"Do you think God stays in heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he's created?"-Steve Buscemi, Spy Kids 2 Hamilton wants the d(ark roast) *rereads this story* CRAWLING IN MY SKIN THESE WOUNDS, THEY WILL NOT HEAL This is a Lams coffee shop AU written from mostly John Laurens' P.O.V., but it does switch from time to time. In it, Laurens works the night shift at a coffee shop (who knows if a 24 hour coffee shop exists, but in fiction, anything is possible), that Hamilton decides to go to when after he gets struck with writer's block. Normal coffee shop AU antics ensue. To be honest, a lot of the story isn't actually in the coffee shop, but... So anyway, it's gay and no one dies...(yet) Buckle up and hold on. (Cover by yamhaylet)

A FLOWER HUSBANDS HANAHAKI DISEASE BECAUSE I CRAVE FLOWER HUSBANDS >:D STARTED ON, HALLOWEEN, 2023 >;D Scott was having a usual day in chromia going around, building, making sure owen didnt kill anyone.. you know the usual! When the so called Sherrif flew on over for a visit. Scotts large owl wings flapped at the thought of jimmy every time, he loved him dearly. But jimmy.. he had other plans. You could tell he had a huge crush on this girl.. Kirsty i think her name was? She was a citizen of tumble town. Every time scotts heart crushed at the thought of this. But the day after the small visit from the sherrif something felt off... Very off? But he couldnt quite put his finger on it.. (im going to SHUT THE HECK UP before i spoil the whole story)

Prince Ren never asked for a crown, nor the weight of titles. All he wanted was to play music-gentle, aching melodies strummed on delicate string instruments. He preferred lutes carved from silverwood and dark rose, guitars that hummed like whispers in the wind, and a weathered ocarina shaped like a teardrop, soft blue and always warm in his hands. The music was his comfort, his rebellion, and his quiet prayer. When the castle halls echoed with the fury of yet another war-when his family shouted about borders, bloodlines, and broken alliances-Ren would slip away. He would wander down secret paths only he remembered, through the whispering trees and into the Outcast: a forgotten grove hidden beneath a blanket of old magic and ivy. There, surrounded by peace and silence, he built a sanctuary. His instruments were stored in hollowed trunks, carefully wrapped in velvet and tucked away from the wrath of his father, who believed music was weakness and tried to destroy every string Ren cherished. Beyond the grove, just past the moss-covered stones, was his garden-his true kingdom. It bloomed wildly with flowers the color of fire and dusk: deep reds, scarlets, and wine-dark crimsons. Vines heavy with red fruit twisted through the branches, fragrant and sweet, tangled like forgotten lullabies. The air was thick with the scent of crushed petals and ripe berries, warm earth and song. And in the heart of it all, Ren would sit and play. Unbeknownst to him, the sorrow in his songs, the ache in every note, stirred something old and hidden beneath the soil. His music, filled with longing and beauty, began to call to magic itself-something ancient, something listening, something waiting to be found.

Martyn was born blind and has always relied heavily on his hearing to navigate and understand the world around him. He walks with a cane, and his eyes are always closed-he doesn't even know what color they are, nor has he ever thought to ask. For him, the world has always been cloaked in darkness. That began to change when he discovered a small spark of magic within himself. With time and practice, he learned to use it to "paint" mental images of people and places in his mind. Through subtle differences in tone, mood, and cadence, he could distinguish colors-hearing the warmth of a sunset in a laugh, or the chill of blue in a hushed whisper. Over the years, he also honed his ability to read body language-not through sight, but through sound. The shifting of feet, the rhythm of someone's breath, the way fabric brushed against itself as someone turned-all of it became a symphony of cues that told him what others could see with their eyes. Martyn often kept to himself, sitting quietly in the corner of a room with a Braille book in his hands, lost in the raised dots beneath his fingers. Most people didn't approach him. Whether it was discomfort or uncertainty, he had grown used to being left alone. But that all changed the day a new transfer student joined the theater program. Curious and unafraid, they noticed Martyn sitting by himself and, rather than shy away, felt drawn to him. For the first time in a long while, Martyn's quiet world began to shift-not just with sound and magic, but with the unexpected rhythm of connection.