#magic universe

[asha181]

If the Harry Potter universe was real, would you be able to see Thestrals?

Yes

No

Voting ended onNov 10, 2025

[coffeeangelinabox]

Febuwhump Day #4: Hivemind

tw: non consensual nudity, beating

Second in Command keeps his feet under him as he is forcibly marched down the corridor. He’s quite definitely being dragged, not allowed to walk himself, and it’s in his mind to use that as his resistance, to make his body limp deadweight. But, he knows, with so many of them, it won’t even slow them down, will encourage them to hurt him and frankly, naked as he is, he’d rather be out of a public corridor as soon as possible. 

He still baulks when they get to the door at the end of the corridor. Heavy, corrugated iron, several thick locks, unpleasant stains and watermarks, and when it creaks slowly open, the room beyond is entirely black rubber, but for the drain at the centre. There are various restraint apparatus and a surgeon’s tray of tools, some shiny and sharp and others rusted and pre-stained. There’s a cabinet on one wall, and Second can just guess what kind of things are in there. 

He stops, digging his heels into the concrete. 

“Very nice,” his voice is raspy, breathless, but not shaking. He makes it as snooty as he can. “We appear to have arrived at the set of a poorly funded pornography studio. Will you be wearing stilettos and a bustier? That is what I paid for.”

They ignore him and shove him forward. Second resists with all his might, but there are ten of them and only one of him and his head is still spinning and ringing. 

He finds himself on his hands and knees on the rubber flooring and stagger-leaps to his feet, hands up in a boxing stance. He will not just quietly submit to whatever Whumper has planned, not in this room with only his own skin to worry about. 

Whumper closes the door, locks it with a heavy clunk of finality and then simply leans against it, watching with his cold eyes. Second can’t watch him for more than a few seconds though, at some command Second neither sees nor hears the guards fan out around him. He backs up, knowing he’s getting deeper into the room, but at least preventing them from coming up behind him. 

It’s not like in the movies. They don’t politely wait and take their turns, instead four charge him at once. He fights back, a flurry of kicks and blows, ducking and weaving. He pulls off an impressive round-house kick that turns into a drop-roll that belies the injuries he’s already taken. He grins like something feral, teeth flecked with blood as he springs back to a fighting stance. 

It doesn’t matter. Everywhere he is, there’s another one of them. They never seem to get in each other’s way. Either they’re phenomenally coordinated, train together at least once a day, or…

Once, before all this happened and the world went to shit, when he was one of an elite unit, but nominally part of the army regulars, they had been sent out to San Francisco to trial some experimental arcanium. He had never trusted crystalmancy, and had been firmly opposed to having an enchanted crystal materialised inside his brain. However, their’s was not to question why and so on, so he’d gone: he, Team Leader, Teammate Three and Medic, at Leader’s insistence, to monitor them and ensure there weren’t any ill effects.  

To his eternal relief, the damnable thing hadn’t been manifested inside him. That, apparently, was a difficult and time consuming procedure that they didn't have time for. Instead, their crystals, pulsing with the power the crystalmancers had filled them with in various strobing colours, had been attached to their foreheads by sticky straps that had felt like having a squid coiled around his head. They’d had to sleep in them, to harmonise them to their thought patterns or some such.

Then had come the trialling: mazes, puzzle solving, simple word association tasks. And they had been flawlessly in-sync. It had been hard to explain later in the reports because they were always flawlessly in-sync, they had worked together for years. He and Three had been raw recruits together, boys barely out of short trousers. This, however, had been something else. It was one thing to look at Three and know what he was thinking because he knew the man like a brother. It was another entirely to know what he was thinking on the other side of a locked door because he was part of that thought.

Despite the creeping, crawling itch in his mind, it had been fun at first. Even if Three had kept shoving him and loudly announcing that he should, “Stop thinking about that girl, Second. Jesus Christ, I never thought you’d get all lovestruck. Normally, you’re the love ‘em and leave ‘em type,” and making him blush in front of the Americans. Even if he had been half aware that Leader was frustrated with the stickiness of the thing around her head an in her hair, half afraid she’s going to have to shave off the flowing gold to a buzz cut to get rid of it, which was half funny because she’s not vain or girly at all, and half embarrassing, like watching her get undressed, because she’d never utter such a thought out loud. Even if, after hours - when they still had to wear the things to keep them tuned - Medic’s face began to look pinched and wan, and Second began to feel like she was far away, a virtual stranger in the happy little hum of companionship he was sharing with Leader and Three.

The military applications were incalculable. Split second decisions made with three sets of limbs. More, the crystalmancers assured them, it could be done for a whole squad. It just had to be one crystal, fragmented so that each had a part of the original whole. He’d been able to concentrate on his part of the mission, whilst watching Three’s back and simultaneously adapting to Leader’s new information as she was fed it in the control booth, without needing any kind of scry or crystalpulsers of their own. It had been uncomfortable, but hell, body armour was uncomfortable. He’d worn worse. Even the itch faded after that first day. 

Then, they’d started losing time. The first he’d known of it was when he’d blinked at the edge of one of the pseudo missions they’d completed, already mentally comparing times with the data in Leader’s mind, and opened his eyes in the Mess Hall to find Medic talking about the fact that she kept picking up unusual auras from them and she thought the crystals might have side effects. A look at the others told him it was the same for them. 

“We must have been debriefed,” Team Leader had said, pale and tense and then flushing, eyes hardening to cold stone, “And I have no idea what I might have said.”

“It could just be a side effect,” Three had suggested half heartedly. 

“Or it could be that these have a secondary function as interrogation tools,” Leader had responded.

“Look around,” Medic had said quietly, and when they had followed her instruction, Second in Command had seen instantly what she wanted them to. Every other group of soldiers was eating silently, mechanically, but it was more than that. They were eating perfectly in time. Each taking a bite of potato with the same perfect precise move and then laying their cutlery to the side to pick up their water glasses. It was like watching a puppet ballet. Things not alive, controlled in perfect time, to an unheard beat. “I think the interrogation and logistic advantages are bonuses. I think the intention is to ensure a perfectly obedient fighting force.”

Second had been the first to try and rip the thing from his head. It hadn’t worked immediately and he’s a little blurry on some of the details after that though he’s read the after action reports. He knows he’s beyond grateful to Medic who had saved, perhaps not his life, but his soul, his self. And to Team Leader, who insisted on having one person there for them, not trialling the new arcanium, against the advice of their higher ups. 

All this, Second remembers in a single instant. Then another of the guards strikes him across the jaw and he wavers, almost goes down, spinning to drive a fist into the ribs of the one behind him and to destroy the kneecap of another. Neither move quite comes off. They land perfectly, but the guards are wearing armour, magically enhanced, if the tingle in his fingers is anything to go by, and he has only his bare hands. His knuckles split and he snarls through the pain, dropping to his knees and spinning and landing another punch. 

They surge in again, perfectly in time, in tune, and again Second thinks of looking around that Mess Hall. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle in the exact same way. Their movements aren’t fast like Whumpers, but unnatural nonetheless. It’s like fighting dolls and Second is suddenly certain that if he ripped away their helmets there would be nothing underneath, just a blank, smooth, featureless bulb in place of a head or face. 

The one finally gets hands around his wrist and that’s it. The guard pulls him off balance and the others are already perfectly positioned, one to grab his remaining arm as it strikes out, another to catch his flailing legs. 

Whumper speaks for the first time, “Just the chair today,” and he’s manhandled into an uncomfortable steel seat. It’s bitingly cold on his bare arse and he struggles all he can as his arms are fixed behind his back and to one of the slats, his knees pulled apart as bands are placed around each thigh and ankle. More of the strange, silent men are fixing the chair to the floor, meaning he can’t tip it, or lunge, still attached. 

Whumper goes to the tray of instruments and inspects them. Second rolls his eyes, despite his fear and vulnerable position. It’s all so performative. This…this cult which infects every level of society, runs the British Isles. 

They had cut communication with the wider world several months ago, but they intended, when there was last any unbiased news and such things as elections, to build the Second Great British Empire. Second assumes that by now, much of Europe has fallen. He hasn’t heard from his family in weeks. He knows what they say about the French habit of surrender, but he hopes they did so quickly, spared the rural countryside of his childhood from the vicious violent takeovers that had happened here. He wants to imagine it how it was, vineyards for miles and barely paved roads, toasted sugar from Madam Roux’s patisserie thick in the air. Possibly countries further afield had already fallen to the advance. Certainly no aid has been forthcoming. 

But either way, Whumper has carried out many hundreds of interrogations. He doesn’t need to painstakingly choose his first tool. 

“You find this boring?” Whumper asks solicitously as a host at a dinner party, and just as disinterested. 

“Not my scene,” Second says, striving to match his tone. “Maybe I should take my leave. I’ll give your facility a good review. The henchmen were excellent, accommodations well within human right’s parametres.” He’s babbling. Performative, he might have been, but the scalpel Whumper is holding a little too close to his one still-open eye looks awfully sharp. 

“Who are you working for?” Whumper says in his bored tone, flat gaze on Second’s.

“No one. Freelance.” He rotates his wrists inside the cuffs, but, though doll-like the guards may have been, they have also been brutally efficient. He’s not getting out of these. “You?”

Whumper looks back at him. “Supervillain. As are we all.”

“Oui, but who is he? He just appeared in power one day. He never appears on the telly, never speaks to his glorious subjects. He never even appeared on the stage when he had the old Monarchy guillotined, to the delight of the masses. You’re in the inner circle. What’s his name?”

Whumper ignores this torrent of words and does not answer, simply leaning down and cutting a burning line from the corner of Second’s lip along the contour of his jaw. “Your organisation?”

This time, Second ignores him. “Ah, you’re not in the inner circle at all. Just classe ouvrière, like the rest of us.”

Whumper turns back to his tray, and in his hand this time is a glass vial with a glowing worm the size of his thumb within.

Second gives up on bravado and roars, struggling in his bonds. He’s heard of those, knows exactly what it’s for. If he hadn’t wanted a mere crystal shard inside of him, there’s no way he intends to permit that.

The guards, as one, look at Whumper in question and then, still as one, back up a step, forming a solid rank behind him. Even if he could break his chains like Samson, there’s no way out now. Whumper holds the worm closer. 

“Get the fuck away from me!” Second shouts, blood mixing with spit and frothing on his lips. Then he realises that screaming is not his best tactical option and clenches lips tight together like a toddler refusing broccoli. 

Whumper looks not even the slightest bit perturbed. “Open your mouth,” he says in his calm, expressionless way, “Or I will have this inserted somewhere a great deal more unpleasant.”

Second’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare, but he doesn’t obey the command, stubbornness and pride willing to take the abuse instead of being complicit. 

Then the door he was pushed through, minutes or was it weeks ago, creaks open and a voice he almost recognises says, “Whumper.” in cool, but unmistakable command.

Second cranes over his shoulder, but can’t turn far enough to see past the rank of blankly staring soldiers behind him. 

Whumper straightens smoothly, and for a full second, Second thinks he’s been granted a reprieve by the presence. Then Whumper speaks to the men at his back. “Get it into him. I’ll return after my meeting.”

He steps past him. The soldiers step forward, perfect as a parade ground. Out of the corner of his eye Second a metallic glimmer. Chains of office. Supervillain. He strains his neck, turning to see exactly who-

Then one of the soldiers punches the breath from his body and he’s lost in choking, swirling darkness and pain.

[feeriadimension]

-Ben Asher Valentine-

Age: 15

Birthday: February 14th

Zodiac sign: Aquarius

Season Powers: Autumn

Favorite food: Pizza

Favorite Hobbies: Drawing, running and be a cupid in your spare time

Ben lives in the countryside of his town and is a born artist, but little understood. His parents think it's a waste of time to be drawing instead of helping with the cows in the pasture.

At school he was a good student, he didn't get the best grades in the class like his colleague Heron, but it was enough for him, after all, he didn't have much time to study, since he had several tasks to do at home.

The weight of being an only child...

A Guardian's Mission

His mother has always told him that when he was born, the stars in the sky shone brighter than ever, and the moon turned as blue as the ocean. As if he were a real miracle.

His contact with the wind always soothes him, just like the rain.

"Now that you are a guardian, you have even more responsibilities, more commitment, more things to get done in less time..... "

AAAAARRRGH!

"Breathe Ben, you can do it!"

[whitecerberus]

c:whitecerberus

[canon-but-like-gayer]

Magical AU where Spencer is a shifter who shifts into a kitten form and let’s himself be carried in his friends and partners pockets/arms/shoulder/bags.

Things gets to much? Curls up on Emily’s lap. Officer being to aggressive? Refuge on Hotch’s shoulder. He’s way to tired? Naps under Penelope’s desk.

The only downside is when he’s exhausted he can’t shift back so if he panics and shifts into kitten form when an officer makes one to many comments he’s stuck that way until he finally naps.

[universerelaxing1]

We celebrate every milestone of the channel. We reached 90 uploads thanks to the content creator. Thank you all for the support and kinds words in the comment section. Next goal 100 uploads 😉. Click here to subscribe

[tolstolobik]

playing with watercolor and a variant of a new villain(?)