I like you or I’d say no after that silly voice you just used,” she said and cupped his jaw with both hands and pressed her lips against his again. It felt so nice he forgot to keep beating his wings and they started to fall towards the earth.

They caught the air in their wings as they broke through the bottom of the clouds. Najaïr wrapped them in a pocket of Wind magic with a hard flap of his wings and kept them levitating so they didn’t even have to fly anymore. He liked that better as she got very close to him, pressing her chest up against his, and kept kissing him.

[hermannsthumb]

ok so last night on my side twitter i got really invested in the concept of a regency/late 1700s/early 1800s newmann au featuring mildly incompetent highwayman newt who really only manages to steal one thing from nobleman hermann......his heart....and then i wrote a little ficlet of it, and then ferio drew some VERY cute art of it on twitter here

anyway terrible meet-cute an anachronistic language left and right below the cut

Hermann has never cared for long coach rides. The cramped confines of carriages make his leg ache, and the constant jostling sets his nerves on end and ensures he can never quite fall asleep. This one in particular is unbearable, and not because the journey has lasted him a day already. It’s more due to the fact that Hermann’s currently being robbed.

At least, that’s what Hermann assumes is happening: the carriage has come to a screeching halt, and there’s a great deal of shouting going on outside. He hears his coachman cry out, and then nothing. Hermann does not move.

The carriage door is flung open. Hermann comes face to face with the end of a pistol. “Evening,” the owner of the pistol says, gruff-voiced. The man is mounted on horseback--a fearsome, snarling thing--and a black bandanna covers the lower half of his face. Not that Hermann would be able to see his face anyway: the night obscures his eyes, only his body thrown into sharp relief by the lanterns of Hermann’s carriage. He’s wrapped in a dark cape.

Hermann’s heard rumors of the highwayman that lurks these roads--it’s one of the reasons why he’d been so nervous to travel in the first place. They say the highwayman has eyes that flash like the devil’s, that he sprang forth from nightmares, that he’ll take everything but prisoners. The Magpie, they call him.

“Hello,” Hermann says, unsure of the proper procedure for being robbed. “What have you done to my coachman?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” the highwayman says, oddly polite; as far as Hermann knows, this doesn’t seem to be the usual procedure. “I only knocked him over the head. He’ll wake up in a bit.” That’s a relief, at least. Hermann can’t steer for the life of him, and he’d rather not be stranded in the woods all night. The highwayman shakes his pistol in Hermann’s face. “In the meantime, how about you start handing everything over?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of valuables on me,” Hermann says, unsure once more, but this time of why he’s apologizing to a highwayman. The pistol is alarming him, making him unable to think straight--Hermann’s never been at the end of one before. His heart is racing.

“With a fancy carriage like yours?” the highwayman says, and snorts. “Don’t hold out on me, handsome.”

Handsome? Hermann starts fumbling in his pockets. It’s the truth, really, he doesn’t have many valuables on his person tonight. He hates ostentatious reminders of his family’s wealth and never wears jewelry, though he is admittedly fond of silk cravats and a good handkerchief. He pulls his money bag from his breeches, his nice pocket watch from inside his waistcoat. “I swear to you,” Hermann says, laying them delicately on the empty seat next to him within reach of the highwayman, “this is all I have.”

The highwayman lowers his pistol and leans in to pick up each. That’s when Hermann springs to action; he twists the head of his cane just so and unsheathes a sword, whips it out and points it at the highwayman’s chest in one furious, fluid motion, hopes for the element of surprise. “Drop them,” Hermann snarls. He doesn’t expect it to work. The highwayman has a pistol, after all, he could shoot Hermann dead before Hermann even gets remotely close to stabbing him. But the highwayman takes one look at Hermann’s sword, lets out a shrill little yelp, and immediately falls off his horse.

Hermann blinks. He peers out the carriage door.

The highwayman is lying in a little heap on the dirt road, bandanna askew, cape twisted about his person. His pistol’s fallen from his hand to the carriage seat.  “Easy!” he squeaks, and holds his hands up to shield himself from the sword. “You could really hurt someone with that.” His voice has lost all hint of threatening gruffness. It’s somewhat high, Hermann realizes. A little scratchy.

“As opposed to swinging pistols about,” Hermann says, not lowering the sword, “which are infamously harmless.”

“It’s not loaded,” the highwayman says, and sure enough, when Hermann picks up the pistol and inspects it, the bullet chamber is completely empty. Which, frankly, raises more questions.

“Why do you carry an empty pistol?”

“It’s all about appearance, you know, instilling fear. I don’t actually want to kill anyone,” the highwayman says, and he gets a little sarcastic. “You might not know this, but that’s incredibly illegal.”

“One might say the same of robbery,” Hermann points out.

“One might,” the highwayman says, and he gets to his feet cautiously, shadowy eyes trained on the sword. “One might also say it’s nothing but a--redistribution of wealth. How familiar are you with folklore? Ever heard of Robin Hood?”

The highwayman’s actually quite short, Hermann sees, now that he’s down from that dreadful horse of his. His breeches are nearly indecently tight. Not that Hermann noticed. “Oh, so you’re a noble thief,” Hermann says. “Forgive me for making assumptions. Typically when strange men rob me at gunpoint I tend to think the worst of them.”

“Mostly noble,” the highwayman says, and Hermann can nearly hear his grin behind his bandanna. “I’m also the poor, common folk in the scenario, see.”

“Mm.” Hermann lowers his sword an inch. “You’re fairly talkative for a highwayman.” He supposes the magpie moniker is appropriate. 

“You’re surprisingly merciful for someone I tried to rob,” the highwayman says. “If I return your belongings, will you stop pointing that thing at me?”

“Remove your mask first,” Hermann orders. The highwayman hesitates a moment, and then his gloved hands go to the knot of his bandanna. He unties it, and it falls to the ground. Hermann nearly drops the sword in shock.

The highwayman is young, no older than Hermann himself--not the aged, haggard man of legends Hermann had been expecting. His features are soft, rounded, his hair messy, his cheeks freckled. His eyes aren’t like some sort of devil’s at all--they’re green, shielded by a pair of thick spectacles, which would explain all the flashing in the light. Hermann’s aware he’s staring, but he can’t help it. The highwayman is--attractive. “Now?” the highwayman says, and there’s a little mischievous glint in his eye, as if he’s somehow privy to Hermann’s thoughts. Or perhaps he merely has eyes. Hermann had not been particularly subtle in his sweeping examination of the man. His cheeks feel warm.

“Oh, go on,” he sighs, and finally re-sheaths the sword. The highwayman bows courteously--and perhaps a bit mockingly--and ducks down to pick up Hermann’s money and watch.

“No one’s ever fought back before,” the highwayman says, out of sight. “Mostly everyone’s too afraid. Or too wealthy to care. What are a few stolen gold rings if you’ve got a dozen more at home?”

“I don’t particularly care either,” Hermann confesses. “It’s my father’s wealth, not mine, and we don’t exactly--get along.” Hermann’s unclear on why he’s explaining so much of his life to a thief, albeit a handsome and oddly charming thief. “I’m simply in a hurry, you see, and was already feeling rather cross, so you can only imagine how your presence must’ve affected me.”

“A hurry?” the highwayman says, ducking back into sight with Hermann’s money bag and watch clutched in his hands. He’s grinning once more.

Hermann’s heart sinks in his chest. He is in a hurry, and he’s certainly lost a great deal of time by now--the sun’s set throughout the course of his exchange with the highwayman. He’ll have to pay for an inn along the route, now, perhaps pay someone to deliver a message to Newton and let him know his arrival will be delayed. Their first meeting put off yet another day. “I was in a hurry,” Hermann corrects. “I’m due to meet--someone.”

“A lover?” the highwayman says, mischievous glint back. “Don’t say yes. I’ll be heartbroken.”

Hermann’s heart flutters a bit. Damn this little man. “Are you always this incorrigibly flirtatious with your victims?”

“No,” the highwayman says, and winks. “You’re the exception.” He turns the watch over in his hands, and Hermann’s surprised to see him frown at the Gottlieb family crest. It’s a little gaudy, Hermann supposes; he tends to avoid using it on much other than the watch in question, which had been a gift, and his letter seal. “This is--familiar,” the highwayman says. Very suddenly, his eyes widen behind his spectacles. He looks up at Hermann. “Hermann?” he squeaks.

“Yes?” Hermann says, eyebrows arching. “How do you know--?”

“I swear to you,” the highwayman stammers, “I didn’t know it was you. Truly. I wouldn’t have--”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s meant to fund my research,” the highwayman says, and Hermann shuts his eyes and groans, because of course, of course it’s him.

“Of course,” he says. “Newton.”

“In the flesh,” Newton says, and gives a high, nervous laugh. “Uh. Sorry?”

“You pulled a pistol on me!”

“Unloaded!” Newton exclaims. “You pulled a sword on me! Why do you even own a sword?”

“Frankly, I don’t believe that is any of your business,” Hermann sniffs. “Bloody well figures you’re a thief. What are you doing lurking about in the woods when I was meant to be arriving at your estate tonight?” Not just a thief, but a terrible host at that.

“I was bored of waiting for you!” Newton says. “It was only meant to be a quick little robbery.” Hermann believes it; even through no means of communication but letter correspondence over the course of their four year-long partnership, Hermann has inferred how easily restless and distracted Newton is made. “What are you doing travelling the route of the Magpie?”

“The Magpie,” Hermann snorts derisively. Newton--shrill-voiced, a good head shorter than the average man, waving an empty pistol--springing forth from nightmares.

“Don’t laugh!” Newton says. “You were all over the Magpie, Hermann, you thought I was so mysterious and alluring. I bet you were a minute away from asking me to ravish you right here.”

“Mysterious and alluring indeed,” Hermann says, choosing not to remark on the accusation of desired ravishment but instead recalling in vivid detail Newton falling from his horse. And then he recalls something else. “You called me handsome.”

“Perhaps I did,” Newton says, cheeks flaming.

“Do you still--”

“Yes,” Newton says.

Hermann glances to the front of the carriage. “How long until--”

Newton’s inching up to the side of the carriage. “Another half an hour or so,” he says. “I’m highly skilled at rendering people unconscious. Doctor’s touch, you know.”

Hermann does not miss the innuendo. “Get up here, then,” Hermann says, and Newton hoists himself inside and falls upon Hermann with kisses.