enchaentingly

[enchaentingly]

        they come so close, almost just back to normal, to the natural, intimate flow of the pair. even now, where madi’s different and has a life of their own, there’s still this magnetism. but being friends is just as important as whatever there had been before. and, still, it feels like a daydream that she gets to stay here.

        they’re so close, and then madi’s gone, pulling away. allie talks to push down the smallest flash of disappointment.  “ maybe, but i can’t decide what’s better: going to sleep clean, or going to bed with dry hair? ”  allie shrugs, but she begins to pick at the covers all the same, timid fingers left fiddling with the blanket as madi departs. they’re right, of course. she has been up all night, and she is tired. her body aches for rest, but her heart … it wants for madi. and of course it makes sense that they’d go to their office. normal people don’t need anyone else around to sleep. but she’d kind of assumed the vampire thing meant fully nocturnal, given no sun. but with the blinds closed, what do they have to hide from? office sounds very not comfy to sleep in, and it’s not fair to make madi stay while there’s work to be done. her mouth opens, then closes again, with nothing else to say. clothes and showers are much more practical than falling asleep in her apron. allie begins to move, slowly towards a bag that she knew held inside at least one oversized, comfy sleep shirt.

        without looking, she plucks one out, rising to her feet. she’ll decide whether or not she’s showering once she gets to the bathroom, but she figures that at least she should look at the bathroom, because madi’s offered so sweetly. she breezes to and then past them, pressing a brief, affectionate kiss to their cheek as she passes.  “ night, night madi. ”

Their hands touch, they are stronger than her, logically, they know this, and yet, they let Allie pull them in. Bring them closer as if they are powerless. And to her, they are. Her love is addictive, no matter the abundance or her willingness to share it with nearly anyone. In times like this, lost in blue, they can forget that she loves anyone but them.

The tap of a finger against their nose leaves the mindless, and they nearly move to crawl over her. It’s so tempting, it would be so easy. But things like that have to be discussed with another blonde before being acted on. A deal, they are free, but there needs to be respect and discussion. Their stomach roils, freehand pressed into the mattress to keep themself up. Transfixed on sunny smile. A moth to a flame.

“I’ll always share with you…” They breathe out before glancing away, feeling shy under her watchful gaze. “You have been up all night, you should rest,” they agree, taking a deep breath and pushing up to stand again before the need to kiss her flutters through their mind too fiercely.

“Where are your clothes? You probably want to shower; the bathroom is just through that door. You can use my stuff if you’d like.” They want her to smell like them, a childish claim. They bite back the suggestion of joining. Honestly, this whole vampire thing did have its drawbacks, the urges. The wants. Lust is nearly as strong as the hunger. They’ll trap themself down in the gaming room. Get lost in flashing lights and pixels, keep up the appearances of functioning through the day. Check on the dispensary, assure the day manager that they’ll stop by at night. “I’ll be down in my office if you need anything.”

[enchaentingly]

        amusement scrunches in her nose, a giggling peeling from her. cait’s funny, she’s smart. smarter than smart, the word just isn’t quite enough. but allie’s vocabulary doesn’t bloom along with her passion, it stays stagnant, lacking. though the witch brings her new words, even stern and serious, grumpy. selective breeding. cross-pollination. generational tempering. allie loves her kitchen experiments, even if they’re not real magic. despite a tangled mess of connection that her magic, weak and petal-soft, is, allie can feel that. still, she believes the other when she says it’s not real magic. it never felt like it, she’d always felt useless, still does. but this little glimpse of hope means the world. even if allie doesn’t know anything, even if the greenhouse witch is this nice to everyone, this patient, even if it’ll only take a moment for her to realize that allie just isn’t worth the effort.

        where allie’s warm, the greenhouse witch is cold. not the kind that hurts, not very startling, and not a piercing cold. just the kind that means it’s absent the same warmth. what does surprise her, confuses her, is the touch at all. hadn’t she just smacked her hand away? is she not in trouble anymore? it doesn’t last long, the glimmer of hesitation, before it’s swept away, fluttering in place of something new. an intense flush of curiosity and interest perks up. she’s giving her a chance, this witch with no reason to. allie’s eager to make it worth it, give her something so this isn’t all for nothing. and feeling, holding, she’s good at that. always known how to cling to something, even far after it’s gone. the witch doesn’t even make her reach for it, she brings both of their hands to the leaf.

        at first, the greenery only tickles, little lightning sparks of fury that dance under the tips of her fingers. but the sensation explodes as she touches the leaf. she understands the difference, then, why she’d said real magic. it’s hard to gather the sensations into words, masterpieces blossomed behind her eyes, explosions of emotion and color. she’s never felt anything like it. it was familiar green fauna, but not sewn together with magic, it was in the very life of it, instead. allie felt an impossible, intense pattern of breathing in the leaf, something like personality thrumming through it, but even deeper than that. everything that lives has personality, this plant has a fire that fuels its being, a nature that’s been ignited. allie makes no attempt to hide the excitement and awe from her features, only focuses on the sensation as tightly as she can, clinging to the connection even as the pad of her finger can no longer feel the soft, coarse feeling of green. her words come out a whisper,  “ oh, it feels angry. ”  more than that.  “ like static, but super buzzy. like, like … restless. ”  even without the direct touch,  “ i can still feel it. ”

        she has more questions for her, and allie’s easy to answer. eager to have been asked, still startled that it’s happening at all.  “ oh, um … my mom. ”  she’s warm, a smile that swells with nostalgia, blossoms, twined together with the grief that wants her here, wants the time they’d shared with their kitchen experiments back.  “ she was the one that taught me, like, everything! ”  she tucks a loose curl behind her ear.   “ i never knew any other witches, besides her. um, not before coming here, anyways. ”  duh, allie. she leaves out the detail that no, she wasn’t in a coven and all she knew about them were the nightmare bedtime stories her mother would tell of them. but maybe covens were different in port leiry.  “ what about you? who, um, taught you how? ”  she remembers the plants, the memories.  “ was it your family, too? ”

"Yes, Allie. I made them. Not a salad." Cait’s voice is dry as sandpaper. "Selective breeding. Cross-pollination. Generational tempering. Not tossing a handful of seeds into a pot and hoping for a Caesar."

She flicks a glance at the plants — deliberate, patient work — and then back at Allie, her mouth curving faintly, into more of a frown. "Real magic takes time. It’s not a kitchen experiment."

It’s a little like pulling teeth, holding this conversation — but Cait is patient when it matters. She knows enough about growing things to recognize when patience is the cost of anything worth having. And there it is: slow and stumbling, like a shoot straining toward the light, Allie cracks herself open and something genuine spills out. Cait leans into it. She listens.

"Channeling," Cait says, voice low, the word settling between them like a weight. She reaches out — unhesitating, unapologetic — and catches Allie’s hand again, cool fingers closing firmly around hers, guiding her to the serrated edge of a leaf. "Tell me," Cait says. "What do you feel?"

The leaf hums faintly against their joined hands — sharp, restless, alive. Choleric. Anger, motion, vitality wrapped up tight in green veins. Cait’s bred the four temperaments — this plant’s counterparts are arranged alongside it, each carrying their own distilled emotional essence. She wants to know what holds, what transfers, what survives translation from body to body.

Now she watches Allie’s face, searching for a flicker of true recognition — the part of magic you can’t fake, no matter how sweet you talk. Without warning, Cait pulls Allie’s hand away — just a few inches at first.

"Now?" she asks, clinical as a scalpel. Another few inches. "Still?" A hand’s span more. "That space," Cait says, tapping the air between Allie’s hand and the plant. Her voice sharpens, insistent, burning with the quiet, relentless passions she reserves for science. "That’s the part I’m interested in. How far can you reach? How far can you build a bridge with. your magic without breaking? Feet? Miles?"

A whole plane of existence?

The point isn’t the touch — any idiot can touch. The point is what lingers, what carries: the tether. The bridge. Pacts. That’s where Cait’s mind is already turning — tethers, contracts, binding yourself to invisible currents without losing your shape. The higher form of a vessel. She doesn’t know why she’s sharing this with the stray witch who’s stumbled into her greenhouse. Maybe some part of her wants to see if Allie has the instinct for it — the hunger to connect without crumpling under the weight.

Okay, sure — Cait’s studying Allie the way she studies every greenhouse experiment: testing for durability, instinct, will. But that's just who she is. A certain amount of ruthlessness is necessary for anything worth keeping alive.

( She pointedly doesn’t address the Starbucks comment. Cait drinks her coffee black, complains the entire time, and criticizes the cup for being too cheerful. )

Her voice cuts back into the quiet, cool and clipped: "Who taught you how to be a witch?"

Cait tilts her head slightly, weighing every flicker that crosses Allie’s face. "Did you study under anyone?" she presses. "Are you part of a coven?"

Her tone leaves no room for lies — and even less for self-pity.

[enchaentingly]

         even after pulling away from him, there’s a dizziness that his magic leaves behind. she mourns the loss of him, magic is a different kind of energy that flows through her, a kind of high. for a moment, two witches had become entangled in it, allie had felt him so close. close, like she’d crawled around under his skin, fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and now had awoken to a world just as dream-like, though with consequence. consequences that she wasn’t nearly high enough to think about. instead, allie twirled in romance and beauty, nature and desire. she wants drugs, to spend a night with a god, and to kiss all her friends.

         punishment? touching a god’s heart sounds so romantic, intimate, how could it be worthy of punishment? she might’ve said it, breathed out her question in a soft breath of air, a whisper. punishment? her eyes, wide and doe-like, catch the gentle shadow of bewilderment, but the curiosity she finds is warm and flushed, fawning. like the hand on her throat, it’s an inescapable draw. a desire so hypnotic that allie can’t help but sway into it. helpless to resist, and anyway, she doesn’t want to. the only way he could punish her tonight is to leave her alone, but he’d promised her the opposite. even so, this is his kingdom ruled by chaos alone, she’s sure all sorts of promises turned to dust the moment they’d entered. even if he left her, harley and zane wouldn’t, so any sort of consequence turned to dandelion fluff, lost in the air of magic, in the world of aj.

          there’s no shying away from his hand, his slow journey to her. she’s breathing aj in, too. the both of their mouths so close it feels impossible to resist the call of him. like gold dust dancing on her tongue, she can taste him even before her lips flush with his, kissing him. not quite fervent, just enchanted, dancing with desperation. allie leans into him, leans into the kiss, just short of melting.

The gloved hand that's settled around her throat grows comfortable. It belongs there where he can feel the pulse beneath his fingertips, drumming music in a familiar, excited rhythm. He knows that Allie clings to every scrap of attention, vying to be wanted, to be desired. He hands out meals like he's a Samaritan God. And she drags out every moment with him, because she knows how fast he can drop her, and move to the next pretty thing that wants to know what it's like to play games with a God.

Her hands explore, and he lets her have this in the name of knowing. AJ would like to know what Allie has in her blood, and what she can do; why does he spend his time with her in his bed, if he can get Medina to crawl into his, or another, powerful woman who'd worship a God in both body, mind and power.

When her hand finds the space of flesh under his jacket, at the end of his gloves, his hand tightens on her. A warning. Careful, 205, you'll regret it.

Then his breath hitches. Like she'd taken control of it. An inhale, an exhale that matches the beat of her rising and falling chest. A magic that worms its way beneath flesh, snakes along the golden gleam of his veins to find the core of his chest. There's a calm about him that is absent fear. Dare she try instil that in him, he'd sooner rip her to pieces, left in golden pieces that he'd allow Frankie to hang around the club like decorative art.

AJ doesn't know what she's hoping for, but he knows she's inside him. Feeling tendrils of magic in the space in his chest, hollowing his ribs. And he's allowed his other hand to come up, a thumb that pulls open her mouth. Their faces nearing, like they're a shared entity; she's borrowed Godly power, and he's allowed a sacrifice to know what it's like to be given up for a higher purpose. A thumb drags along her lower teeth, pulling, pulling, looking at her like he isn't sure if he plans to devour her entirely, or put himself inside her that she'll never know her own peace without him.

It stops suddenly and retreats.

Astor feels a heat burn in his chest, a response to an invasion he'd allowed too easily.

They can't be here. AJ would like to open Fleur up and know what has her ticking. Rearrange her guts until he has answers he likes.

"Mm, something." He confirms, like her only lifeline. "Touching a God's heart—" musing, as he lowers carefully towards her mouth. "—feels worthy of punishment."

[enchaentingly]

         once she’s back on her feet, no longer floating on her toes and excitement spurring her on to greet a friend in embrace, she finds herself a touch more grounded. khàos carries a buzz of its own, so potent it creates its own music, its own song, it’s all the much easier for allie to get caught up in the current, and so she finds it easy to imagine that she might’ve lost something. along the way, she must’ve, because now, as she’s looking at cait, something feels … wrong. uncomfortable, like something stuffed in a space it's not supposed to be in. allie tilts her head, curious, because it can’t have been cait. it’s impossible to imagine, and the idea of anything being wrong doesn’t quite fit in with the dream of this place, this night that’s only meant to be enjoyed, lived. there’s no room for thinking, but allie’s never been any good at tamping down any feeling. even as she tries to lock away the bad things, they come back. this sliver of worry, the gleam of curiosity that comes with it, allie can’t let it go.

         she eases off as cait puts the space back to do so, and stays giddy even still. don’t crack a heel over it. she giggles.  “ i won’t- or, i guess, i’ll try not to. no promises, ‘cause it would give me a reason not to wear them and that sounds fun. ”  the freedom of it, anyways, but there’s also no promising that she won’t lose her shoes, broken or not. 

         still, allie watches cait. she looks … about as grumpy that allie imagined she be, here surrounded by people chasing most everything but knowledge. though, at least most must be chasing the magic, allie knows she is. maybe that counts for something, maybe cait excited to be here for more of the reason than just appeasing harley, swaying to the enchantment of him that allie is always happy to fall to. so watching with those round eyes doesn’t tell her anything more than the story allie already knows. and something is still off. not in the deep scarlet of her dress. not as she remembers the feeling of the fabric against her palms as she’d clutched cait to her, for all of a moment. channeling, cait had called it, when you hold onto that burst of feeling for longer than that moment. her brows pinch like the beat of a heart, quick, and fleeting. she can feel cait, of course, overwhelmingly. she stains her senses like coffee, the tang of her staying long past her touch. it’s not bad, allie finds it comforting. deep, and dark, and shrouded with mystery, but comforting. and it’s here again, that comfort, but there’s something else here, unplaced, misplaced, uncertain. but she’s not sure that’s here at all.

         it’s not the club that brings allie out of her own head, but cait. keeping an eye on harley is kinda' zane's whole thing, so allie's not worried about it going uncovered. promising cait that doesn't quite win over the rolling, upset confusion that stirs in her chest, quickly rising to her eyes.  “ you’re leaving? ”  who even cares about a little silly bit of discomfort, if cait’s leaving?  “ why? i thought … you- you only just got here. ”  she shakes off whatever nonsense worries there were to be had. cait’s here, now, and that’s all that matters. she’s no good at arguing, but maybe she can pull at the threads of this, maybe heading out soon means an hour, not five minutes.  “ ‘cmon, let’s take a lap before you go. we don’t even have to touch anything, just look. ”  she does kind of really want to touch everything, but she can always do that later.

When the agreement came about—Dorian moving from Jameson to Cait— Cait had agreed to a kind of submission. Not with resistance, but with a quiet, bone-deep calm. Like slipping into water she already knew would drown her. It wasn’t frightening. It was familiar. Easy. Feels like she’s lived a million lives since that night, but yeah, this possession of hers, it fits. Like a glove. Like a grave. They’ve been trading off control of her body tonight - even - in a way that’s almost elegant. Him moving an arm, her steering the feet. Puppeteering that’s gone fluid over time, like a dance they wrote together without speaking. But KHÀOS—all of this—is too much, too fast, too close. The club spins in noise and gold and sweat, and for a second, Cait feels like she’s standing in the blast zone of a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet.

This was a mistake, she thinks. <We’ve got to examine the lengths you’ll go for coven,> Dorian replies, uncharacteristically in sync.

Because something will catch Dorian’s eye - something bright or strange or bleeding- and it’ll split his attention like a blade. That’s all it ever takes. A flicker of chaos, a pulse of magic in the wrong key, and he’ll sink his teeth in. Then the night will unravel, fast and ugly, like a thread pulled too tight - spooling out into blood and fire and consequence. It always does.

But then Allie arrives— gliding through the crowd, all bright sparkles and soft squeals, planting herself directly in their path. She’s radiant—golden and glowing in the kind of way that's so on theme; in a way that Cait’s sure Atlas Jay adores. Cait knows if she touches her, the glitter will never come off.

The hug comes anyway. Cait freezes when Allie barrels into her, stiff as a crowbar, barely keeping from shrugging her off on instinct.

<Poor thing thinks you’re safe.>

Cait bites down on the wrongness crawling up her spine, places her hands on Allie’s arms like she’s holding back a storm, not welcoming a friend.

“All right, all right,” she mutters, her voice a rough scrape against the dizzy shine of Allie’s excitement. “Don’t crack a heel over it.”

And then: the compliment. You’re so beautiful. Cait almost bares her teeth. She’s never been good at that one. Compliments like that always feel like trying to pet something feral.

“I’m heading out soon,” she says, voice flat but not unkind, tossing the words into the space between them like a lifeline or a leash - hard to say which. Her gaze slides past Allie to the churning crowd, already scanning for exits. “You and Zane keep an eye on Harley for me, yeah? Make sure he doesn’t charm his way into something with teeth. You're good, right?" Like she’s asking if a door is locked, not if a friend is fine.

[enchaentingly]

💕dream dress by house of cb💕

[enchaentingly]

allie as memes : 001/???  ˎˊ˗

[enchaentingly]

( txt 一 mila <3 🌹🦢📖 )  dont be sorry!!!!! i want you anytime you can be with me silly 💓💕💘💗💖

( txt 一 mila <3 🌹🦢📖 )  literally whenever!!!!

( txt 一 mila <3 🌹🦢📖 )  what about likeeee

( txt 一 mila <3 🌹🦢📖 )  right now :)

( txt 一 mila <3 🌹🦢📖 )  im alone and superrrrr bored

Contuing this

-----

( txt - allie 🌸❤️ ) : i am def not madi ;) i don't think I can pull off their outfits

( txt - allie 🌸❤️ ) : i miss you too... I'm sorry I've been so mia

( txt - allie 🌸❤️ ) : when do you want me to come?

/ @enchaentingly

[enchaentingly]

        she giggles, shaking her head. it’s not mean spirited laughter, and she’s not laughing at sadie but she does think it’s silly. for a moment, allie puts a gentle hand on the wrist that holds the tin, but it flutters away soon enough.  “ no, silly. they’re wildflowers- i think -from the woods! ”  the i think does a lot of heavy lifting, but she only thinks this has a half lie. they probably were from the woods, a long time ago.  “ but i always hear spooky stories about them- the woods, i mean. so, i guess they’re probably fun, not definitely fun. but i think surprises are fun! ”

        allie folds her hands back in front of her, polite and sweet.  “ did you have a garden before you moved here? ”

"O-oh.." says Sadie as Allie puts some more into the tin and Sadie brings it up to her face to look them over - she's not very versed int telling seeds apart, though.

Sadie quirks a brow at the extra, added seeds, and the way the girl becomes almost coy about them, cagey but in a way that makes her wonder something, the thought bubbling up, and the question boiling out of her mouth faster than she can tamp down the impulse to ask it.

"They're not... i-is it pot??" It's almost embarassing to ask - like, say you're a wet towel without saying you're a wet towel, Sadie. "Not that... not that I mind that or anything - I just don't know if I need to grow my own..." Though it is legal in Oregon, she remembers.

[enchaentingly]

        allie’s starting to believe this is the dream she’s meant to wake up from. it’s one thing to want for something, to yearn and desire and daydream while twirling her hair, blowing on dandelions. it’s another completely to ask for it, to take it. tomás doesn’t let her be good and gentle, and refuse. it’s impossible to believe she hasn’t made him do this, somehow. it’s impossible to let this go. how could it not be her fault? she feels it so deeply, like she does everything. she knows this guilt, the same as overwatering plants. she’s poured too much. spilling over the phone, and now he’s drowning, the water carries him to her. i won’t be long. i’d come further across town, if you called. she can’t cry again, but she almost does, anyways.  “ ‘kay. ”  she tells him, when he asks her to keep talking.

        gosh, she’s annoying. pathetic too, but that’s not as great a sin as bothering someone else, dampening their existence with hers. she needs something to do with her hands. allie knows how to be a good friend, even if she’s not acting like it. allie finds her feet, doesn’t spend any more time quivering on them, not like before. the soft breeze of her window only flutters her hair, she knows tomás, and everything will be alright. down the stairs, she finds the kitchen, lit up by fairy lights and feeling her way through the green that pours from every spare space. she picks a cute pot to put the water on to boil for tea, it makes her feel a little better. she lets out a soft, sad little laugh when he asks her to leave a light on. tenderness squeezes in her chest, she sets the phone on the counter, and puts it on speaker. she keeps talking, it’s the least she can do, considering she’s asked him to listen.  “ duhsies. i don’t like the dark, anyways. ”  the kitchen is more hers than it is madi’s, which feels like a hard thing to swallow, but only when she thinks of it. so, she doesn’t. instead, allie’s thinking about what his favorite kind of tea might be. he definitely gives coffee, so maybe she’ll just try one of each. the witch keeps talking.  “ well, i like forest-dark, i don’t like city-dark, or- or inside-dark, i guess. cities aren’t ever really dark. ”  as her rambles start to spin out into loose, useless thread, too lost to be tied back together, she starts to get that hollow feeling in her chest. nobody cares, nobody’s listening.  “ um, whaddya’ want to talk about? ”

He's heard the quiver in Allie's voice before. He thinks he knows it by now. She's not convincing him, and he's fine with this. Because he's going to her, whether there's a protest or not. Tomás doesn't know what he can do about the tears or the nightmares. He can only offer himself as company; comfort, if he can even be that. But he gets them too, the abyssal darkness — and he knows the fear that creeps up in the back of a mind. A blackened, charred hand that slides up the nape of his neck, penetrates his skull, grips onto his brain and wrenches his head back against the pillow. Pins him there, unable to move, incapable of breathing through it; just locked in the darkness and the horrors of a hijacked mind.

He'll run to Allie because he needs to feel like he can help somebody. Because it's not himself he can save, and it's not the man lying beside him — stirring restlessly as Priestley gets to his feet in the camper, pulling a tee over his head. A phone balances precariously on his shoulder as he tiptoes to find his sneakers and keep talking to Allie; reminding her that he's not gone anywhere.

"I'm already on my way," he tells her in a whisper — whilst he's still trying to find his left shoe. "Just stay on the line. I'm here, okay? You're allowed to be a little freaked; bad dreams are scary places." He knows. And whilst she can't see it, there's a solemn, half-smile that's on his face. Made more broken in the dark of the camper.

"—And you didn't ask me to. I offered. Well, I'm uh, telling you. I guess." He's going and he's zipping up a hoodie because this isn't Florida, and it's not warm out there in the dead of night. Tomás still hears his dad's voice reminding him to get a jacket, and he'd always just grab a hoodie and regret it later. (Not everything has changed)

There's movement on the other end of the line; he can hear blankets, or a comforter shifting. He dips his head to kiss Riven's head before he leaves. Vanishes through the camper, both shoes on and hoodie zipped up to his neck.

"I won't be long. I'd come further than across town, if you called, Al." It's true, because Tomás would drop almost everything he could if a friend asked him to; if he were able. Like he'd drop it all and fly back to Fort Myers if there was news. Tomás needs to save somebody, because it feels like a whole lot of losing as of late. "Keep talking, okay. Leave a light on for me, yeah?"

[enchaentingly]

        he lets her in. she’s okay, she’s good, and she hasn’t ruined anything or made him too mad. the hope blooms that tiny, small blossom until a magnificent creature with petals and feathers. it’s okay, it’s alright. she feels the tensions of the room turn softer, some hushed conversation that happens just outside of the realm of her focus. her attention instead steers towards calming herself down, making sure she doesn’t cry again. and, anyway, it’s probably just professor stuff. her eyes wander about the office in his brief absence, but when the door shuts kindly behind him, the color of paint on the walls and pictures don’t matter so much. 

        allie’s attention flutters to matteo, and it’s not so hard to stay floating in the air, now that she’s not dragged down by fear or guilt, or any of the other heavy iron things that lead to drowning. her smile is still shaky, but her bright beaming would be too much, now. 

         now, she’s more determined to not scare him away, not push like she had with her mother, like she can feel happening with so many people in this city. she’s ruining everything all over again, and she can’t do that here. his eyes are tired, and sad. they remind her of tree bark, first. then, she finds, it’s more than that. he’s more like a forest, wild and haunted. she blinks, a little too far down the rabbit hole of her own head as she realizes he’s talking to her. photographs sound wonderful, journals even more so and hope dances in her eyes as her name rushes out of her mouth.  “ oh, i’m- i’m allie. ”  and then, a beat later, she considers that this all ties back to mom-witch-stuff, he might need just a little more.  “ … um, fleur, but i don’t think … that matters much. and- and i know your name, so ... ”

        and despite how badly she doesn’t want to, allie keeps talking.  “ you’re not a witch, right? you’re … something else. ”  she’s getting better with the feeling stuff, at least remembering similarities, what feels familiar, what’s strange, what’s new, what’s wrong. she notices he feels a little like liam.

He didn’t know what to do with the trembling mess in front of him now. If he should reach for her, tell her it was just a bad dream — a nightmare neither of them could make sense of. Sometimes dreams were only that: fractured nonsense born from the darkest corners of a troubled mind. He had them too. Worse now, since the curse had sunk its roots into his already broken conscious. But when he was younger, Matteo used to search for meaning in the chaos. To make sense of the treacherous images that haunted him in sleep. He used to believe they meant something. Maybe he should've sent her away, instead of asking his colleague to give them space. Tell the young witch, who's never seen a man rot from the inside, before death has even touched him, to stop looking for meaning where there was none. It was just a dream.

Matteo didn't seem to believe his own lie.

Silently, the other professor slipped out of their shared office, leaving the door to click shut behind them. It was safe to talk now — of magic, of healing hands, of men who turned into wolves. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly. “Please come in. I don't want anyone to overhear.” His frustration had ebbed, now that she was offering pieces of herself. He needed clarity. Needed to understand why she was here. Why her. Why now.

Things were starting to click, even if only barely. She was a witch, after all — timid, inexperienced, maybe due to her young age, or the way her mother had locked the door to that world for her. But her hands were still magic-bound, and he could almost smell the burnt ash and pinewood, sense the softer undertones of sun-warmed moss.

It clung to her palms. It reminded him of her.

"I know you're looking for answers," he said quietly, with hands going over rough features. Exhaustion beginning to weight him down. "And I wish I could give you what you came here to find. But all I have are memories—" already fading, slipping through his fingers. A face, he never wanted to forget. "Some photographs. Maybe a couple of her journals, if those would be of any help."

The wolf realized, he didn't know what to call the young witch. "Can you tell me your name?"

[enchaentingly]

         the hand around her throat feels intimate, comfortable, welcomed with the warming of her cheeks, turning rose under golden light but- aj’s asking her for more. he has to know that she can’t, right? there’s no spark there, not anything worth seeing, or showing. there’s nothing special about a witch that’s magic relies on connection, the tiniest of details and whispers between petals and stems and leaves and roots. he has to know, from seeing plenty of her, that she’s useless without somebody else to guide her or tell her what to do. her nerves slip back in, the effect of the alcohol lost on her. she misses her flowers. at least then, she would’ve known what to do. it would’ve been familiar. but familiar isn’t why she’s here, she’d wanted to get lost, it’s why she’s wandered away from the magic- the people who’d promised to be safe. 

         allie doesn’t have her flowers, flora nor fauna, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t life surrounding them. it’s everywhere, and with the magic heavily seasoning it all, she doesn’t even have to try to feel it out. her skin buzzes, she finds it impossible to focus on any one living pulse. it’s like the whole room is breathing, the inhale and exhale in time with the music, the lights, the walls. but her magic doesn’t want any of it. her magic wants what’s closest, what she can feel. her skin burns warm against the cool feeling of leather, a barrier that keeps her and her magic from what they’d come for. it’s what always draws her back, isn’t it? the memory of ungloved hands, how enchanting it feels to be held by someone with gold in their veins, it leaves the memories of everything else to be forgotten. she’d rather have glimpses of him, snags of teeth that leave scars, than nothing at all. at least he’s here, at least she’s here.

         still, his gloves are in the way. his shoulders are left behind as one hand travels up the arm holding her, the hand cresting her neck. she hums, softly, her thumb feeling out the pulse she can feel, but not touch, in between his gloves and the sleeve of his shirt. at the base of his wrist, she’s reaching for him. the spark of her blood calls out to his, a pond to an ocean, she’s sure, but it’s not his blood that she finds. instead, his heartbeat. her head grows fuzzy, like the edges of it are melting. she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she doesn’t know anything, but she can feel … where once there had just been her heartbeat, now there was two. her magic keeps reaching for him, pulling, threads them together with only the most delicate of daisy chains and she feels the twin beating start to slow. it travels, like an echo. and allie, already inebriated and high off of the feeling of how close she is to golden magic, doesn’t know where one stops and the other begins. she’s not sure if it’s calm, or peace that settles over her in time with the slowing of both their heartbeats, but allie can’t seem to find that anything else matters, the rest of the club grows blurry and-

         something from behind her startles her out of it, and like a frightened doe. she lets go of aj completely. her heart flutters, anxiously, unsure. it’s not fear, but some emotion had caught her there. she doesn’t know anything, she might’ve made it all up. the giggle that leaves her is half-nervous, and more like a hiccup.  “ was that anything? ”  

What AJ has learned about the other witch is that she's often best enjoyed when her mouth is doing anything other than speaking. She hits that tone sometimes, where it drills through a drunken skull, encouraging a wakefulness one doesn't want. It's that, or a sudden headache. Allie's a pill he likes to take in even doses, like popping a xanny, but with the only intention to dull the senses.

"I didn't know Caity G had any friends, funny that, innit?"

He imagines that it'll only take all of an hour to hear about whatever mayhem she's got her dead-magnet fingers into. AJ might have more than that inside Allie in a bit; it'll set his night up for even more of a vibe. He is good at it. He's a God, he knows the devotee's role. To kneel at his altar, praying fervently.

Astor doesn't like to surround himself with weak minds. There are not enough hours in a day, or enough life in a lifetime, to waste it on the inexperienced and the neglectful. Power is taken, just as much as it's earned. AJ doesn't even recall which moment a hand snakes itself up her chest to settle like a leather necklace around her throat, but it's comfortable there. With the jazz reverb in the club, the bodies slinking around them. Allie in a dress that's all him. She reaches, tip toes and arms around him, like he is her lifeline, after all.

"And what does my mercy get me?" If they play, if he spares her from taking what he thinks she wants. (Knows it, in fact.) Then what does playing this game get him? "I've seen plenty of you love, except that spark in your blood. Show me."

This is the most fitting place she could let loose.

[enchaentingly]

         allie finishes that sweet little glass of bubbles soon enough. really, she just wants it to be out of her hands so she can feel more of him, though she probably should’ve kept it so she doesn’t do just that. oh, well. he seems not to mind, and the soft buzz from the champagne keeps her from thinking too much, or worrying, at all. it’s wonderful, she’s sure it shows in her smile.

         “ not sure how simple it is if it means i have to get out of this dress. ”  she doesn’t really mean it, in fact, she’d rather be nude than not, most of the time. allie winds a strand of hair around her finger, thinking aloud again. “ i mean, i guess i already did it once, ‘cause- oh my gosh, i found the hot tub room! ”  which is very, very exciting to share with her new friend considering she hasn’t really gotten to tell anyone else yet. she’s sure she could get back there, but while it’s lovely and relaxing and warm, it’s not very fun.  “ and, the masks aren’t complicated! all it is is a kiss! ”  she stops with the roses on his jacket, tapping the tip of his nose with a giggle.  “ maybe we should kiss some strangers to warm you up to it, flower boy. ”

Everett drank in each of her words, he wondered what the flowers would whisper of her, of him, he wondered if they thought in shapes and colours or if it wasn’t that direct.

He watches as his new bubbly companion takes a sip of champagne. It’s like her sentences come out of her unthought out and random but her movements are deliberate, that’s where she can her truth lies. Maybe just like her flowers, truthful.

When her next sentence flies out, “but we can pretend!….” He’s floored, he feels like a grounded thing while she is communicating in a language above him.

He takes a sip of his champagne as she starts playing with his lapel. “We could pretend, whether it’s as simple as body shots or as complicated as one of those masks.” He indicates one of the random trophies on the wall. Before she showed up he never would have contemplated one but… she seems just magical enough to compensate for the two of them. Either way he’s enjoying having a different perspective on the evening.

[enchaentingly]

         the one and only. frankie lights up neon. like a big, sparkling sign: fun, fun, fun! she even has a tiara that keeps catching little spots of light, distracting in the very same way that its wearer is. allie wonders if that means she’s a princess, or a queen, or some mixture of both that’s very different and all the same, at one time. some kind of twisted wonderland queen, maybe, that doesn’t have to do any of the boring parts. allie giggles at the bow, very amused, incredibly entertained. she’s easily sold the fantasy.

         she has a fourth ‘d’ word to go along with the rest of frankie’s, “ duhsies! ”  because, obviously. divine, dazzling, and delicious, and a taste to match. the mystery that cloaks frankie draws her in, that dark allure that comes with the shine of her canines. she doesn’t know much more about her than what she can see, and feel, and hear in the smooth texture of her voice, but she knows she’s close to aj. friends, they must be, because they’d made this together and in all of her imagining what exactly aj’s doing- or supposed to be doing, she’d never imagined this.

         the drink sounds delicious, divine, and dazzling, and she’s about to say something about the yummy-ness of it when something the other says captures her focus. doe eyes blink up at frankie.  “ i’m with you? ”  the surprise and softly melted confusion doesn’t stick with her long, before she’s back to her playful smile.  “ then … will you order for me? ”  her head knocks to one side, eyes glittering.  “ or am i supposed to remember that? if so, i might need a little refresher.  ”  she pinches her fingers, doesn't actually care if there’s any space at all between them. little, that’s all she means. little.  “ this’ll be round … something, i don’t remember. but maybe it doesn’t count as a round if you just keep drinking! ”

And he dared call her guests boring. His face was boring. One of the bathrooms had already been transformed into a bloodbath — a divine little accident, courtesy of that noble french lady she used to eat out on thursdays. She couldn't remember a name, only a marvelous taste.

And where were his precious little guests?

His brother was off in some corner, weaving a gold-threaded sweater between strangers loudly smooching a mask, and others slipping keys into locks that promised something terrible — and something very, very fun.

Now… who invited that little sugarplum fairy?

Oh, any trace of agitation over his silly guest list vanished at the first sign of praise. She didn’t care who that tall glass of strawberry smoothie was — but Frankie was drinking her up, eyes glittering like a woman parched and starving for something sweet. Something syrupy.

The air around her turned cinnamon-spiced — she could taste it on her tongue, heavy with heat and perfume and the magnetic pull of that gold dress, clinging in all the right places and leaving very little to the imagination. “The one and only.” She bowed, elegantly. Like a queen should.

You seem so— "Divine? Dazzling? Delicious?" She could go on and on, for hours. Dark gaze never leaving the woman, where a captivating smile showed sharp teeth.

"This babe, right there—" her chin lifted toward a bartender quite literally dipped in gold, like some fever dream from a myth, "—makes the best blood-orange champagne brûlée with crushed rubies." A beat. Then she added casually: "It’s not on the menu, obviously. But you're with me."

[enchaentingly]

        the phone call sounds … business-y, she thinks. though all of them kind of sound like that, especially considering most of the time she hears them, she’s half-asleep, or half-way somewhere else, between the magic or the other things that happen in his bed. anyways, she’s trying not to be eavesdrop-y or clingy in the bad way. even though allie’s pretty sure she’ll end up forgetting her apprehension, and ask him about the phone call anyways, getting herself kicked out for real. it’s better just to stay quiet, now, it’d be rude otherwise, and she knows better this time.

        aj finds her first, before she can turn to meet him, the sound of his voice sending a wave of soft surprise through her. the cold feeling of leather, brushing her hands away isn’t what she wants, but she’ll take it anyway. better this, than nothing. allie watches him in the mirror, tying up the strings of her dress so it stays up on her body, the rest of the fabric drapes along with it. she utters a quiet thanks, still watching him in the mirror, startled into soft sort of shyness. his voice pushes something to spill over, and out of her: an apology.  “ i’m- i’m sorry, i guess it was easier to get off. ”  she can still feel the fog of last night, like a dream she’s not eager to forget. either way, it makes her slow, feels a little like a useless butterfly in a glass jar, she keeps hitting the walls, keeps thinking it’s better in here, than out there, where at least it’s a new day. she knows it’s aj that makes her want to stay, that magnetic pull that keeps her looking at him. honest seeps out of her, before she can stop it, furrowing in her brow for a brief moment.  “ i think i’m still drunk, or something. ”  the light, playful laugh that’s supposed to come out with her words never finds her, she can feel herself walking backwards into her own mind, barricaded with winter thoughts and memories that don’t belong anywhere near aj, or any little, tiny, sliver of a piece of his world.

        eventually, she remembers to turn around to face him. though once she does, she realizes it was easier the other way, when it was only his reflection she had to face. at least then, the flush that had gently brushed her cheek tasted sweet, and warm. now … now, she wasn’t very lovely at all. her head starts to comb through a mix of anyone else who knows about no-spell magic, and where her shoes could be. both lines of thinking would lead her out, away from him, to bother someone else.

        aj’s answer shakes her out of her pouting, pure confusion carving onto her features in its place, a little wild as the nerve to meet his eyes again snatches her up. her mind starts spinning faster than she can keep up, trying to connect the dots between what she knows- shaking, uncertain, stained with the tenderness and worry she carries for her friend that she’s failed -and what aj says. fear kicks up with it, too, the memory of new years combing back in as she thinks.  it doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t-   “ you dropped a bomb? is that why i saw- ? … ”  all of the winding up, the worrying, the seriousness is left behind as she watches his face, realizing- oh.  “ oh, you’re kidding. ”  she can’t help the disappointment that soaks through. even a ridiculous answer was still an answer, but that small bout of hope hadn’t been real.

There's a level of awareness that he has whilst on the phone to still witness the small fairy of a woman collecting her belongings. Eyes shift back and forth, from pouring himself a water, to hearing the padding of light feet crossing one side of the bed space, to the other. She's not exactly quick about it. He's talking to the AG team, because his absence from in-person meetings has become noticeable. Away too long, they'd said. Asked him why he's neglecting his role, as much as his brother is.

He doesn't have an answer for them, besides throwing out that he's holidaying. God forbid he admits he's doing it in Oregon of all places.

'Yeah, got a partner in Chiang Mai. I'll send over deets, in a bit, mate.'

AJ tips back half a glass of water, listening to Perce on the other side of the line. He's nattering on about covering a dozen meetings and appointments that AJ inevitably isn't going to make. Perce is asking him if he's going to make Summer Fashion Week in Berlin, and if not, will he get to Paris afterwards. It makes him grind his teeth. The image he might still be stuck figuring out an unfamiliar magic beyond June and July is infuriating; he doesn't even spend this long in the Maldives, when he wants to catch some rays. Albeit, he's not entirely vengeful about Port Leiry. But, that's only been recently, with a few fun characters that have killed a few hours of business boredom. And it's not the bloody Maldives.

AJ twists the phone in his hand, calming his agitations before speaking.

'I'll let you know, they'll cope without me. You know the score.' He might even be a degree irritated if he has to buy back his spot in Valentino's custom first-looks. AJ's quick to add: 'No, Titan can't attend instead, he doesn't even know how to pronounce Saint Laurent, he isn't going.' Nothing worse than not caring to learn a name or a face. AJ's arrogance meets with equal snobbery. Titan would somehow make the papers, and it would be a travesty. And all somehow AJ's fault, if Levinon caught wind of the name being smeared.

AJ's staring at Allie. Considers for half a moment if she has a brother who looks as good as she does. Wonders how much a potentially non-existent sibling could be bought for, to be shipped over to Berlin for a week.

He scratches the idea away when Percy convinces him he'll work around the absence, and hope AJ can make it back across the ocean for it. An unconvincing, yeah mate, echoes down the line, before the call finishes once more.

Allie's fingers aren't too skilled in her flittering around his penthouse and AJ's suddenly crossing the room, smacking her fingers away from fumbling with her dress. He's glad for the distraction, really. But definitely not sending her to the menswear week. Nor, any other. "You're still here." It's said as he ties the laces of her dress, almost like he forgets he's doing it. But she keeps asking him things, and he wonders what she's probing for.

AJ's fingers pause for a moment too long to be discreet. His eyes narrow on the side of her face from where he stands behind her. "Yeah, I dropped a bomb, I saw a lot of weird shit, love." Better then to dismiss how Cal had paid him a flyby visit that stirs that heartless lump beneath his lungs. AJ lets go of the ties, pulls away from her and slowly rubs gloved hands together.

Swallows down that the little witch is pulling on more strings than she should.

[enchaentingly]

         they are his colors. the dark dancing with streams of golden, dusted with the glitter that her touch brings. she offers one last look to the flowers before they’re handed off, something fond and almost proud. as she’s rid of them, it feels more like a gift, a relief lifted off of her chest. maybe it’s the acceptance he gives her in return, by doing so. oh, well, that’s a little bit too much thinking for allie, tonight. besides, aj’s drawing her in. their closeness leaves all the other noise to wind down to a gentle lull, and for a moment, she thinks she can taste him. her lips part, and of course, she wants more.

         zane’s name makes its way through her enchantment. “ yeah! i took zane, and cait brought harley, ‘cause they didn’t get the … fun invites, i guess. ”  she almost makes a mention of how the two witches were feeling about the lost, then missing invitations. but zane had came to find him at the very beginning, hadn’t he? and allie’s already moving onto the next fun thing, she doesn’t want to stay and sit with the idea of forgotten friends. they’re all here, breathing in the same magic and under the same golden light. the next fun thing is aj, and he’s pulled away, so she’s chasing him again.

         he doesn't make it hard to want to. maybe it's time you show me how you play with magic. she giggles, “ that’s ’cause you’re good at it,- ”  she puts one hand on his chest for emphasis, and then brings it to her own.  “ -and i’m not. ”  another path that’s a little too soggy to wander down, and allie’s too sparkly for that, tonight. she shakes her head, like it’s going to clear her head, loose curls hitting the side of her face. allie skips through, letting the curiosity swallow her whole, with sweetness back in her mouth.  “ but i want to. ”  she pauses, her head tilts to one side, eyes whole with the same want as always. her fingers dance up to rest on his shoulders, one at a time, slow enough that leather covered hands could catch them, if need be.  “ will you play with me? ”

A flash of a smile, too wide — pulled up by strings of humour. She's a creature latched onto him like he is how she breathes, an oxygen source she's gasping for. AJ's usually quite brazen with who he allows close, and usually it's always on his terms. Not theirs. But the 205 waitress has seen his bed, his grin and his temperament. She crawls back with flowers and holy eyes that make a God think of a loyal worshipper. You like to worship me, Allie? He knows she does.

"You're the botonist, sweetheart." AJ may never look at the blossoms again tonight, but they're quickly handed off to a passing waiter who is quietly nodding at Astor's command to put them somewhere other than his hands. They are of no use to him, no belladonna or rose petals from the entrance of the Mossdale Caverns; supposedly grown from the bones of the dead. These are merely Fleur's pickings, and her magic is untested.

AJ gives her some recognition: "They're my colours, though." And with Allie's arms free of the bouquet, AJ draws her closer, his gloved hand finds her chin to lift her head towards him. "Good," whispered like he's heard her prayer; he can have a little fun, because he's a little inebriated and it's his (and Frankie's) night of salaciousness.

He pauses right before he reaches her lips. Filters through the names, "Zane?" Patel? That's who she came with? It surprises him, gold-flecked gaze searches her wide-eyed, naive ones as she stares at him like he is a comet, and she is making a wish. "Maybe it's time you show me how you play with magic," a beat, and he pulls back — because the moment where he steals her breath back is crushed. When he releases her chin, AJ gestures around, playful glimmer sparks in his expression: "You've seen mine."

[enchaentingly]

         his skin lights up like a firework under her touch. or, she supposes, the thing under his skin does. either way, allie breezes past it, brushing a gentle, fluttering touch over his cheekbone before her hands return to herself, like they hadn’t been there at all. even drunk off of the sensation that’s remembered by the tips of her fingers, she notices that he’s let her get that close, and stays to enjoy that. 

         with her attention captured, it’s nearly devoted to him. he coaxes a giggle from her, easily. even beneath the cloudiness of inebriation, he keeps saying her very favorite words. florals, party, friends, champagne. she lights up at each.  “ they are very trustworthy, though they do like to gossip. ”  and that’s never stopped her before, from sharing. they’ve got their own language, the flowers do. whispered through roots and breaths of wind. 

         his offer sends a surprised little flutter to her eyelashes, though she takes it, delicately, between her fingers with all the same eagerness.  “ ooh, for me? thank you! ”  then, the rest of his words meet her eyes, sorta’ slow and syrupy sweet. it doesn’t stop her from taking a drink the second it touches her skin.  “ well, i am drunk, but not off of just champagne. ”  it’s an important difference for that movement she says it, but not much longer.  “ but we can pretend! does that mean we’re, like, doing body shots, flower boy? ”  she giggles again, playful, tossing hair over her shoulder and looking away, before her eyes are guided back to him.  “ kidding, kinda’, but you do seem fun! ”  she draws another curious finger to him, traces the embroidered pink roses on his jacket.

The night is young, Shannon has taken an interest in a curly haired blonde with Cait well on the other side of the club. Perfect.

Everett snags himself a glass of champagne. Perhaps he had missed being in Port Leiry, here he was invisible. Utterly ordinary. Just a boy with a brush and a bottle, whether it’s spray or otherwise, no one cares. As he takes a sip the bubbles tickle his throat. Little stings of wonderful fizz. 

As he surveys the room his eyes capture on a girl who seems the definition of sparkling. She bounces as she makes her way across the club, though it’s almost as if her feet never touch the ground. He wonders at her path, where this sparkling fairy creature might be heading. 

When her eyes connect with his he can’t help but smile, he can’t help it, it’s like she’s more effervescent than the champagne. “Well don’t you look like you simply walked out of a E.R. Hughes painting,“ Everett chuckles. She doesn’t hear him but when she does approach she touches his face. It’s non-commital and exploratory, almost like she’s touching it just to experience it.

“I’ve always tended to trust my florals.” He grinned conspiratorially, “And I’ll take all the friends I can at this party.” He grabbed another clas of champagne off a passing tray and offered it to her, “Take it or don’t, given the way you walk it’s almost like you’re made of champagne, did you know you bounce when you walk flower girl?” It’s not a line, it’s just genuinely the first thing he wants to know, cause really he’d been around magic half his life and he’d never seen someone walk like they float before.

[enchaentingly]

olette fleur; npc.  ˎˊ˗

( michelle pfieffer, margot robbie, eva green, riley voelkel, lauren german (many fcs; like mother, like daughter; this is a vibes based system; the mental image you're meant to gather is an older, blonder version of allie, but they look incredibly similar) / cis-female / she/her ) — OLETTE FLEUR has been living in Port Leiry for WHO KNOWS, SHE WANDERS. They currently work as a WITCH FOR HIRE, and are 40 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH or if they’re no longer connected to A STRICT BLOOD PURIST COVEN, OUTSIDE OF PL. They tend to be quite MANIPULATIVE and AVOIDANT, but can also be ICARIAN and INDIVIDUALISTIC. / general trigger warnings for child neglect and maltreatment under cut

        olette had allie at 18, young, alone, and rejected, but she had a life and a coven long before that. the baby means little to nothing compared to everything else the world had to offer, and she chains her to motherhood all the same. but before, she had been free, she had ambition. she’d had the magic of a coven of disciplined witches with ancestral blood flowing through their veins, raised in this coven, followed its rules. their power was meant to be hers, until letting a human, a mistake, mix with their bloodlines got her exiled.

        without the magic of the coven, she had to outsource, and the magic of two witches was better than just one. and it's not like she had actually wanted to be a mother, stuck now with a baby doll that does nothing but cry and look at her like she means the world. olette could make use of her. she finds a ritualistic knife, carved with runes, in languages long forgotten that olette only knows the important parts of. it doesn't matter; what does matter is that it can channel magic via a wound, a spilling of blood in the name of sacrifice. and olette has a sacrifice that can't do anything about stopping her. it's terrible, immoral, a lethal degree more than just taking candy from a baby. using the knife, olette carves into her daughter's back, drawing the magic from her shoulder blades. the scars almost resembling what it might look like had someone cut off the infant's wings. olette channels her magic, stealing it from her daughter for the next twenty two years, using the blood she collected that night.

olette never wanted motherhood. initially, the idea of allie was appealing to her. but her idea of a child didn't compare with the actual wants and needs of her own. olette liked allie better as a doll that looked like her, talked like her, and was quiet and easy. when allie deviated from this expectation, olette quickly began to resent her, and deeply regret having her. she begins to associate allie as being a mistake, and often conveys this to her. once, olette had loved allie, but doesn't any more.

she ignores allie when she can, and then when she can’t, she locks her upstairs to keep her away from the life her mother’s trying to build, without her. allie doesn’t know any other family, any other friends until she finds her way into school. with the exhaustion that comes with parenting, olette needs her easy. she teaches her to submit, to never fight, to smile and laugh and that nobody will want her when she’s sad, or angry, or useless. she teaches her to lie when things are wrong, that her greatest sin is being “too much”. she teaches allie that the value of her life is only as good as she can give to other people, as she can let them use her. she sends her out into the world with nothing but bedtime stories to protect her from whatever lies out there with rotten intentions.

olette started with potions. she had much expertise on the world of the living, with both animals and plants. she knows the craft well and, when she had the patience, mentored allie with potions, specifically, as she did not present with otherwise powerful magic. seeing as olette often used potions primarily (other magic as well) to take care of any allie-related "problems" (anywhere from taking care of a physical need with a quick potion, so olette wouldn't have to actually take care of it, to get her to stop crying), even starting as soon as when she was a toddler, allie could've been helping to make the same potions that were to be used on her.

in addition to magic, allie had early, harmful exposure to drugs and alcohol for the same reasons.

eventually, the potions used to satiate her daughter, and explore her own magic weren't enough. olette wanted more. more than the imprecise nature of the memory potions she'd give to allie after any mistake, she started to venture into the magic of the mind. it was too late to protect allie, she could already see her memory worsening from the effects of the potions, so she became her test run for it.

over time, and with practicing on the fragile mind of a child, olette could take away any memory that did not serve her. then, beyond memory, she ventured into any other space of the mind that her magic could reach. dreams, nightmares, hopes, dreams, wishes, fears. she finds clients- outside of her own daughter -who would give anything for a witch to make promises and rifle around their head. very rarely did olette ever make good on those promises, often finding a loophole that semi-fulfilled the goal, or created a mirage inside of their mind, making it seem as if she had.

hidden under the guise of mother-daughter bonding, stools pulled up so allie could reach the counter, olette taught her many things. to cook, to sew, to clean, to bake, to take care of herself, so her mother wouldn’t have to. it became the only time she had with her mother, so the child cherished it, committed the moments to memory. but by the time allie turned ten, her mother didn’t have to be home any more, she could take care of herself. even before that tenth birthday, she’d started to slip away, leaving allie alone for hours at a time, without any clue that she’d come back. all allie had was her hope. but one day, one summer, the night before she’d started high school, her mother bids her goodbye for the last time. she leaves her with the departing wisdom to not get pregnant, because it’s a mistake.

the distance her mother has kept from her for the last seven years, in addition to the majority of her memories of childhood being taken from her, or otherwise forgotten due to the trauma, leaves allie to only see her mother in deeply rose colored glasses. she finds excuses for the memories she does have, sees her mother as a betrayed, lonely teenager that raised her the best she could. allie also believes herself to be at fault for her mother's abandonment and general neglect towards her. a lot of this stems from her mother's own words and constant blame, even when allie was a child. her relationship with her mother was everything she knew in her formative years. for fourteen years, she kept allie mostly isolated from any other support system, and would literally lock her away at times. presently, allie still uses her mother's dynamic with her as a model for other relationships. it's why she has no care for how people treat her, as long as she can still keep them in her life. the unfortunate truth is that after worshipping a woman who never taught her or showed her that she had value, she doesn't believe she's worth being treated well.