Our bones could chirp, flap like mangled wings, each ligature strummed and drummed and hummed, each foot sly as serpents used to be, slithered thoughts across the dirt upturned with mounds of love planted deep, silent, black with life, poked out wet gushy eyes that jangled jotted thoughts of love and hate, slipped hand to hand like money exchanged, and all the nuance in between peeped pulsing bulging unheard, a festering puss about to burst until the poets came with their glug a glug of gashing pain, the un-said groan crackling out all at once like campfires coming rat-a-tat and put-put pop of what was there, of what was life, and the dark sludge of night fell off like scales, the poets -kachunk- like eggs cracked us, and we squeaked and squealed hungry for the words of sight, then grass green sprang between our toes, swished and shocked like long whipping wet hair, trees like towers shot up, tattooed the sky in sleeves of leaves, shining dazzling came the sun, sharp as needles, warm as wombs on our back
tiny spiny tectonic plates are words, rupture pricks up and down our skin, and we snap open, shifting, forever clamping words that flap and fly, defy their earthy roots, whirring air with wishes, yearns and groans, crunch we do upon its delicate drip like pomegranates squished, a fizz and zap and slowly rippling rush, a river rage inside that we have named our soul
Drabble or headcanons about glorfindel and s/o after glorfindel comes back from patrol for a long time (it can be smutty ;) )
-Glorfindel smiles right at you when he comes riding into Rivendell, all decked out in armor and the blood of his enemies. He doesn’t even look tired.
-You’re the first person he hugs when he dismounts. He picks you up in his strong arms, holding you closely to him before pulling back and kissing you. The hug lasts for a little longer than is considered appropriate, but he missed you. It’s a very sweet sight.
-Everything is all light-hearted and sweet until he places a hand right below you bum, rubbing small circles with his fingers. You know immediately. He gives you a wink when no one is looking and leaves with a few other elf-lords so he can give them the run down.
-Glorfindel surprises you after two hours in a vacant hallway, one hand around you, the other around your waist as he forces you through a little door in some random direction. You’re so confused but relieved when it’s him:
day 4 lads are you READY for this angst fest - pastel/punk heck yeah.
Mentions of death, homophobia, bullying, cancer.
One last thing, before the slate is wiped clean. One last memory of Simon Salisbury.
I am adamant that there is something slightly wrong with a boy like me getting a tattoo in a place like this.
See, I’m clean-cut: pressed cotton shirts and folded sweaters, golden toed oxfords and ankle-biting skinny jeans, all in pretty shades of pastel rainbows and not a lot of black. I belong in my sweet shop over the road. Literally. I don’t have time to be here and spin yarns with the boys behind the counter. I just need to book it in, tell them what I want, and go. This place gives me enough anxiety just knowing it has sharp objects, controlled by people I don’t know - people who could hurt me. Not to mention, I don’t look like I should be here. Graffiti and flower don’t exactly go together very well.
“Hello?” One of the boys calls from the counter. “Can I help?”
Fuck my life he’s gorgeous.
I step forward awkwardly. He raises an eyebrow. Neither of us have time for this, clearly.
“Yeah, uh,” I stammer. I think he’s sees my hands shaking on the dark wood, so I shove them in my pockets and continue as efficiently as possible. “Can I book something for tomorrow?”
He frowns at my insistence to be here. Crap, I hate this place. I can’t believe I’m promising to come back. The boy pulls out a pen and notepad with a sigh and taps the desk impatiently. “Tomorrow’s pretty busy,” he observes. “You could come over after your shift?”
Slightly pissed off, his grey eyes glare at me through his ridiculously rogue fringe. “You work at the flower place, right?”
Oh. Oh. “Shit, yeah. Sorry, I’m… Yeah, that’s fine - about 5:30.”
He nods, grinning slightly before reverting back to his standard, bitter expression. “I’ll be taking care of you, then. Do you have a design I could see?”
Quickly and far too anxiously for his liking, I pull out the note, the last note she ever left me, folded perfectly to avoid all of the words and leave just the drawing of two roses, intersected by the stems. I suck in a quiet breath and begin to consider that I don’t need to do this.
Then again, I do.
The boy, dismissive as usual, snaps a few photos and pushes it back across the counter. “Where’s it going?” He questions, for more conversational than I expected for someone who seems to have the same emotional threshold as a dead leaf. “Arm? Ankle?”
I try to stop my voice from shaking, but it doesn’t seem to matter as I quietly declare: “Right forearm.”
It surprises us both, how broken it sounds. The boy, grey eyes blown wide and worried, is about to ask something - please don’t please don’t please don’t - so I cut him off with a strategic cough and point to the inside of my right arm. “Sorry. Just there. Right forearm.”
He almost looks sympathetic. I smile briefly and only end up making it a more tense interaction. “Okay…er, could I get a name.”
“And a last name?”
Oh fuck. I can’t say it. I can’t do it. I can’t-
He writes it down, frowns, quirks one eyebrow and sighs again. “I’m Baz. Come by around 5:30, I’ll sort you out.”
I can tell he doesn’t really want me here, but I suppose that’s part of the reason I showed up - spite.
My oxfords click across the expanse of the tattoo parlour, the sound alone over-stimulating my anxiety. Simple things begin to worry me - what if I annoy him? What if he yells at me? What if I sit where I’m not supposed to sit? - and as 1000 worst case scenarios play on a reel behind my my eyes, Baz turns up looking a far sight more concerned than before.
He eyes my appearance - cropped, short-sleeved white shirt (previously hidden by pink sweater), light blue skinny jeans grazing above my ankles, my white, gold-toed oxfords - though I wish he wouldn’t stare. It’s obvious I don’t fit in with the scenery, but I don’t need him of all strangers to put me out of place. I just…need this. One last thing before I let it all go, start a new chapter, and never look back on my life before this day.
“Snow,” he greets lightly.
A sudden dose of guilt rolls through my chest. That’s not me. “It’s Simon,” I correct.
He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. Leave your stuff over there, follow me.”
It is degrading to be wanting to sob my heart out in this stranger’s presence, but I push it aside momentarily to do as I’d been told. Baz leads me out the back and points to a seat. I almost laugh at myself for worrying about this part - but I remember Baz is here, so I don’t.
“All right - standard stuff,” he tells me. “It’s gonna hurt. Fuck what anyone told you. A needle is going into your skin, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Hygiene is of the utmost importance here, so don’t worry: the needle is clean, otherwise I would not have a job. After this is done I can go over some things to take care of your tattoo. Is this your first?”
I stare blankly at the ground. It’s gonna hurt. How many times has that been said to me these past months? “Yeah, it is.”
Baz pauses his work to stare me down, so I do my best to look like I’ve been intently listening to his spiel. He sighs. “Okay, are you sure you want to do this, Snow?”
“That’s not my fucking name,” I seethe. Baz looks as shocked as I feel. With a quick cough and a hope for dismissal, I shrink back. “Sorry, I- yeah, I’m sure.”
He sits down on my right and examines his canvas. “It’s fine,” he lies (so obviously lies - he practically sang it out, lips rolled back back, eyes burning). “May I know what the roses mean? Is it a symbol for anything?”
He’s preparing my skin. I remember seeing them doing this in hospitals for IVF tubes, and leaving the room to give them space. I’m good at giving people space. “It was just a drawing from someone.”
He smirks. “A girlfriend?”
I don’t. “No.”
“Do you know how to be happy? Or do you flux between anxiety and anger?”
The needle goes in and jabs at my skin. I gasp at first, then sigh, because I was beginning to feel numb again. “Do you know how to be happy? Pretty sure your facial expressions range from pissed off to livid.”
Ironically, he laughs. “Come on, Snow-”
“That’s still not my fucking name,” I comment breezily, focus on anything but his needle, until it stops.
“What exactly am I engraving on your body right now? Because I feel you’re enjoying this far too much and I’m not about to support that.”
I grimace, head falling back on the chair. Baz is a stranger, cold in emotions and yet somehow warm at heart. His needle goes down onto the work bench. “My name isn’t Snow.”
“Oh, for fuck-”
“It’s literally not my last name,” I admit, slightly shaky. Baz stops, suddenly willing to listen. “It’s Salisbury. Snow is my middle name, but I haven’t gone by Salisbury for months now.”
Baz softens, his hands placed over my wrist. “Why?”
That one words feels more loaded than the entire ordeal of actually getting a tattoo. “It was my mum’s. She died. My father literally only came back to tell me that it’s my fault she got cancer - it was God’s punishment for me and my romantic preferences.”
Baz raises his eyebrows at me. I can’t begin to assume what he’s thinking. At first I assumed it was going to be ‘ha, of course you’re queer’, judging by how he was staring at my outfit earlier, but instead he continues with the tattoo, grimacing when I don’t care too much about the pain. It’s not that I like it at all - no, it hurt like a bitch - I just have a very high pain threshold and a very low desire to have people know I’m in pain.
He stops again.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
My eyes are closed to drown out the needle, but I don’t open them to frown at him. “What?”
“I- your mum. They tried to tell me that, too, a bunch of kids I went to school with. They said my mother was killed because 'you’re a fag’ and 'she’d hate you anyway’. Sucked.”
Baz is gay.
“Thanks,” I whisper. Almost unrecognised, I add: “And I’m sorry you went through that.”
The needle starts again.
“What does the note say?” He asks. “The one with the drawing. What does it say?”
I hesitate. No one else has seen it before Baz, on my lunch break, and even then he didn’t read it. As far as everyone else is concerned, my mother and I never spoke within her last few months. This isn’t true. She’d send me flowers from my own store with little notes exactly like these, and I’d call her every night when she was alone. Supporting her queer son was not something she was allowed to do in front of family members. Despite my personal attachment to it, I pull the note out anyway, still perfectly folded in my wallet, and hold it out for Baz. The ink on his hands worries me to not let him take it, but he reads it from his seat.
I love you!! Hoping to see you this Summer, very much miss seeing you around. Hope you’re studying hard, my rosebud boy :)
Love Mum xxx
“Oh,” he whispers.
“She died three days later.”
I will not cry in front of Baz. No, I will not. I have done all my crying, I have seen every detail and kept ever perspective on this ordeal. I have been blamed, and disowned, and left without family, but this chapter of my life is new. It isn’t one where I’m shaking and crying in a corner like the past few months. Baz sees me getting upset and starts the needle again and continues to work. The pain itches at my arm and leaves an ache running up my arm. I gasp. Baz seems relieved.
He finishes his work and rolls away on his chair, wiping his hands on a stray damp rag. A gauze goes over the ink after a few moments of silent marveling. Baz grins at me, and fusses over me far more than any of his other customers, I’m guessing. Particularly because he does a whole lot of uncensored smiling when I’m looking at him. He seems to be nearly speaking, and then not. It entertains me to press on.
Until I’m paying for the service, he’s quiet and happy. I give him thanks and say goodbye, picking up my sweater and walking out.
Then: “Hey, Simon, wait.”
I swear my blood pulses harder. “Yeah?”
Baz’s hand ghosts over my arm. He’s forward, confident, I’ll give him that on a good turn, but now he’s finding some kind of shyness. “How about you stay with me tonight?” He offers. “You know, so I can look after your ink.”
I turn around, suddenly much closer to Baz than I’d anticipated, knocking my nose against his chin. With a giggle, I ask: “Do you take all of your clients home?”
His lips are scary close to my forehead. (I’m hoping he’ll lean down instead.) “Only the cute ones.”
This was a pretty fun project to do. It took me around three days to make this one (one day to make the body, one day for the head, one day for the dress and glasses). The book in the second shot was something I had for a while.
I went for the polka dot dress here instead of the lab coat because I have a pretty large amount of scrap polka dot cloth. This dress is removable, and going forward, it would be fun to make more clothes for her. Maybe Mew Mew Kissy Cutie related. X3
Her removable pince-nez glasses are made from half-hard scrap jewelry wire. The wire was shaped in a special way so that the glasses, um, well, pierce into the face in order to stay on.
The book she’s holding is “Monster History”. I pieced most of the text together from the text of the monster history chapter books from the “Undertale” game (whichever chapters were missing I built from other dialogue from the game, notably the intro dialogue and the dialogue at New Home in a pacifist route).
Thorin had returned to sit, brooding, on the throne while you lingered on the narrow walkway below the dais watching Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo leave. When the trio had disappeared through the vast, arched doorway, you turned to him where he slumped, his eyes restless and constantly moving with his feverish thoughts.
“You’re not being reasonable, Thorin. How long will you test their loyalty?”
He glanced irritably at you before looking away over the cavernous chamber. “They owe me their loyalty.”
“And you owe them your trust, your patience,” you countered. “Have they not proved themselves time and time again, all of them?”
“You forget your place,” he warned, turning a dangerous gaze on you.
You opened your mouth to speak and closed it again, summoning all of your self-restraint to smother your simmering frustration, bite back the angry words that wanted to claw their way from your throat. “You are not the man you were,” you said finally, carefully. “You regard the ones who love you most with doubt and suspicion…you are consumed with the search for this accursed stone, and I fear for you, Thorin. I pity you.”
“You pity me?” He repeated your words incredulously, in a voice thick with contempt. “I am King under the Mountain. I have no need for the pity of a woodworker’s daughter.”
Anger flared in you again, threatened to burn what love remained between the two of you, frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, to ashes. “There was a time when you spoke of making a woodworker’s daughter your Queen,” you retorted, caring no more for self-restraint. “Or have you forgotten everything you said when you had me bare beneath you in Laketown?”
Even in his madness, Thorin looked stung, and still the words poured from your lips. “Was I only there to warm your bed?” you needled him. “Give you courage to face the dragon with my pretty words of love and faith?”
“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, rising to his feet with an almost convulsive movement,
his glittering armor and the mad gleam in his eye making him larger, frightening. “You forget. Your. Place.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth, and just as suddenly as it had flooded you, your fury drained away, leaving behind only a cold, empty regret that filled your eyes with tears.
“I have no place here,” you whispered, searching for a glimpse of the man you loved in the face of the capricious, grasping tyrant who stood before you and finding no such comfort. With a trembling exhale, you turned to begin the long walk to the doorway, leaving him glowering on the dais.
“Where are you going? I have not given you leave,” Thorin said indignantly, behind you.
Your footsteps were loud in the oppressive stillness.
“I am the King!” Petulance crept into his voice. “I am the King, and you will stay until I have finished speaking to you!”
Only the silence answered him, and your retreating form grew smaller.
“Go, then,” Thorin growled, his call echoing on the stone walls. “Go! But know this: if you walk through that door, do not presume to show me your face again.”
With that, you halted, standing frozen beneath the great stone arch before looking back over your shoulder to meet his demanding stare, far away across the chamber. His lips began to curl into a victorious smirk that quickly faded when, without a word, you turned and left the throne room.
Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus: a Draco Malfoy x Reader Imagine
(This is based off of a head-cannon/theory I had a week or so ago and I decided to write it up. I may write this a different way later, let me know if you’d like to see it redone in a different fashion.) In this imagine the reader is enjoying a rainy afternoon in the Slytherin common room with Draco when they discover his weakness, one chink in the armor of the dragon, one perhaps eluded to in the school motto.
Warnings: none :)
Word count: 1,169
It’s another lazy afternoon. Rain patters against the walls of the castle, but it cannot be heard in the Slytherin common room. A platinum head rests in my lap, fingers running through hair absentmindedly as I continue reading in silence. The clock over the fireplace keeps time with my heartbeat, and the flames crackling beneath provide a cozy warmth one would not generally associate with dungeons.
I had to write a little Christmas ficlet to go along with this image…
John is dozing in his chair, his stockinged feet
stretched out to the evening fire. A book lays open in his lap, his tea going
cold. He starts awake at an odd noise – the footsteps on the stairs are
halting and heavy, causing John to rattle his cup into the saucer with a flash
He hastens to the door, his mind speeding to his leather satchel
– scalpel, sutures, ointments – worried that Sherlock is injured again. It
would be just like him, managing to get himself shot or stabbed on Christmas
John pulls open the door, Sherlock’s name on his lips. Before
he can fully understand, the heady scent of pine and a cold wave of winter air rise
up to greet him, the trembling green boughs of a tree overtaking the landing as
Sherlock thuds the trunk onto the floor with a grunt.
“What’s this?” John stammers, equally relieved and confused.
“A tree,” Sherlock answers simply, brushing pine needles
from the shoulders of his Belstaff.
“Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly
grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?”
Sherlock smiles back, his eyes warm, enjoying John’s
The needles are soft in John’s fingers, not as prickly as he
imagined they would be.
He looks up. “I didn’t think you cared about all this,” John
says quietly. “Christmas sentiment…”
“Well, some traditions have their merit,” Sherlock admits,
then glances away. “It’s not the largest tree…”
John smiles again, catching Sherlock’s eye. “It’s lovely.
They hold their gaze, sweet resin and wood smoke filling the
air, a current stirring between them, the warm sitting room waiting, the tree to trim, brandy to sip, an eve of
from The Element Encyclopedia of 5000 Spells by Judika Illes
Peppermint Asperging Spell pg. 188
Create an infusion by pouring boiling water over peppermint. Strain and use a peppermint branch to asperge as needed.
Pine Asperging Spell pg. 188
Soak pine needles in warm water and asperge as needed.
Broom Cleansing Spell (1) pg 189
1. Use any broom to sweep the dust from the west to the east. 2. Burn this dust and toss the ashes outdoors. [I’d recommend burning it outside too. Make sure to keep a bucket of water nearby.] 3. Complete the ritual by mopping the floors with a magical floorwash (formulas follow on page 201), followed by a protective incense fumigation.
Amethyst Crystal Cleanser pg 205
Place large amethysts in room corners to serve as spiritual vacuum cleaners. When they look dull, cleanse and recharge them. Other crystal gemstones recommended for space-cleansing include clear quartz crystal and malachite.
Onion Space Cleansing Spell pg 206
1. Chop one onion into quarters and place one piece in each corner of a room. Don’t peel the onion. Don’t use a food processor. Chop it by hand. 2. Allow the onion pieces to remain in place overnight. 3. Bury them outside the following day. 4. Repeat the process for a total of five consecutive nights.
Vinegar Cleanser pg 207
1. Place a cup or bowl of vinegar in every room that needs cleansing. (Bathrooms, bedrooms, living, dining, kitchen, garage, basement, hallways, etc.) 2. Replace weekly.