Commission for @funkzpiel

Hello m’dear!!! I’m feeling great actually (like full of energy rn, I’ve no idea where it came from but I’m taking advantage of it!) 

I’ve written fic for: 

the Fantastic Beasts fandom, which actually got me back into writing in the first place and gave me the confidence to keep doing so; 

Kingsman;

Good Omens;

and, more recently, The Witcher. I’m following the hype. 

The FB fandom (more specifically, the Percival Graves fandom) will always hold a special place in my heart. Writing about Percival was and still is a lot of fun, he’s such an interesting character to think about and flesh out, I’ll never tire of it. I’ve explored a lot of different themes in this fandom, wrote both very dark fic and light-hearted fluff, and I believe it helped me progress quite a bit as a writer.  

As for now, The Witcher fandom is active and a very nice place to be at! The world of the series is so rich it is impossible not to find tons of inspiration there. I have written a number of damn good fic ideas in my journal (that I’m very excited to hopefully write down) and everyday more keep coming! 

Right now I am working on: 

The Wolf and The Bard, a Witcher fic taking the popular ‘Geralt has been cursed to be a wolf’ trope. Jaskier meets a white wolf in the forest, soon understands given his behavior that this is no ordinary animal, and resolves to help him. 

Take A Chance On Me, a soulmate AU with a twist! Jaskier always believed his soulmate was Geralt... until he meets his actual soulmate. This one has been a ton of fun to work on, the tiny Jaskier/Eskel fandom is so welcoming and I’ve fallen in love with Eskel’s character after reading one too many fanfictions about him. I can’t wait to see what he’s like in the series !!! In the meantime, I have ideas to continue this story which may - will ! - become a mini-series and I’m very excited to share them!!

Monster  in the FB fandom, which is a vampire!Percival Graves fic I started writing purely for fun to relax without putting too much pressure on myself. I fucking love Percival Graves, did you know that?! 

As for my WIPS... oh man I have a lot of those. The most notable are: 

A dark!Geralt fic in which what they say about Witchers is true and he really, truly has no emotions, but Jaskier can’t understand that. 

A Harry Potter/Percival Graves fic (yes, you read that right) that I started after re-reading many of @wynnebat’s fics on AO3. Percival has become accidentally immortal due to the many dark experiments Grindelwald and his pseudo-scientific henchmen inflicted on him. He has retired from MACUSA and enjoys a peaceful life when he receives a letter from Headmistress of Hogwarts Minerva McGonagall who invites him to give dueling lessons at the famous school. Percival has nothing better to do and readily agrees. And then plot happens because someone is after assassinating Harry (who teaches DADA :D) ! 

An obligatory plague!fic idea because of course, what with everything that’s happening... Geralt hears rumors of a devastating plague that’s spreading from the North and starts a race against time to get Jaskier and Ciri to safety before it’s too late. 

And gosh of course the many fic ideas that I’ve mentioned I was very excited about, because I really am.

The first day, Graves braces himself up on his elbows and curls his back against the weight of stone and tile pressing down on him. The air is stale, more dust than oxygen, and his magic flickers against his skin to fight off exhaustion. His leg is crushed somewhere behind him - he can’t feel it anymore. The numbing charm was probably seven kinds of bad idea, but Graves has never been good at healing and it distracted him too much to leave as it was.

Besides, it’s only meant to be a temporary thing.

He drags himself forwards inch by laborious inch and every time he stops for breath he thinks of a new way to curse abandoned subways, cockatrice fighting rings, raids gone wrong - over powered blasting potions, he doesn’t think he’s cursed them yet, or the trigger happy morons that detonated them.

He keeps his ears strained for any sign of the others and stubbornly works his way out from under the rubble that could easily have killed him, and this is the first day.

The second day, Graves leans against the smooth tile of an undamaged wall and wishes he’d brought something to drink. His leg is a mangled mess and the tunnel he’s in is blocked off from the main subway. He’d break out and rejoin the group but the ceiling groaned alarmingly when he tried - it’ll be far easier for them to come to him than him to race the collapsing tunnel and make it out to them. He fires off flash-bangs every seventeen minutes and scowls at the jokes he knows his second will crack when she finally rescues him.

The fourth day, Graves finds the only stable piece of wall in his entire damn tunnel and melted his way through it. The skin of his hands blisters - he’s lost his wand somewhere in the rubble - but he keeps going, dragging his leg behind him. With his luck he’ll have burnt his hands raw just in time to watch them break through and chide him for not staying put and letting himself heal, but he’ll just give them the finger and tell them they’re late and it’ll degenerate from there.

The seventh day, Graves works his way back round to the front of his collapsed tunnel. The rubble is, as he suspected, far easier to move from this side; he’s running on fumes and his magic is all that’s keeping him upright but still, it takes him barely an hour to clear a way through. He’s not sure why he bothered, except to see if it was possible.

There’s no sign that anyone else had tried.

He stares at it for a long time before he sets it aside with an angry shake of his head. He rewraps his bandages and limps his way towards where the exit should be because if he has to save his damn self then he’ll just go ahead and save his damn self, and he won’t waste time thinking about anyone else while he does it.

The ninth day he starts wondering if the reason is that they’re all dead. They better all be dead. If they aren’t, they will be by the time he’s finished tearing into them because what the fuck, what the ever loving fuck are they doing that’s so damn important they can’t come and find him. It’s not like he isn’t broadcasting his magic as loud as he’s fucking able to. If any of them even thought to cast so much as a level one tracking charm for him he’d show up like a christmas tree on acid, so please, he’s all ears, where the hell are his aurors.

The fourteenth day he’s convinced he’s dead. He’d like to know what he did to deserve this sadistic afterlife, these endless fucking tunnels that lead nowhere except more cold, more silence, more emptiness, more... More more. Just more. They’re cursed. They have to be. Nothing normal can go on forever like these do, and if he weren’t so damn tired all the time he’d find the curse and break it and get the fuck out. He’s even prepared to be lenient on his aurors because clearly there’s some next level shit going down, it’s taking them time to get through whatever malicious crap he’s got himself tangled up in this time.  That’ll be it. Hell, if they break him out of the sodding tunnels he’ll probably kiss them or something equally ridiculous. Give them knighthoods, maybe.

So long as they get him out he’ll give them anything they want.

The sixteenth day he gets rid of his leg. It’s a dead weight. It’s dead. He’s dead. Does it matter? He fashions a crutch out of transfigured tiles and keeps going. He should have got rid of it days ago except it was his leg, he was attached to it. He’d still hoped that if they got him to the healers in time - well. It’s done now.

The twenty first day he sits in a crumpled heap against the wall and waits. His lumos fades out. he doesn’t bother to relight it.

The thirtieth day he sits in a crumpled heap against the wall and waits. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Too stubborn to die, maybe. His magic keeps him alive, just, but he’s not even sure it keeps him awake anymore. Who could tell? When he sleeps he dreams of tunnels.

The forty third day he sits in a crumpled heap against the wall and waits.

The sixtieth day he sits in a crumpled heap against the wall and the wall falls away behind him. He jolts into confusion and awareness that bring with them a sluggish tidal wave of fear and he squints against the burning light with all the concentration he can muster. He doesn’t understand what he sees (the shadow has teeth that’s him standing there cursing someone his aurors are there but none of them look his way he can see the sky but he’s still in the tunnels but he thinks it’s the sky the man with his face melts to a dark lord he can see the sky the sky) and it isn’t until everything’s done and everyone’s gone that he can start piecing it together.

He saw enough.

And it makes sense finally it makes - they didn’t know, they were tricked, they didn’t leave him none of them left him they didn’t even know he was gone

(they didn’t even know he was gone)

they didn’t even notice

He doesn’t have enough strength to stand but he has enough strength to force down the despair in favour of hope, desperate, clawing hope, sprawled half in his tunnel and half in the ruins of the subway where he can just about see the sky. He flares his magic, what’s left of it, and luxuriates in the smell of the rain and waits, again, to be rescued.

The sixty first day he lies in a crumpled sprawl and waits.

Your director? He’s dead. I killed him when I stole his face. You left him in the tunnel and I brought the ceiling down on him and walked out into your welcoming arms. Does that hurt you? He’ll be barely more than bones by now.

Sobs @funkzpiel I suck so bad at math and didn’t know today is your birthday! I’m so sorry!!! But for your present, lemme pull out my third (but not final) story for you. I give you: the granddads. Happy birthday you amazing, wonderful, lovely person. You’re one of the best people I’ve met since joining Tumblr, and I am so blessed to have met you! <3

It’s a quiet day when a young man with dark brown hair and freckles dusted across his cheeks walks down the path to a cabin sequestered within the woods. There’s a dusty backpack that has seen better days on his shoulders, and his hands are holding a notebook with various pages sticking out haphazardly sticking out. There’s a spring in his step and a cheery tune escaping his lips as he treads along the familiar path. The path continues on for a little while more, before the trees clear to reveal a quaint little cabin perched near a merrily running river. There’s smoke spiraling gently out of the chimney, and if he squints hard enough, he can see the orange fur of a Kneazle stretching languidly on the green grass, basking under the warm sun. The young man breathes in deeply, the scent of hay and water and delicious cooking filling his senses. Adjusting the straps of his backpack, he approaches the cabin, and with a slight turn of a groaning doorknob, enters the home of his grandparents.

As usual, there are several shoes strewn haphazardly along the doorway, the soles dirtied with mud and grass. There are other shoes neatly lined on the shoe rack, and the young man can easily tell which shoes belong to which grandparent. Someone shuffles into view as he’s hanging up his dusty coat, and an older, but still lanky Newton Scamander, famed Magizoologist, stares in befuddlement at him. The young man, Rolf, grins lopsidedly at his grandfather and holds his hands out for an equally wizened Demiguise who lopes over to him and clutch at his neck, gentle as he ever was since Rolf was but a babe. Crooning a fond hello to Dougal, who chatters something in his ear, Rolf waves at Newt, “Hello Gramps, did you forget I was arriving today?”

Newt, bright red hair now a muted white, blinks and reaches out to embrace his grandson, still confused. “Wait, today’s…today?” Without waiting for a reply, he calls out to the kitchen, “Percy! Did you know today is today? Rolf is here!” Said man rolls his eyes affectionately, holding Grampy Newt in one arm and Dougal in the other. Sounds of clanging pots float from the kitchen, and Rolf’s other grandfather, the Percival Graves, former Director of Magical Security and love of one Newt Scamander’s life, strides out. Rolf notes with some amusement and awe, that despite the delicate apron around Grampy Percy’s waist, and the glasses perched dangerously on his nose, the man has yet to lose an ounce of dignity and authority that made him the much feared and respected Auror in his youth. Percival’s eyes light up and he moves nearer to hug Rolf and sneak a kiss onto his husband’s cheek.

“Rolf! We weren’t expecting you so soon today! I was just making your favourite dishes, so pardon the mess. How did you find Asia?” The younger man chuckles, and gently depositing Dougal onto the floor, ushers his grandparents back into the kitchen, where the mouth-watering scent of Grampy Percy’s cooking is reminding him of his rather empty stomach. “Asia was lovely Gramps, a bit hot, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The rainforests of Borneo were absolutely fantastic; I’ll have to bring you both someday. You’d love it, Grampy Newt.” Percival smiles fondly at their grandson, who’s very nearly an exact replica of Newt and who’s followed in his footsteps as a magizoologist. The boy had decided to visit Asia for an entire year, and while his parents were concerned because as intelligent Rolf is, he takes after Newt in being rather absent-minded. Percival had his own concerns over Rolf’s safety, but seeing his grandson blabber on excitedly about his wonderful experiences and Newt chiming in about any new discoveries, Percival cannot help but smile indulgently at his two boys, responding with appropriate hmms and ahhs whilst stirring at the delicious smelling soup. The smell of spices attract Rolf, who sidles up to him and begs, with wide hazel eyes, for a taste of Percival’s signature turnip soup. He’s joined by Newt, and with two pairs of hazel eyes staring pleadingly at Percival for a sip, the man stands no chance. Rolling his eyes heavenward, Percival ladles out two small bowls for Newt and Rolf, who slurp loudly at the soup and proceed to heap praises of how exquisite Percival’s cooking is, and what a kind, loving man he is. Eventually, the former Auror shoos them both out of the kitchen, knowing that Rolf is itching to visit Newt’s suitcase and his beloved creatures. A low chittering to his right alerts Percival to Dougal’s presence, who perches on the kitchen top and stares at him curiously, no doubt entranced by the smell of his cooking. Having a soft spot for the elderly creature, Percival slips some fruit to Dougal, who nods sagely in appreciation. The two keep each other company, with occasional chittering and grunts from Dougal, and mumblings from Percival as he cooks the various dishes both Newt and Rolf love.

It’s dinner time when Newt and Rolf emerge from the former’s suitcase, with a baby mooncalf cradled in the latter’s arms. The little creature bleats happily as it nestles deeper into Rolf, and while it’s quite really the most adorable thing Rolf has ever seen, it weighs a bloody ton, and it’s not even fully grown. The two men settle at the dining table, the mooncalf still in Rolf’s arms, and when Percival turns from the stove, his lips are pursed. “Rolf, for the love of Merlin, I told you no creatures at the table!” There’s a blast of offended screeching from somewhere near Percival’s feet, and he reaches down to placate the irate Dougal and help him up one of the chairs. “Except for you, of course, Dougal.” He opens his mouth to continue his lecture, one Rolf is very much acquainted with, when Newt shushes him with one long finger across his lips and a tenderly vexed look on his face, and just like that, Percival forgets anything he has to say, and there’s a brief silence where both elderly wizards, with wrinkles at the corner of their eyes and mouth and face, and who have had decades of marriage, partnership and friendship between them, just stand and smile at one another. For a moment, Rolf can see the ghosts of their younger selves standing there, hair unmarred by white and skin untouched by wrinkles, bodies strong and upright and not stooped, and he wonders at the gift of love his grandparents have, and if he should be lucky enough to love someone as strongly as Percival Graves and Newt Scamander love one another.

A slight snuffle from Dougal breaks the spell, and Percival clears his throat as he orders his husband back to the table, levitating the remainder of dishes on the table and Rolf hides a grin behind the glass of water he’s drinking, because Grampy Percy is blushing, and only Grampy Newt can make him blush. Dinner goes by uneventfully, without any creatures escaping the confines of the suitcase, or any owl dropping by with requests asking for Percival or Newt’s advice. One of the reasons they moved out within the forest, Percival tells his grandson with a grimace, is that they were being flooded with owls, many of which were upset that there were other creatures stealing their owl treats. It turns out that owl shit is really difficult to clean out of everything, and Percival moved them to a cabin that belonged to the Graves family which was on an Unplottable piece of land, meaning no owl shit and more peace.