#magic is like the absent of glamour or charm

[fangirleaconmigo]

Yennskier to Geraskefer concept (Yennefer x Jaskier with some + Geralt at the end)

Ok so what if the very first time Yen and Jaskier ever defend each other, it is a complete shock to both of them and happens (of all places) in front of his parents?

(TW: Yen is in disguise so some of the flirting could be read as dubcon but no bards were hurt in the making of this fic, I promise)

So when they first meet, Yen and Jaskier snipe at each other relentlessly, right?

Scheming, devious, calamitous witch.

Useless cock for brains.

Geralt has taken to tuning them out completely.

By complete random bad luck, Yen learns one night in tavern gossip that Jaskier isn’t his real name. She becomes suspicious of his intentions. She brings her concerns to Geralt.

“They said that his true name is Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz. Is that true?” she asks Geralt.

“His name is Jaskier,” Geralt answers, sounding exhausted.

She pushes. “I know that family. They are well connected, prominent, and bigoted. Your bard could very possibly be asked to turn Ciri in to curry their favor.”

"This is insane, Yen." Geralt drops his head and looks miserably into his tankard. “You two need to start getting along, or I’m going to age at least a century before winter.”

"That's not what this is about!"

She gives up on him. He will never think clearly in these matters. She suspects he has romantic feelings for the bard, which she wouldn't mind, she isn't much for monogamy herself, but oh god, the bard??? That smarmy, whorish little bastard? Unthinkable.

She decides to pay Jaskier’s parents a visit just to reassure herself that they aren’t interested in her daughter.

She disguises herself with a glamour and gets herself on the guest list of one of their fancy parties. She is playing the part of a voluptuous blonde wife of an absent Duke.

Jaskier is supposed to be back at Oxenfurt. That’s what he told Geralt, anyway. But she walks in the door and there he is, holding court at the party in his well fitted satin, with his glinting charming smile, and his flushed cheeks and…and…well…other things that Yen would never admit to noticing.

But what was he doing there?

Why did he lie about being at Oxenfurt? Could he already be colluding with his parents?

At the thought, she expects to feel rage. But an entirely different feeling wells up in her.

Disappointment. Hurt.

She shakes it off. Stupid. She's used too much magic for her glamour. It's making her weak. She takes a seat directly across from him at dinner.

He introduces himself to her and kisses her hand. Julian Alfred Pankratz.

His lips brush the top of her hand and in response she acts like one of his tarts. Only because she has to get him to trust her, obviously. Yen smiles and flutters her eyes at him. His smile is charming. So is his admiration of her form. When his gaze drops ever so briefly to her cleavage she feels something else unexpected.

Warmth.

She shakes that off too.

His parents sit on either side of him. Yen doesn’t waste much time. By the time the second course is served she brings up Ciri and the war.

She doesn’t expect Jaskier’s mom to immediately bring up the horrid witch who is hiding the child. The slut who doesn’t know her place. The evil women who schemes and plots and who gets what she wants by manipulating men with her whoredom.

Yen is used to being called these things by conservative wives. But she finds her eyes flick to Jaskier, and her heart leaps to her throat. It makes her so, so angry that she cares what he will say.

He has always seemed like an enemy? But here? Behind actual enemy lines? He feels like a friend.

Fuck.

But Jaskier averts his eyes. He stares at his plate. He isn’t going to join in, but he isn’t going to defend her either. Obviously.

She DOESNT care godsdamnit. She’s just caught up in the moment. She DOES NOT CARE.

So it is entirely incidental that she experiences immense, sweet relief when he smiles softly to himself before he replies.

“Oh mother,” he says genially, “but I know you. It is simple envy that moves you to such crude accusations.”

His mother splutters. “Do you think I covet her false beauty—“

“Not her beauty.” Jaskier says, still calm. Still affable. “She is beautiful of course, but nothing like that. It’s just that you and father are so small minded and so constantly desperate for the approval of other, equally small minded people, that when you see someone who has a soul and who lives in a free spirited manner, that you ache with envy and impotent rage. And that is why you use such uncharacteristically crude and low language to describe her. That is why you yearn to oppress her and control her. That is why you want to put her in her place.”

Jaskier smiles genially and takes another bite of his lobster.

His parents turn so pink with rage that they look purple.

Yen hasn't felt such satisfaction in so very long. She also isn't used to people taking up for her. Not in places like this.

His father is the first to regain his composure. He smiles and looks around the table at the nervous nobles who are trying their best to ignore the awkwardness.

He smiles around the table. “You have to excuse my son. Instead of accepting the position at Oxenfurt he roams the earth thinking with nothing but his base impulses. He knows nothing of the real world. He is young, idealistic, and completely useless.”

There are nervous chuckles around the table when Yennefer speaks up.

“Actually,” she says in between sips of champagne, “I have heard of your son. Jaskier is that right?”

Jaskier looks at her, surprised and deeply pleased.

His parents smile tight lipped.

“Ridiculous name,” his mother says.

“Well,” says Yen, “you’re probably right. The vaunted thinkers and academics who laud his poetry coast to coast are probably incorrect. The soldiers who offer their undying gratitude that he has documented their deeds are wrong. The traumatized war orphans who cry and say that he has saved their lives with his art are surely absurd. It is you who are correct, I’m sure. Of all the ways you can spend your life, comforting and inspiring people does sound like an utter waste of time.”

She primly sips her drink and the grateful, genuine smile that spreads on Jaskier’s face like the sunrise rockets straight to her soul.

The rest of the dinner is tense, but Yennefer is having a wonderful time. Conversing with a Jaskier like this---he is adoring and attentive--it is addictive. She never knew it could feel like this with him.

And after dinner, when he finds her outside the privy and steps incredibly close to her, his hand sliding around her waist, she is shocked into silence by her desire. She doesn't find her voice until he has kissed her ever so softly and tenderly that she almost melts onto his parents stone floors.

"J-j-askier," she manages to mumble.

"Yes, love. Marina, is it?" he murmurs into her ear, his nimble fingers trailing from her neck down, down down. "Beautiful name. Beautiful woman."

She steps back and lets his arms fall heavily to the side.

"I must tell you something. And you will regret what you just did."

It could have sounded like a threat. She meant it to sound like a threat. But it just sounds sad. The glamour falls from her and his face transforms into shock.

She swallows the lump in her throat as he steps back so hard, he hits the wall and covers his mouth with his hands.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands. He looks white as a sheet. Terrified.

"I just did!"

"Earlier!"

"Because!" Yen squeaks. (She never squeaks) "I was...flummoxed. I--oh a pox on it, Jaskier, I liked it. Is that what you want to hear? You asshole? You bastard?"

His hand falls slowly from his face. Then a soft, tiny, smug little smile begins to form.

"Ha. I knew it."

He did not know it.

She smacks him. He laughs.

Then he remembers something and falls back against the wall againt groaning. "Oh, Geralt. Geralt. I'm a terrible friend. I will have to run off, to never return--"

She smacks him again. "Ow, what?"

"Calm down. Let's go see him together. I have a feeling he is going to like what we have to say."

The next time they kiss, it is in front of a roaring fire in her home in Vengerberg, with Geralt caressing them both, and watching with fondness.

"If I had known that it was this easy to shut the two of you up, I would have insisted on it a long time ago."

[unhingedselfships]

One Morally Questionable Man Helps Girl Poorly Cope With Past Trauma by Way of Very Bad Coping Mechanisms

CW : past CSA mention

She curled further into the corner she'd claimed, and kept her eyes locked on the man who'd brought her here. Nerves frayed already, she found it hard pressed to be more unsettled, yet she couldn't help but feel out of place. Even on her best days, she was no match for a place like this.

Why he'd chosen somewhere so… high end, was beyond her, but much of Kenshi was. Certainly the place had a dress code, yet here she was, in space cat pj pants, a clingy tye-dye tank top, and old beat up slip on shoes of indeterminate color. Her worn sherpa hoodie was currently acting as something of a security blanket, her fidgety hands picking at the fluff. 

She certainly looked no match for the dashing gentlemen and stunning ladies more standard to a place like this. All carefully curated and glittering in the night glamour.

Amazing what money could do, she laughed internally.

She watched him work his magic, charisma cranked to eleven, speaking to who she could only assume was the manager, gesturing in her direction, finding that flawless balance of authority and sympathy, smoothing over her presence as his guest.

Absently she wondered if anyone here knew him. What they'd think. Probably be good for his reputation she imagined. Good kind Kadokura, taking care of this poor distraught young woman, who'd clearly been through something just ever so terrible.

Or maybe they'd think the worst. An older man plying a vulnerable woman in distress with strong drinks and charm. She snorted at the thought, sure he could charming but he had no interest in that, and certainly not with her.

The internal laughter took on a note of hysteria, spiralling out her control again 

The shaking still hadn't stopped. She wondered if it ever would. It was starting to ache, the constant tensing from the way her muscles trembled. Her head was spinning again, and she couldn't focus, suddenly Kenshi seemed miles further than he just had been.

Her chest tightened, heart fluttering and it was getting hard to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe?

Startling as a glass slid into her view, she looked up from the colorful drink to the man she'd turned to, half begged to help her, his calculating, and perhaps a bit cautious she thought, look pinning her in place. 

"I want to talk about it. I don't know if I can."

She felt all at once smothered by it, and like she would burst with it, yet a strange sense of impending doom took hold the moment she thought to open up.

Even Daigo had had to mostly put it together himself, reading the court transcripts and what little she could say. 

("I was the first, I- I was the first.")

"Few more of those, and I'm sure you won't have any trouble at all."

She reached for it then, sliding it across the table top towards herself, but hesitated to lift. Her fingers still trembled and she didn’t want to spill any.

With a put upon sigh, Kadokura produced a straw, dropping it in her glass with a distinctive metal on glass clink.

“Do you have any idea, the look the bartender gave me when I asked him for a straw?” the glare he shot her was betrayed by the tilt of his lips, faux-irritation playing across his face.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” she mumbled back at him, taking a sip, and humming at the taste.

Overly sweet, excessively fruity, sugar and tartness likely masking something far stronger than one would expect. He knew her taste, or rather, distaste for alcohol. It wasn’t surprising he’d pick the perfect thing for her.

She’d sucked down about half the glass, the first of several she was sure, before she slid her phone over from where she’d sat it. Unlocking the screen and navigating between tabs, he watched her, relaxed, but vigilant. Most people would likely have quailed under the scrutiny, but she found some strange comfort in it. He was cataloging her every tick, and deciding the best way to react. It was calculated. It was careful.

Staring at the screen, something haunted and pained in her eyes, he still waited, more patience than he’d give most people. A deep shuddering breath, and she passed him the small device.

“Ah, so this is what Daigo meant,” he noted, tilting his head, eyeing her over the phone.

“I. It’ll make it a little easier? Maybe? I think. If you already have some context. I can’t. I don’t know where to start. To explain everything. If you already know something…” she trailed off.

He hummed and focused on the page she’d left it open to. A court transcript. Easy enough. He cocked a brow at the 126 consecutive year sentence. It wasn’t the longest he’d ever heard, but was still fairly impressive. His face shifted into displeasure, as he continued reading the details. He was by no means a moral paragon, not that he ever bothered to concern himself with morality at all, but even he found these sorts of things distasteful. He wasn’t above using threats of such to manipulate people, but the act itself was… Beneath him. To each their own, he supposed. As long as their own didn't effect him, at any rate.

“Did you know the girls?” his first assumption. It would make it seem something of an over reaction but it was an easy enough explanation. 

Shaking her head, she chewed her lip, fingers tapping against the glass. A few tears slipped over her cheeks and she took a deep shuddering breath.

“Was it my fault?”

Well that wasn’t what he’d expected at all. And was also a bit confusing. He was trying to puzzle out how any of what was described could have anything to do with her, much less be her fault. He turned the facts he had over in his head, before settling on a conclusion. Daigo’s rage seemed to be the key here, to understanding what she wasn’t giving him.

“How, exactly, would any of this be your fault, Kimi-chan?” he rode a fine line between patience and condescension. A note of ‘I think you’re stupid but I’m willing to walk you through how and why’. It was a tone he often took with her, when she came at him with her absurdity.

“I. I was the first,” her eyes were somewhere between vacant and distant, her voice quivering.

He knew what she meant, and he didn’t like it. It wasn’t a mere implication, that would have been kinder. Easier to pretend. It grated, how difficult she made it to pretend to be unaffected and careless. Some part of him damned her some days, for worming her way in.

“It was nearly 20 years ago. I was seven. I think. Around then. I don’t remember that time very well. Snippets. Random things that happened. But it was all kind of a…” she trailed off for a moment, “a blur I suppose. A nebulous ‘early elementary school years’ idea.”

She was babbling. She did that when she was upset and having trouble articulating. He’d gotten good at parsing through her nonsense to get to the core of what she was trying to say.

And he still didn’t like the core of what she was saying. Decades past regardless, she was his now, and he didn’t like people damaging his things.

“I still fail to see how that has anything to do with this… man’s, actions.”

“I could have- I should, have said something. Maybe then-” she cut herself, speaking in fits and starts now. 

Her condition was worsening, and Kadokura tapped at the table in agitation. Not with her, mind, though it may have been easier to just blame her and move on. There was no quick and easy solution to this. He couldn’t just fix her, and that grated.

“Would it have made any difference?”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide and somewhere between confusion and distress. At least she was present again, he supposed.

“Wha-”

“Would it have mattered? Who could you have told? Who would have believed you?”

“I- Mom would hav-”

“What could she have done? Really?”

She worried at her lower lip, brow furrowed and breath hitching.

“It’s awfully self absorbed of you to think any of this had anything to do with you.”

He stabbed right through and she nearly choked on a gasp. She held his gaze, her pain meeting his neutrality. He wasn’t being careless, she could see it in the lines of his body, his agitation. Irritation. He was being blunt. Forward and matter of fact. He wouldn’t let her carry her “silly” delusions. There was no logic to her thoughts, and they both knew it. The unfeeling truth may not fix it, but at least it cemented it. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? Why are you apologizing.”

There was something in his tone that read more demand than question. 

“I don’t- For- I just-”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize for nothing. Drink. Drink until you can’t feel, and you can figure out what you want to do, tomorrow. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

She clutched at her glass, and stared into the unnatural color, shoulders trembling. 

He seemed tense, somewhat uncomfortable, before settling. He pried one of her hands loose, and gave it a firm but gentle squeeze.

“Let go. Get completely wasted. I’ll make sure you get home.”

Waving a waiter over, he ordered her another, and the rare moment of tenderness passed. 

He may not be the best at showing it most of the time, but he cared, in his way.

She knew with a certainty she couldn’t explain, that he meant it. She could trust him. He would keep her safe for the night.

Polishing off the first, she plopped the straw into the second and started on it right away, as Kadokura slowly sipped at his first for the night. One of the few he’d allow himself while “babysitting” the distressed girl.

Her face was interesting to watch. Micro changes to macro ones. She was fascinatingly expressive. Pain flittering into frustration, morphing into confusion, settling into regret. Anger and sorrow and grief and shit, she was so terribly human. 

The trembles picked back up, and her eyes faded into something, somewhere, distant, absent. He tapped a knuckle lightly under her eye, on the ridge of her cheek bone, ignoring the way she jolted, eyes suddenly wild, before refocusing and her whole being relaxing, just barely.

“It's. I’m. I hate this,” she ground her teeth.

He cocked his head at her, “Very articulate, Kimberly.”

She bristled, “Do you have t-” she cut herself off, “I’m trying ok!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he held his hands up in surrender.

With a deep shuddering breath, she held the straw aside, and chugged down the drink. Even with the sweetness, the alcohol was still certainly present, and she grimaced. She tugged the straw out and slid the glass aside. Kadokura absently waved at one of the bartenders, eyes never leaving her face.

Tears welled and overflowed, “Why is this so hard? I don’t- I don’t understand why I can’t just- How fucking hard is it to just say! Hey, my father sucked and didn’t keep me safe and his best friend’s kid molested me and I wouldn’t- couldn’t- say anything because I thought it was my fault, and I felt so ashamed, and so gross, and years later when I could at least logically acknowledge that was wrong even if it still felt like it, I thought hey he’ll grow out of it, it was a one off, he was just a teen, and now he’s done this-” she gestured violently at the phone sitting to his side, “and I- I know you think it's dumb but I blame myself and I don’t know how to be ok.”

Her breathing was labored, strained. She hadn’t raised her voice like he’d expected but rather slid into a rambling hysterical whisper. He’d pieced the broad strokes together earlier, but now he could start filling in the finer details.

“Feel better?” “No.”

An elbow on the table, he rested his head in a hand and eyed her. She fidgeted slightly under his hawkish stare.

“Unfortunately, you won’t ever be ok,” he used his free hand to make air quotes around the word, “None of us will. That’s not how things work.”

He threw back a larger swig than he had been, before relaxing again, “You’re a stubborn woman. You’ll keep going regardless. You don’t know how to do anything else. Drink. Keep drinking. Lose yourself for the night. Tomorrow we’ll start making decisions.”

“Decisions?” she furrowed her brow at him, never quite meeting his gaze.

“You have choices sweetheart. Options. It’d be my pleasure to help.”

Her mouth formed a soft “oh” and she considered what the breadth of options Kadokura Kenshi could offer would be.

He tapped her cheek again, “Tomorrow,” and slid the fresh drink her way, and she eyed it for a moment, unable to discern when exactly it had even arrived.

He watched her sway as she sipped, the effects of the drinks she’d already gone through inadvisably quick setting in in full. Once she’d hit about halfway through, he acted.

Sliding a finger under hers, loosening her grip on the glass, and lightly catching her fingers, hold just firm enough to manipulate her movements.

Giving a light tug as he himself stood, he pulled her into something vaguely resembling upright. The noise she made was somewhere between confusion and alarm and he shot a charming grin at her.

“Come on then, let's dance.”

“Dance?” she seemed startled, “I can’t dance for shit, you know this!’

Laughing he countered her attempt at a protestation, “You’re also very drunk, no one will know the difference. Lightweight,” he teased.

She gazed out uncertainly at the room, and then down at herself and her attire.

“You’re with me tonight princess, it doesn’t matter,” he teasingly mocked her worry.

It was then she noticed how the energy had changed. The people all seemed the same and yet… What once had been somewhere that felt elegant and cold, there was a seediness that had slipped in. People moved closer, and grander. Less held back. Straps slipped from shoulders, and noses seemed more powdered than before. 

So this was why he liked the place. Pretty on the surface, and teeming with unrestrained indulgence underneath. 

The music shifted, into something equally mindless, but heavier on the bass and a lot less refined. With a devilish grin, he gave her another tug, guiding her effortlessly through a twirl towards the floor, joining the other bodies gathering.

Had she been a bit less inebriated, a bit more aware, perhaps she would have noticed the tightness around his eyes, the calculation in his movements. He was agitated, but if nothing else, Kadokura was a damn good actor when he wanted to be.

And so the night continued. Kadokura, better playing the part of “Kenshi-Tenshi” than he would ever acknowledge, guided her about the club. For all appearances he was cutting loose and having fun alongside her, but never was there a moment he wasn’t vigilant. Never did she leave his perceptions. Sliding between anyone who approached her, keeping her on her feet and distracted. Empty and thoughtless the way she needed to be. He watched her sway and wiggle in her uncoordinated delight, laugh until she choked. Silently crying, arms aloft and jumping with the beat. 

He watched her pain, cataloging every moment. Committing it to memory. 

In a way, he hated her, for being so terribly strange.

It made her interesting, and he was a covetous man.

As the hours moved from late to early, he guided her out the back door and to a nearby lot, gentle but steady grip on her elbow, both to keep her up and at his side. He helped her into the back seat of a running car, one he’d called, nothing so banal as a taxi, and slid in after her. He rattled off the address of her apartment, as he texted Daigo that he was taking her there instead.

He knew she wouldn’t want Kichi to see her like this. 

She slid down, flopping over to lean on him, and for once, he didn't protest. He'd let her have this one. It seemed too cruel even for him, to move her as she wept quietly onto his sleeve. 

He let his head fall back, and watched the world go by as she babbled. Incoherent whispers and mumbling. 

Pulling up in front of the building, he noted the soft light in one of the windows. Daigo was already here then. Good. 

She laughed as he helped her stumble across the small garden courtyard, and what a fascinating dichotomy, her free laughter, even as she cried still. Up the flight of stairs, he managed to fish out the key and unlock the door with one hand as used the other to help keep her on her feet. 

Daigo was already halfway across the room as he helped her through the entry and into the apartment. Delicately as he was able, he passed her off to her husband, the man's soft thanks heard but unneeded.

The younger man scooped her off her feet and carried her back to the bedroom, murmuring soft words Kadokura didn't dain to listen to.

He made himself at home, as he was wont to do, pulling down the good scotch she kept and pouring himself a glass, foregoing the chilled scotch rock in favor of expedience.

It was maybe half an hour, long enough to get the wreck of a woman rinsed off, changed, and settled, going by the noise, before Daigo reemerged. 

"Is she going to be ok?"

Kadokura threw back the second half of the double pour, "No one is ever 'ok' Daigo-chan. Give me a call if I can do anything to help her."

"That's quite generous of you."

There was no accusation or suspicion in his voice, despite the words themselves. A mere statement. And a relatively fair one Kadokura supposed.

"She'd do the same for me."

And with that he made his way out of the quiet apartment, back into the waiting car, and across town to the hotel he'd never admit to staying in. Just in case.

She might need him again tomorrow.

[zombiesun]

is it possible to manifest getting over your fears or at least confronting them? do you have any tips on manifesting in general? (you don't have to answer this if you don't want, i completely understand)

I am starting to think you guys are scared of me based on how many times you reassure me that I don’t have to answer your questions. I promise you, if I didn’t want to answer something I would (and have) delete the ask. I however love giving advice and introducing people to different aspects of magik and divination so it’s pretty rare that I don’t answer question of that nature. 

Manifestation is something that you can apply to virtually anything. I’ve manifested money, jobs, relationships, friendships, and physical/mental attributes. I think when it comes to emotional changes though manifestation isn’t going to necessarily “work” unless you actually do the physical work to clear the blockages you have around that particular area. In your case, you want to manifest overcoming fears or putting yourself in a mental state to confront them.This is why I always point people to shadow work long before I point them to any particular magical practice. It is hard to find the cure for an issue you don’t understand and when it comes to our inner landscape you have to actually know what you’re working with before you start asking the universe to remove things.

I would suggest googling a list of shadow work prompts and picking ones that are focused around fears/limitations and start a journal (either digitally or traditionally depending on how your thoughts most easily flow) and work on it for a month. It won’t be glamorous work and it will hurt before it helps, you will often wonder “is this really the best approach? I just feel like I’m opening old wounds with a seam ripper” and essentially, that is what you’re doing. The ideology behind shadow work is that there are two parts of you, the person you exist as and a dark figure that is composed of all the limitations you and other people put on yourselves, buried angers and fears, enemies and jilted lovers, all the parts of you that either you or other people decided couldn’t be a part of you anymore. The root of your fears lie in this person and to overcome them you have to slowly drag that body back into your own until you are a single being again. You will cry, you will spend a lot of time staring at yourself dark eyed in the mirror but I promise you that it is the essential beginning of manifestation. 

Once you clear out a lot of those blockages and really hold the problem between your fingers you will start to be given the answers to overcoming them. It’s like when you’re untangling a knot. When you try to move your fingers through it all you can see is how big, and daunting, and impossible it is to get loose but when you spend time slowly working through it you’ll realize the heart of it is this tiny, fragile thing that you snip apart with a finger. Manifestation does work, and you can use it to a degree during this process but it’ll be more focused on “I’m manifesting that I am able to find the root of this issue. I’m manifesting that I’ll be able to dedicate myself to consistent journaling. I’m manifesting that I have an open mind and heart to look at the more unsavory and dark parts of myself that I am actively avoiding. I am manifesting an honest approach to myself.” 

Unlike manifesting physical commodities there is no easy way to overcome yourself without honest, frank understanding of yourself. In the beginning of my journey I tried to manifest the removal of the hurt/pain in myself around a certain situation and it never worked. I kept on asking and pleading with the universe to take that pain away from me but it only lessened when I actually figured out what it looked like underneath the bruises. It was gory, it was disquieting, but it was the only thing that worked. 

I feel like that’s a really long answer to the question but I do believe in sharing as much as possible on any given topic so that all bases are covered. I think that is my general advice for manifesting too: shadow work before reward and on a more practical level there are two general rules for manifesting. 

1. when you manifest something you must do your best to forget it. this is why a lot of “love” manifestation doesn’t work because if you’re obsessed with having something, you haven’t let go of it enough for the universe to take care of it. this can be difficult to do if you’re someone that struggles with letting go of things/obsessing over something but you must push it to the back of your mind. (symbolically some people like to write their manifestations on paper/bay leaves and burn them, write them on paper and lock them away, or manifest and then meditate to clear the mind.) 

2. what you want will often come when you no longer want it. this is a cruel twist of fate - I have always received things the moment I let go of the need to have them. this is true in relationships, material objects, jobs, pretty much anything. it goes really hand in hand with the “letting go” mentality. you have to accept your reality as enough before more is added to it. this is difficult, sometimes it happens without you even trying but the tighter you hold onto something being the answer to your problems/dreams the less likely it will come into your reality.

hope this helps! feel free to ask for more clarification/update me on your progress. self development is a difficult journey but it is absolutely worth the blood, sweat, and tears. 

[sweet-s0rr0w]

Fic: Dangerous

Written for @drarrymicrofic's song prompt, Dangerous.

WC: 1121, rating: T.

***

He’s in Apulia when they catch up with him, renting a dusty trullo from an ancient Italian woman a half mile down the track. The timing couldn’t be worse, with the neighbours’ sideways looks finally giving way to tentative nods; even the occasional chuckle at the posh accent cutting through his rough, colloquial Italian. His delicate skin is no longer blistered scarlet, beginning to darken at last under the dry sun, and his hair curls around his nape, long enough these days to tie out of his eyes when he has to bend forward to feed the chickens. And then there’s this place, surrounded by olive trees – nowhere near the furthest he’s run, although it feels as though it might be – his little hut on the edge of the world.

He hasn’t used magic in ten months now. He should be untraceable.

And yet.

He wakes, and he’s sweating, and nightmarish shapes are dancing across the stones; old foes brought back to life. He’s never lit that fire, not even in the depths of winter when the cold seemed to seep straight through the walls and into his tired bones, and he’d crawled into bed straight after sundown every night just to escape the chill.

The man stooped before the flames is cast in shadow, although Draco doesn’t miss the glint of a bronze badge in his pocket. A Hit Wizard, then: alone, by the looks of things. Unfamiliar words run through Draco’s mind as he inches his hand under the edge of his mattress, feeling for the wand he keeps taped to the frame. His fingertips have barely brushed the wood when it rips itself out of his reach and flies through the air, Sellotape and all, straight into an outstretched palm. Draco almost laughs with relief. He’d know that cast anywhere.

“Christ, Draco, it’s freezing in here. I don’t know how you cope.” Harry’s eyes are twinkling in the firelight as he turns towards him. Draco tries to hide his joy; the way his heart has taken up residence in his throat, the way his body starts to shift, automatically, to accommodate Harry in his bed.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” says Draco carelessly, his first language suddenly a stranger to his own ears. “Besides, I can usually find some nubile young shepherd boy to share body heat with.”

“Really?”

“No, you absolute pillock. Are you getting in or not?” He lifts the pile of blankets so Harry can slide in, fit their bodies together perfectly. Icy hands slip under the back of Draco’s jumper even before their lips meet.

Afterwards, they throw the covers off and lay pressed tightly together. Harry’s thumb absently rubs over Draco’s where their hands lay on his chest. It’s what Harry does – what they’ve always done – this silly game; play-acting intimacy, as though they didn’t belong to two entirely different worlds. It’s always like this: awful and wonderful both together, and sometimes it’s too much for Draco to bear, but he gets so little human contact these days he can’t bring himself to stop.

It takes a while, but eventually he gathers the courage to ask. “So, how long have I got this time?”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Oh, no. You’re fine. Trail’s completely cold; they’ve all but given up.”

“But you managed, somehow.”

A quiet huff of laughter. Harry brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing the tips of Draco’s fingers one by one. “To be fair, it took me three months. And the Ministry don’t quite share my level of… motivation. It was a trace – barely even that – of your magic at the Portkey station in Naples. That was all I could find.”

“Ah.” It made sense. He’d had a Glamour on for travel; hadn’t known whether removing it as the Portkey activated would work. It had been his only option at the time.

A foot hooks carefully around his ankle. “Hey, don’t worry, I erased it. The guy there too; he didn’t seem to recognise your picture, but I Obliviated him anyway: safe side, y’know? And I’ve thrown up a few wards outside; nothing too crazy, but you should be able to cast Warming Charms to your heart’s content.”

Touched beyond words, Draco rolls away. His eyes are stinging now – probably the smoke from the fire – and he takes a few steadying breaths. Harry seems to understand, snaking an arm around Draco’s chest, burying his face in the tense muscles of his back.

“So what d’you get up to around here, anyway?”

Stubble scratches at Draco’s skin as he speaks, making Draco squirm away, suddenly ticklish. “Bit of this, bit of that. Farming, mostly. Back in the autumn I helped out with the olive harvest. The beach is about ten minutes away – I cycle, can you imagine? – and one of my neighbours brings me English novels when they come in to the local library. It’s not much, but –”

“No, sounds perfect.”

“Well, it’s a damn sight better than that fishing hut in Greenland, anyway.” He turns back, traces the curve of Harry’s smile with a gentle finger.

“God, Draco, I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years. D’you ever get tired of all the running?”

“I don’t know,” counters Draco, eyebrow raised. “You’ve had fifteen years of chasing me – what about you?”

Harry’s face turns serious, and his muscles tense, and Draco realises his mistake even before his mouth opens. “Oh, believe me, I’m tired, Draco. I’m really tired. In fact….” He pauses, taking a deep breath. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, pressing a single finger against those treacherous lips.

“Don’t.”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice is steady and sure. “There’s no-one else. I’ve tried, believe me, but it’s true. And I think maybe it’s time to stop trying.”

“We’ve been here before, Harry. A life on the run – we both know you couldn’t do it.”

“Running? Perhaps not. But farming? The beach? I could do that, Draco.”

Something ignites in Draco then, something rash and dangerous, sat just behind his breastbone. Unaware, Harry grins. “Maybe we’d need a bigger house, but –”

Draco rolls over, pressing his lips to that infuriating mouth, hating him just a little: the way he thinks nothing of barging straight into Draco’s careful, uncomplicated life, kindling hope in his chest where it doesn’t deserve to be. He does it every time.

In the morning, Harry tucks the blankets around him carefully, pushing Draco’s curls aside to drop a gentle kiss on his forehead before he leaves. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” Helpless, he watches him duck on his way out, the flimsy wooden door swinging shut behind him.

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.

The flame flickers, licking away at Draco’s insides.

***

You can find it on AO3 here!

[halequeenjas]

Glitz & Glam || Camille, Cutler, Dave, Erin, Evelyn, Jasmine, Leah, Nate, Nell, & Oz

TIMING: Tonight  PARTIES: @carrionxcamille @clarkesconvenience @seizethecarpe @corpse--diem @thronesofshadows @halequeenjas @nate-santos @nelllraiser @curatedfaetes SUMMARY: Just some mostly harmless fun celebrating Jasmine’s birthday. 

Birthdays had always been something Jasmine enjoyed, especially her own. As a self-proclaimed lover of being the center of attention, she couldn’t help but love Nell’s idea of being carried into her own party on a palanquin. The notorious Jack the stripper was one of the men carrying her into the jazz bar that was holding her New Orleans themed birthday party. Just by the looks of it, she could tell Nell, Leah, and Bea had really outdone themselves. There was a jazz band currently playing Run the World aka one of her favorite Beyonce songs. The mask decorating station was ago along with some beads. A whole table full of beignets was calling her, but it was the tiramisu cake that Nate made at the center of it all that really caught her attention. Jasmine soaked in some of the cheers as she was carried into the center of the room.

 Nate had made sure to get to the venue early enough to set up the delicate tiramisu cake in all it’s glory. Originally, he’d wanted to do much more gold leafing, but other than on the decorative macarons, it just ended up covering the beautiful layers and that wouldn’t do. He stood back and admired his creation until Jasmine herself entered in true Jasmine fashion: carried in an ornate palanquin carried by muscled men to the sounds of Beyonce. He grinned, expecting nothing less of Jasmine Hale. He applauded along with a few others and hoped beyond hope that this would be just another ordinary party with ordinary people. 

 Nell was one of the many cheers to accolade Jasmine as the woman was carried in by assorted and muscular men, and she gave Jack a friendly wave as he too made his course across the floor. It was hard to forget the time he’d been dressed as a sailor at Bea’s party, and then the time he was Bea’s plus one to Nell’s party. It seemed that their little gaggle of girls had decided to adopt Jack to some extent, and he was quickly becoming a permanent fixture at parties. “Yes, Jasmine!” she yelled along with the rest of the crowd, accidentally jostling the Mardi Gras mask she was wearing while cupping her hands around her mouth. Though...now that she thought of it...now was the perfect time to grab a handful of beignets while all eyes were focused on Jasmine, and she quickly made her way towards the pastry table. “Scuse me,” she offered to whoever got in her path as she worked her way toward the sweetness.

 The last party Dave had been at, he hadn't been, strictly speaking, invited. He had, strictly speaking, almost drowned because he'd been trapped in a magically frozen lake. So. This could only be better. Although it felt mighty weird being invited to a party when the only time he'd really gotten to know Jasmine was by being attacked by Bloody Mary. Wasn't the neatest way of getting to know people. There were some faces he recognised, but as he waited for Jas to come in... Dave felt more than a little out of place in all this glamour. Doubly so when Jasmine (who he really only knew as an exorcist) came in on a goddamn palanquin. It was at this point that Dave concluded he would need a whole lot more beer.

 Attending functions that were important to one’s friends was the right thing to do, and Evelyn also knew that she truly enjoyed Jasmine’s company, and the two of them hadn’t had too much time to spend together recently. What better way to remedy that than by attending her birthday party? Miriam had given her full approval of her outfit (which wasn’t truly something she needed, but she enjoyed having the approval of others, so it certainly didn’t hurt). Evelyn couldn’t help but grin at Jasmine’s entrance. A bit over-the-top, certainly, but charming and perfectly executed. Though she shouldn’t have expected anything less. She’d grabbed one of the beignets and was absent-mindedly picking at it, giving a small wave to Jasmine as she was carried in.

 Once in the center of the room. Jasmine gracefully exited the palanquin as Jack offered her a hand. She smiled widely at the room filled with her various friends and acquaintances. As the song and cheers quieted, she called out, “Thank you so much to everyone for being here. I hope you have as much fun as I do. Please, help yourself to the open bar and assorted snacks available.” She made her way over to the bar to get herself a glass of champagne. It was, after all, a celebration. She dawned her lovely Mardi Gras green dress with gold accents with a lovely mask that included the use of crystals and gold flakes around the edges to give her an extra glamorous flair. She greeted her friends who were already at the bar and was ready for good old fashioned cheers. 

 From the moment she walked in, Erin had been pretty damn sure that she’d never been to a party quite as festive or extravagant as the one she’d stepped into. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense for someone like Jasmine, and hollered and cheered as loud as she could along with the group when she was literally carried into her party. Good for her, she thought, as she beelined for the mouth-watering treats that lined one of the tables. After making sure she had a glass of champagne, of course. “Excuse you,” she joked, gently nudging Nell away and snatched one of the desserts she was reaching for first.

 So, Camille wasn’t going to say no to an excuse to let her hair down, especially now that she lived alone, even if she didn’t know all these people it was nice just to be out for a fun evening. The decor alone would’ve been enough to indicate that Jasmine intended to throw one hell of a party, and her over the top entrance confirmed it. She laughed and cheered along with others as she was carried in, and then realized that if she was going to be any sort of entertaining at this party a drink was probably a good idea. Thank god for an open bar. With a glass of wine in her hand Camille felt much better, and it wasn’t long before Jasmine appeared at the bar too. “Hey you!” She grinned, already feeling a bit excitable as she clinked their glasses together, “happy birthday! That was an interesting way to kick things off.”

 Not one for giving speeches and drawing attention to herself, especially in the state she was currently in, Leah was happy to let Nell and the others pour accolades and love on Jasmine as she was carried into the party, grinning genuinely for the first time in a few days at the ridiculousness of it all. She looked down at her outfit, wondering if she’d managed to stop it from clashing with her new sling and cast and feeling unusually self conscious.  She waved as Evelyn approached her, grabbing a beignet for herself and taking a bite.   “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a drink”, she said to Evelyn.  “Can you drink…?  With your… you know, allergies?”

 Nell had already told Jasmine ‘Happy Birthday’ on multiple occasions, including when she’d shown up to help get the decorations in order— so she wasn’t all the intent on pushing through the mob to get to Jasmine at the moment. No doubt she’d make her way over there later, though. No. This was the time for powdered sugared pastries and...apparently Erin. Nell grinned up at the woman with little to no apologies, already stuffing one of the beignets into her mouth and swallowing before answering. But Erin was quick to snatch up the next one she’d had her eye on, “Hey! No, excuse you! That one’s mine- go get your own.” Nell wasn’t so proud so as not to swipe at the pastry Erin had stolen, doing her best to keep the mortician from actually eating it.

 She gave another wave to Leah, grateful to recognize someone in this party besides Jasmine. Evelyn grinned. “Luckily, one can trust Jasmine to have excellent taste in alcohol, so I say absolutely.” She nodded at her friend’s next question. “I can. Well, most drinks. Can… you?” She remembered Leah mentioning issues with water, but wasn’t sure how that extended itself to other liquids. “Just perhaps not a margarita for me, but most other things work well.” She nodded. “Shall we?”

 Nate shuffled himself a bit out of the way of the table to make room for anyone who wanted to grab a beignet or praline, mumbled out an ‘excuse me’ here and there. Nowadays he was far from the party animal he used to be, a man who once took up so much space at a gathering and dragged people out to the dance floor in droves. Now, he was hanging out by the food and trying to make himself as small as humanly possible, his fingers wrapped tightly around the glass of champagne he’d gotten when he came in. 

 Jasmine was more than happy to see Camille at the bar and was even happier that the woman had lived with Cece. New gal pals were always a win in her book and she was smiling ear to ear as she greeted her friend. “I’m so glad you made it,” she exclaimed, “And that dress looks amazing on you.” She laughed a bit at the comment on her entrance. What was a birthday without a grand entrance? Grand people deserved grand entrances. It was like the law… or something. “Thank you. I’ve always been of the go big or go home mentality. I’ll give credit where it’s due and note it was Nell’s idea. If you don’t know her, I’m sure you’ll meet her today. If anything she says sounds too crazy, she’s probably trolling you.” 

 Oz was not immune to a good party. More often than not, they invited chaos. Less often, they were decent opportunities to get information on targets, slip away into unguarded chambers for reconnaissance. He’d spent most of his week arguing with minor artists in the northeast, weighing their work against each other for a spot in the opening exhibition. It made him prickly and, worse, gave him little time to explore the town. Finally, he had time. Wandering through the cold streets, he drifted naturally towards the raucous music coming from Speakeasy, just in time to see a woman being carried in on a palanquin. Huh. Oz slipped in, searching for someone who’d actually been invited. There was a nervous-looking man standing by the food. Perfect. He plucked his own glass of champagne from another guest on the way over, and raised it to the man. “A toast to new friends.” Oz figured, if nothing else, he could have a bit of fun messing with this guy.

 Leah nodded as well, happy to have a chance to explain a bit more to Evelyn.  “I can, mostly everything.  Just water is a no-go.”  She thought about what Evenlyn said, nodding.  No Margaritas, no salt.  Evelyn had mentioned briefly that her skin reacted to salt, but this all but confirmed that the reactions were due to her supernatural status.  That narrowed it down significantly.  “We shall”, she grinned, popping the last bit of beignet  into her mouth before they made their way over.  She was determined to enjoy this night, injuries be damned.  With the wall as her guide, she made her way over to the bar with Evelyn.  “I do really need to treat you to lunch”, she said over her shoulder to the other woman.  “It’s the least I can do after that… sizeable donation I received on Christmas.  It’s too bad this is open bar, Evelyn, otherwise I’d insist on buying for you all night.”

 Nate nearly jumped out of his skin when someone addressed him directly. He’d been perfectly fine standing like a wallflower, careful not to look at anyone too closely lest he see that they had horns or hooves or something equally as monstrous. He smiled at the man and raised his glass a bit, nodding in response to his cheers. “To new friends,” he managed before taking a long sip. Out of the corner of his eye, the newcomer seemed to ebb and flow out of his vision, but when he looked straight on, he was totally normal. Nate took a deep breath. Must be the champagne. “So uh...how do you know Jas?” Cutler was determined to show Jasmine that he had more than one formal outfit in his closet. He had two, to be precise - but she didn’t have to know that. He felt strangled and hot and was beginning to regret the skinny black tie, which hung short over a leafy tropical button up. His eyes were drawn away from the engrossing task of tugging and smoothing his tie by the eruption of cheers around him, followed by the entrance of Jasmine on the palanquin. The bottle of D'Autrefois Pinot Noir suddenly felt heavy at his side as it dawned on him that he was, once again, far out of his depth. She looked extravagant and expensive, as did the cake, the decorations, and everyone here. Probably-no,definitely-too busy to chat. His free hand was already gesturing abstractly in the air at the end of the bar as he thought, I’m not getting through this without a drink. A couple rubbing elbows away, he recognized Erin tussling over a beignet and made a mental note to find her if he needed a reason not to talk to the person he came here to see. Near him, someone mumbled a quiet excuse me and he straightened against the bar to make room for the passerby. “You’re good, man.” He nodded, giving a small smile of acknowledgement. Someone behind him was toasting, and he raised his glass in a pavlovian, robotic response. “New friends.” He echoed, swallowing his drink with professional flourish.

 “That is good to know.” Evelyn nodded. “Yes, I just find that avoiding things like that is better.” Even if she still wasn’t entirely sure how she would react to salted items, it was easier to explain things that was versus explaining that she just couldn’t walk over salt lines. But that was something to discuss when it was just the two of them, and when they weren’t celebrating a dear friend’s birthday. “We will make a plan of it,” she offered Leah a gentle smile. “Besides, that donation was more than earned and was far less than you deserve. If it makes you feel better, you can order for me, how does that sound? Red wine is always a plus in my book.” 

 “You snooze you lose, kid--hey!” Erin laughed as Nell pawed at the macaron on it’s way to her mouth. She put her arm up, blocking off the shorter woman with just enough time to pop the treat into her mouth. “Get away, there’s like a hundred more!” She said, pointing to the table with a full mouth. She washed it down with the last sip of the champagne in her glass and grabbed a few more treats. There were more than a few familiar faces but she could see the woman of the hour from here. Grabbing a few treats in a napkin for the short walk, she headed towards the bar. “Happy Birthday, lady!” She greeted. “I’m pretty sure that was the most fabulous entrance I’ve ever seen in my life. Which, you know. Makes absolute sense considering…” she didn’t need to finish her sentence, just gestured towards Jasmine with a big grin.

 “I can’t remember the last time I went to a party, which meant I had to come.” Camille smiled and sipped her wine, brushing a hand down the front of her dress. It was vaguely on theme- apparently purple was a mardi gras colour- which was good enough considering the small wardrobe she had to work with. “Thanks. Though I don’t look as good as you, obviously.” Her eyes strayed over to the food table, and the woman mentioned. “Oh, I think we’ve met.” Camille looked in thought for a moment, as if trying to remember her. Like she could forget. “Yeah… At a coffee shop. Just briefly, we nearly mixed up our orders.” She laughed, “she seemed nice. I’m sure she won’t say anything crazy- is that a habit of hers?”

 Someone else had echoed Oz’s toast behind him, and Oz shifted his body just so, inviting the person into the conversation without explicitly acknowledging them. The wider a circle could get, the more it’d look like Oz belonged here. Oz grinned, all teeth. “I don’t, actually.” The man seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Oz was hot, but he’d never pushed a man (or otherwise, for that matter) from averting his eyes from his good looks. Did he know this man, somehow? Faces swam in his memory, but none matched with the person in front of him. He filed that information away, searching for a quick half-truth. “I’ve been looking for someone who does know her, but I’ve only found you.” Oz winked, taking a quick swig of his champagne. He shrugged, amicably. “It’s not a party if you’re not meeting new people, I say.” He tossed a quick grin to the man who’d joined in on the faux-toast. “Speaking of…” He held out his hand to the newcomer, another shark-wide grin. “Osric.” A wink over his shoulder to the shy man. “But you can both call me Oz, if you like.”

 “You said it, not me,” Jasmine said with a small laugh to indicate she was in fact joking. It was one thing to call herself beautiful and another entirely to claim she was the most gorgeous person in the room… no matter how true it was. When Camille said she had already met Nell, Jasmine would have bet actual money that it was because Nell had trolled her on the internet. As it turned out, that wasn’t the case. “Oh, good! I’m glad to hear that. And let’s just say she has a penchant for messing with people. It can be highly amusing depending on who you are.” When Erin walked up to join them for a drink, she gave a welcoming wave and smile. “Erin, hey! Have you met my friend Camille?” She gestured to the lovely woman in purple standing beside her. “Thanks, it was Nell’s idea, but I think I pulled it off fabulously. Well, me and the attractive muscled men.” 

 Nell didn’t leave her crusade of taking back the pastry unfinished until Erin had finally and wholly eaten it, determined to make Erin regret taking the macaron that Nell had been eyeing at least a little bit. But as the other woman drifted towards Jasmine, Nell followed suit- but not before stacking an impressively sized tower of pastries into her tiny gremlin hands. “Happy Birthday!” Nell yelled at Jasmine for what was probably the third or fourth time that day. She’d only just caught the tail end of Jasmine’s conversation while walking up, and cocked her head to the side while catching her name. “Of course you pulled it off fabulously. The muscled men were just accessories, and we know it. You were the crown jewel.” With that she ate another of the many pastries in her hands whole.

 Leaning against the bar for support, Leah’s eyes widened at Evelyn.  “Please”, she chided, “That was more than enough.  I don’t think we’ve ever had this much surplus in our budget before… it’s... incredible.”  She thought on it, nodding.  Evelyn’s idea would have to do, at least for now.   The bartenders, for their part, worked quickly, and she handed Evelyn a glass of Pinot Noir, grining.  “In honor of the birthday girl, …her favorite”, she said sipping on her own glass.  “How do you know Jas?”, she wondered, watching Jasmine in her element.  It was a relief that this party was going over so well.  Jasmine, above almost everyone, deserved such an extravagant celebration.

She eyed Leah, a bit of a concerned look crossing her face. But whatever had happened to her, Evelyn wasn’t going to force her to say anything. She didn’t think that Leah was quite as private as she was, but she also didn’t want to pry too much. “Well, you and the library deserve it. So it was my pleasure. She took the glass from Leah, “and an excellent favorite it is, if I do say so myself.” She took a small sip before answering - first glancing over to where Jasmine was standing, before focusing back on Leah. “When I first moved here - well, it will be five years come April - she sold me my house. We got along quite well and I suppose just sort of naturally clicked. How about yourself?” She asked, tapping her fingers against the wine glass. Cutler hummed reciprocally, only half listening to the toaster in front of him. Behind his flowery words, he had a magnetic quality about him. He was attractive, sure, but this wasn’t something so tangible. Whatever was causing the third in their circle to avert his gaze was the same thing that held Cutler’s attention even as champagne bottles popped behind the bar and little pieces of gold confetti itched at his beard. “Oz.” He repeated, pumping their hand shake with a relaxed grip. “Cutler.” He took another sip of his drink and looked between the two men before deciding to weigh in on their conversation. “So, Oz. You don’t know Jasmine? Are you party crashing?” The last drops of his whisky crashed against the side of his glass as he set it on the bar and gestured for one more. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna rat you out. Friend.” He winked, imitating Oz’s earlier action. 

 Erin turned to the other woman with a bright smile. “I haven’t! Nice to meet you. I’m Erin,” she said before putting down her empty glass and plucking up a fresh flute. She felt only a little out of her element at the moment, surrounded by the glitz and glamour of the theme of the party, but it wasn’t a bad feeling at all. Jasmine’s excitement was downright infectious. “Oh, beautiful accessories. Good call,” she agreed. Glancing between Nell and Jasmine, she subtly pointed to one of those muscled men who’d carried her in. “Wait, isn’t that the same guy from your party, Nell?”

 Nate stepped to the side again, widening his circle out of muscle memory. Luckily the new guy seemed totally normal too. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued to try and ignore the watery edges of the man who didn’t seem to know Jas at all. Not that he could blame the guy if he was crashing, this was probably going to be the event of the season. Not to mention Nate hadn’t always been invited to every party he’d been to. He smiled a bit more easily, though the guy - Oz - had something about his smile that made him feel like prey. “Nate,” he introduced himself to the two men before taking another long sip. “Definitely not a Hale party without new friends, that’s for sure.” 

 Camille returned the smile and sipped her drink, “It’s nice to meet you too, Erin.” She nudged Jasmine gently in the side, “we shouldn’t inflate her ego too much.” She teased, “I dread to think what mode of transportation she’ll manage to find next year when her birthday rolls around again.” Camille gave Nell what she hoped was a warm enough smile, despite the nerves that disturbed her at seeing the other woman again. This was a party, surely she wouldn’t say anything out of turn. Though Erin’s question served to distract her from that fear, “How have I never seen this guy before? He is like… The intimidating kind of hot.” She spoke in a hushed tone, so to not be overheard by said man.

 “You’re too sweet”, Leah said with a shy grin, sipping more wine.  It was going down easier than she expected, and that was saying something.  She was determined to find a way to pay the woman back- along with Mercy and Arthur, too, one way or another. Her eyebrows raised in realization at Evelyn’s anecdote, and she nodded.  “She meets so many people that way, it’s incredible.  She sold me my house as well, but well… we met years before that.  We’ve been best friends since we were kids”, she explained, smiling nostalgically.  “Despite White Crest’s antics we’ve managed to stick together with another friend of ours for forever.  It’d feel strange not to be in her life now, honestly.”

 Another wide grin was on her face as Nell approached. Jasmine was grateful for how she pulled this whole shindig off. “Thank you, Nellie. And thank you for planning this perfect party. I don’t know how any of my future birthdays could ever top this.” She gestured around at the decor and crowd. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it. She laughed as Erin and Nell spoke and agreed, “My favorite kind of accessory. Think one of them knows how to cook and is down for being a trophy husband?” Jasmine looked over at who Erin was gesturing to. “Oh, Jack? He was at both Bea’s and Nell’s birthday parties. He’s pretty much a birthday staple at this point. A very, very hot birthday staple.” At the mention of her next mode of transportation, Jasmine giggled and took another sip of champagne. “I’m sure we’ll think of something to top this entrance for next year.” She gave Nell a playful nudge as she spoke. Maybe a magic carpet or like a Britney Spears “Baby One More Time” tour style of flying over the crowd. There was an amused grin on her face as Camille spoke of Jack. “Oh, he’s definitely super hot, but don’t let it be intimidating. He’s a nice guy. Plus, you’re also really hot. And a delight!” 

 “Oh yeah, that’s Jack!” Nell said brightly, giving another wave in the stripper’s direction. She was pretty sure Bea had brought him over for dinner sometimes at this point. “I think he’s Bea’s friend now.” Or maybe she was wrong. It was hard to keep track of things when she was under constant demon cult barrage. Nell’s gaze lingered a little too long on Camille, still having far too many questions when it came to the woman’s necromancy origins. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the place to ask them. “Oh, Jack’s not intimidating, really. He’s actually very sweet.” Sending Jasmine another grin, she rearranged her pile of pastries to make sure none of them fell. “I’m just glad I could help. You know I love makin’ parties. And I’m sure we’ll think of something for next year.”

 Oz feigned a grimace at Cutler’s words, the back of his mind sparking with intent. It was always useful to start lacing webs of promises early, especially ones that had been lined up so neatly for him. “Ah, thanks friends.” Little too thick? Eh. “Promise you two will cover for me if things ever go south?” He shrugged amicably. “I’m new in town, and I’d like to avoid making enemies. For now.” Oz huffed out an awkward, fake laugh.

 “Hardly - or, perhaps, selectively,” Evelyn sighed for a moment, though she kept a small smile on her face. Perhaps she was, if so many people kept insisting upon it. “I do suppose that a job like hers lends itself to that. She does manage it expertly, from what I can tell.” She was grateful to have met someone like Jasmine back then - in part because she didn’t judge Evelyn for being relatively young and able to pay for the house in full right to start, but also for the genuine feeling that their conversations had held, even from the beginning. Even though, as far as she knew, Jasmine was human. “She did? Well, she certainly has a way about the town, so that makes sense.” Her expression softened, and for a moment she glanced down at the floor. What was it like to have a friend since childhood? “That’s great! I’ve heard that can happen, if you have a friend for long enough. Becomes weird to imagine your life without them. I’m glad you two have one another,” she replied genuinely. Grabbing her phone for one moment, she took a photograph of her wine glass, sending a text to Miriam quickly before focusing back on her friend. “A friend could not make it, and so I told her I’d keep her updated on what is going on.” She provided as an explanation. “Does Jasmine try to throw parties like this for you, too? Or did she ever, in all your years of knowing one another?”

 Nate nodded, absently picking up a few beignets to occupy his hands and mouth. It had been so long since he’d been to a party or around a bunch of guys that he’d nearly forgotten how to hold a conversation. His heart was hammering but he tried not to show it, instead focusing on what he could control. “Oh yeah, of course.” He glanced around the room full of laughter and drinking and dancing, wondering how anything could go south. “I’ll help you out in any way I can, enemies here are...well they’re not great to have.” 

 Cutler wasn’t sure if it was the drink or the infectious nature of the other man’s grin, but he felt compelled to agree. “Sure, I’ll cover for you. I don’t think you have much to worry about, though. Seems like an open-invite deal. Don’t see them cracking down on party crashers. Talk about a mood ruiner.” His eyes went from the beignets back up to the third man’s mouth, now stuffed. “Enemies?” Something at the back of his mind began to pulse nervously. All this talk of enemies and trouble, perhaps. “You guys make a lot of enemies? You’d level with me if you were planning something, right?”

 Leah smiled softly at Evelyn’s explanation, reminding her of their previous conversation about emojis.  “Some people like taking pictures of their food and drinks just for fun.  As some sort of documentation, I suppose.”  She shook her head at Evelyn’s question, taking another gulp of wine.  “I think Jasmine and Bea- that’s our other friend-, I think they know I’d just about die if they subjected me to something like this.  Too much attention, I think...I wouldn’t enjoy it at all.  I prefer a quiet dinner with close friends, usually.  Did you ever have big extravagant birthday parties?” She imagined she must have, coming from the childhood she did.  Though she did remember her mentioning that she didn’t have any siblings, or many friends growing up since she never went to school.  Leah hoped her question wasn’t insensitive.  

 Dave breathed in deeply as he took in the scenery, feeling distinctly out of place in his only mildly frayed shirt and cargo shorts, but that was what Jasmine had signed up for. As he inhaled, he caught the scent of a brackish pond, like someone had just been fishing and had fallen in or something. It was deeply familiar. He turned his attention over to a trio of men, where the smell was coming from, walking over. "Evenin' folks. Mind if I join? Don't know too many folks at this party." And most of them were young.

 “A hot air balloon?” Camille chimed in with her idea, giggling as she took another sip from her glass.  She turned her gaze back to Nell, “this is a really impressive party, by the way. Like, wow.” A compliment couldn’t hurt in making sure her secrets were kept for now, right? Plus it was true. Cam had organized a few parties for co-workers before but this was beyond anything she’d ever done. “Oh.” She waved a hand dismissively, “a delight I may be, but I can’t compete with abs like that. Not that- it’s still too soon for me to be thinking about guys and what have you, probably.” She thought of Carrington for a moment and tried not to blush, hiding her face with another gulp from her wine glass. “How do you two know Jasmine, then?” She asked, trying to steer the topic another way.

 Nate’s eyes went wide. “Planning something? Here? Ohhh absolutely not,” he laughed, eyeing Jasmine. The idea of ruining her lavish party with some sort of prank or scheme was far beyond Nate, even in his prankster years. “Talk about making an enemy.” He tossed another beignet into his mouth. “No, more like...you peeve someone off and they leave strang packages on your doorstep for a month. Or blast music at all hours of the night. Or suddenly your car goes missing. Nothing super doom and gloom.” At least that’s what Nate had experienced, not that he ever made many enemies. He turned to the new addition and smiled, the expression freezing on his face when the man spoke. Needle sharp teeth extended from his gums where normal human teeth should have been. His words were friendly enough, but altogether ruined by the fact that he looked like Jaws had a baby with a person. “Y-yeah! The more the merrier!”

 Oz masked a smile at the newcomer’s appearance, happy to be able to avoid any probing questions from Cutler’s direction. A tingle of power echoed the men’s words in the back of his head. “Absolutely! We were just having a conversation about how I didn’t know anybody at this party. My invite…” He let the sentence trail off. Whatever they’d construct was fine, especially given the promises. Nate, however, looked less than pleased at their new arrival. “The more the merrier,” he echoed. What was going on here…?

 “I am trying to attempt to be some variation of with the times, I suppose.” Not that Evelyn figured Leah would mind too much - or at all - if she were not, but some part of her still found herself feeling a bit too out of touch at times. “I sort of had gathered as much. Quiet dinner, or a time spent with films or books, seems far more up your alley.” The name Bea sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she’d have to focus on that more later. “Oh, I have been part of many extravagant parties, birthdays absolutely included in that. My father threw me a party with about two thousand people… somehow… for my fourteenth birthday. I think he just wanted to show me off. I do not know where he found that many people and I spent most of my time to the side. I had other large parties, but that was the biggest. Since coming here, I have found that I sometimes prefer things more lowkey, I’d rather spend time with a few people I care about than many people I,” find boring, too human, and do not care for, “do not know. So I suppose things can change. I have nothing against attention, but I think finally having friends,” she shrugged, “gives a new perspective. I am glad Jasmine gets all this attention though, she deserves it.”

 “Maybe getting carried out could just be your thing each year, you know? Just add a new spin to it. But always, always include the muscle men. I think that part goes without saying but I needed to emphasize it.” Erin glanced over at Nell’s pile of treats and snagged another one from her. Her grin brightened when she noticed Cutler across the way, and after wishing Jasmine another happy birthday, she excused herself and made her way over to the circle of guys loitering by the desserts. “Hey! I didn’t know you knew Jasmine,” she said upon approaching. “Looking snazzy, though. It’s good to see you!” Cutler glanced toward the newcomer, not expecting to have to cover for his new acquaintance quite so soon. He made another noncommittal grunt of agreement and nodded a chin toward him. “Not true, Oz. You know me.” He smiled, the half-truth only a little sour on his tongue. The predatory look on his accomplice’s face didn’t alleviate any of the discomfort that was beginning to turn his stomach. “Of course we don’t mind-” He was cut off by the appearance of Erin at his side, a welcome distraction. “Hey! You clean up nice yourself.” He lifted the wine bottle in his hand woefully and leaned in a little closer to be heard. “Only a little. I was going to give her this, but I..” He turned his head to see her, doting upon her loyal attendees. “...I think she’s busy.”  

“I think you’re doing great, Evelyn.  Blending right in!”.  Leah smiled at Evelyn’s correct assumptions about her, finishing up her last few sips of wine.  “You’ve already read me like a book, it seems”, she mused.   She listened carefully as her friend told her another extravagant story about her childhood, this one just as interesting as the last she’d heard.  “That sounds… incredible,... but perhaps a bit uncomfortable?”  It seemed by the way she was describing it that Evelyn felt more like a trophy piece to her father than his daughter.  “I’m glad, at least, that you’ve been able to establish more of your own rhythm in life.  That’s perhaps the hardest part of coming into adulthood and separating from the people who raised you.”  She thought for a moment, waiting a beat before speaking again.  “But hey-  m

“Hot air balloon sounds fun, but Erin may be right. Having the muscled men is really part of the appeal,” Jasmine joked. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a joke as it was said jokingly. Almost instantly she was shaking her head, “You can compete with his abs. Don’t undersell yourself, you’re a catch.” She would take none of her friends not believing they shouldn’t shoot their shot. “And hey, if he’s not into it, he’s not into it. That’s a different story entirely though. Ask guys out on dates whenever it feels right for you.” While she was single herself, Jasmine liked to think she had a wealth of wisdom to provide on the subject of dating. Rule number one was always no mimes. Don’t trust anyone on Tinder in this town was a close second. That was how you became someone’s dinner. Decidedly not the type of snack anyone wanted to be. “Anyway, I think it’s time for a toast.” She took that moment to welcome herself onto the stage where the band was playing and clink her glass. “Everyone, I purpose a toast. To another year of thriving and happiness with some of the greatest people in town.” She raised her glass to the crowd before finishing off the flute of champagne. It was now time for dancing and she had the feeling one of the muscled men who carried her in would make for a perfect dancing partner.

[r-u-in-or-r-u-out]

Pixar’s recent short, Out is the kind of LGBTQ representation we need more of.

Out features “Pixar’s first LGBTQ protagonist”, (Jake Coyle, “With a gay protagonist, Pixar short ‘Out’ makes history”) Greg, who is based on the writer and director, Hunter. 

Hunter’s personal relationship to the narrative is partially what makes this short so groundbreaking in children’s media. For its lack of a strong intersectional approach to discussing multiple identity locations including race, class, and disability, Pixar’s decision to produce and promote Out is emblematic of a shift in social consciousness. It’s not without its issues, but if children are to have any examples of positive LGBTQ+ representation, Out is a good start.

Out features Greg and Manuel, a couple preparing to move from the suburbs to the city, and the story begins with the telltale appearance of a rainbow, wink wink. A pink dog and a purple cat jump out of the rainbow and look through a portal to a middle-class suburban house with a car and a moving van in the driveway. The pair charm the collar of Greg and Manuel’s dog Jim, though the reason is unclear. 

Homodomesticity:

It’s worth noting, Pixar chose the stereotypical white middle-class version of queerness instead of leaning into the already groundbreaking territory. But it is revolutionary in its use of homodomesticity in a children’s story.Steven Edward Duran describes the history of gay domesticity in American media as largely absent until shows like Will & Grace and Ellen came on the scene in the 1990s and early aughts. Homodomesticity is the concept of disrupting “rigid gender identities, heterosexuality, and traditional family values,” by including gay men in pop culture’s domestic and home environments. Queer studies tend to view domesticity as a depoliticizing force, particularly in television and visual media because the association of home and television reinforces the heteronormative social cues presented in the media. While it’s true that Greg and Manuel’s relationship in Out is clearly domestic, it is re-politicized in that the story is geared towards children. The short breaks the ice on a long absence of homodomesticity in Disney and Pixar’s content, sending a message to children that gay men can, and do, have long-term relationships and stable romance.

Post-racialism at work:

Greg is a burly, lumberjack type, white cis male with a thick red beard and red hair. Manuel is also a cisgender man, but any clue as to his cultural background, class, race, or other identities is absent. In the face of Greg’s multiple social locations, the ambiguity of Manuel’s intersectional identity is odd. Greg expresses an intersectional identity: white, gay, and (likely) middle class, while Manuel’s only clear identity-marker is his sexuality. His intersectional identity is effectively erased and boiled down to the singular: gay, a mark of post-racialism that ultimately upholds white dominance and hegemonic systems of power (M. Shane Grant, “We’re All Freaks Together: White Privilege and Mitigation of Queer Community”). This is reinforced by Manuel’s brown skin but otherwise ambiguous racial or cultural identities. Pixar could have expanded the narrative to include more of Manuel’s identity and his role in Greg’s life, but he is instead relegated to the background of Greg’s story. This is likely because Greg is based on the writer’s real-life experience, but it doesn’t mean that Pixar couldn’t have played with the story just a bit.

The photo:

Greg’s boyfriend, Manuel, reveals a framed photo of the two in an intimate embrace. The photo is the pivot point that instigates Greg’s coming-out. The couple discuss the fact that Greg hasn’t come out to his parents yet. Lo and behold, Greg’s parents show up unexpectedly to help with the move. Greg freaks out, photo in hand, shuts the door on his parents, and asks/ forces Manuel to leave out the back door. But as Manuel leaves, he says to Greg, “tell them.”

In choosing to focus on the big reveal of Greg’s sexual orientation, Out reinforces the concept that LGBTQ+ sexuality must be public information in order for characters like Greg to feel authentic (Tracy L. Hawkins, “Coming Out: Challenging Portrayals of Diverse Sexuality”).

White Privilege:

The visual cue of Manuel’s exit out the back door is interesting: Greg isn’t hesitant to tell his parents about the real nature of his relationship with Manuel because he isn’t white, but the move nonetheless serves to privilege whiteness. Kate Sullivan Barak noted in her analysis of Piper Chapman’s white privilege in Orange is the New Black, “conversations about privilege, oppression, and race suffer if this invisibility goes unaddressed” (Feminist Perspectives on “Orange is the New Black”, pg. 48). The invisibility of Greg’s skin color and its associated privileges does go unaddressed. Pixar chooses to focus solely on Greg’s sexual orientation, entrenching the emphasis placed on coming out in pop culture at the exclusion of other relevant conversations in the LGBTQ+ movement.

Mind Swap:

Greg eventually opens the door for his parents after carefully hiding the photo in a stack of books on the coffee table. While considering the weight of his secret, sequestered in his bedroom for a moment, Greg looks deep into Jim’s eyes while holding the magic collar and says, “I wish I was a dog.” In a “Freaky Friday”-esque flash, Jim and Greg’s consciousnesses swap. Several near-discoveries of the photo ensue as Greg-in-Jim’s body attempts to keep the photo hidden and Jim-in-Greg’s body sniffs his dad’s butt and disappears chasing a squirrel. In a surprise twist, Greg’s mom reveals that she knew her son was gay. Not only does she know, but she just wants her son to find a man who loves him and to be happy. Greg’s mom’s response to her son’s sexuality is the reaction we hope for, even if it’s not always realistic.

The story has a happy ending: Jim and Greg successfully mind-swap back, Greg brings Manuel home, and the whole family shares hot cocoa. Yay! 

Purple cat and pink dog share a moment of victory at their successful adventure and return through their rainbow portal.

Conclusion:

I love Out’s positive take on coming out. It’s not a gay story by a straight author seeking to increase the studio’s diversity quota. It’s based on the struggle of a real person. It’s not dressed up in glamour or pretention. The style destigmatizes homosexuality and homodomesticity, confronting the sexual othering that is common in pivotal LGBTQ texts (Brian L. Ott & Robert L Mack, Chapter 9: “Queer Analysis”). Hegemonic power structures do not willingly give ground, particularly when it comes to the social education of children. Pixar’s material is geared towards a young audience, an audience that is often ignored in conversations of representation despite the disproportionate impact that media has on youth. For Pixar’s first LGBTQ protagonist, this is a big step in the right direction.

References:

Barak, S. K. “Jenji Kohan’s Trojan Horse: Subversive Uses of Whiteness”. Feminist Perspectives on Orange is the New Black. Pages 45 - 60.

Coyle, J. “With a gay protagonist, Pixar short ‘Out’ makes history”. https://www.seattletimes.com/entertainment/with-a-gay-protagonist-pixar-short-out-makes-history/.

Duran, S. E. (2013). Housebroken: Homodomesticity and the Normalization of Queerness in Modern Family (pp. 95-104). In P. Demory & C. Pullen (Eds.), Queer Love in Film and Television: Critical Essays. Palgrave Macmillan.

Grant, S. M. “We’re All Freaks Together: White Privilege and Mitigation of Queer Community”. Queer in the Choir Room: Essays on Gender and Sexuality in Glee. Pages 69 -83. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/osu/reader.action?docID=1819253.

Hawkins, L. T. “Coming Out: Challenging Portrayals of Diverse Sexualities”. Queer in the Choir Room: Essays on Gender and Sexuality in Glee. Pgs. 11 - 23.

https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/osu/reader.action?docID=1819253.

Hunter, C. S. (2020). Out [Film]. Pixar Animation Studios & Walk Disney Animation Studios.

Kadi, J. “Homophobic Workers or Elitist Queers?”. Pages 143 - 157.

Mack, B. L. & Ott, L. R. Chapter 9: Queer Analysis in Critical Media Studies.

[detectivedreameater]

What We Do In The Shadows|| Morelia and Marley

TIMING: A few nights ago probably PARTIES: @morelias and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Sometimes you have a nice meet up with a shadowy gal pal, and sometimes that dinner is interrupted by a sentient tablecloth.

In all honesty, Morelia didn’t know what she was doing going on a date with someone she didn’t know. It wasn’t even an exaggeration - she didn’t even know the name of the woman, let alone her species. But, hey, she had nothing better to do and she was pissed enough at Orobas to go out and have fun on her own (though, deep down she knew he wouldn’t care). Best case scenario, the mystery woman could be a powered human and she’d get a different kind of meal that night - worst case scenario, a warden could be waiting on the other side of the table. But alas, there was no point in being a paranoid fae, and the knife always pressed against her left thigh underneath her dress gave her a fake sense of security. 

She was used to the strange looks she got every time she left her house, and when Morelia entered the Thai Thanic it was no different. Then again, only weirdos wore sunglasses in the middle of the night. Or perhaps it was the fact that she was extremely over dressed. Still, she didn’t care, and looked around until she spotted the promised leather jacket, a satisfied grin appearing on her face as she realized that the other wasn’t joking when she called herself attractive. Slowly, she made her way towards the table, her purse held between both hands, the clinking noise of her heels lost between all the chatter around them. “You look like you could use some company, my dear.” 

This wasn’t anything unusual for Marley to be doing. Especially at night, under the cover of the darkness that she felt so attached to. A part of. Mara, after all, could not be killed at night, so of course she would feel that way. She’d arrived to the restaurant early and procured a table near the back-- for privacy, of course. She settled her sunglasses on her face, feeling the comfort they brought her more so than the regular pair she carried. It might’ve been odd to most, but she didn’t care. They were as much a part of her as the need to feed on fear at this point. Most people didn’t bother to ask her, either. Something about the intimidating aura she put off. Even the other detectives often shirked from her.

But when a voice cut through the crowd, low and lilting, and Marley looked up-- she was met with a sight she had not prepared for. Someone else wearing sunglasses, eyes hidden behind their sheen. Another mara? Could it be possible? A tentativeness gripped Marley’s chest, but she just smiled. “Only if you’re wearing the lace you promised,” she said, even though she could clearly see the lacey dress she’d promised to meet her in. Marley took a moment to stand, looking at her up and down, taking in the sight. Held out her hand. “You didn’t disappoint.”

Being stared at didn’t bother Morelia in the slightest. She never really knew if it was a personality trait or if it came with the lampade package, but she knew that she had beyond exceptional beauty and adored how it took breaths’ out of people's lungs. It was pleasant and it showed on her face, but it didn’t wash away the intrigue of the other also wearing sunglasses this late at night. There was nothing suggesting that she was one her kind; the usual pulling she felt when another fae was nearby was completely absent, and Morelia couldn’t help but wonder if she was just one of those weirdos people always mistook her for, or if there was something more to it.

A soft laugh rumbled in her chest. “I never do. And there is more lace, in case you were wondering.” Not that she had really promised anything, really, but it felt good to be acknowledged anyways. With an arched eyebrow, she took her hand. A firm grip, but nothing to taste. So far, this was looking promising, but Morelia couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that the other didn’t have magic inside. Still, a smile was still plastered on her face as she left her purse on the table. “Shall we?” 

The other woman’s voice sounded like a cloud, if it were to speak soft and lofty. Marley was immediately smitten with it, smiling as she took her hand. Not too cool to the touch, but it was still more so than others. She was pretty sure mara didn’t run cold, but she didn’t come here to parse out what species she was. She came here to have a good time, and if that second part happened as well, then it was just a bonus. Her eyes dropped ever so subtly at the mention of more lace. “Oh?” was all she said, raising a brow. “Well, guess I’ll have to use my imagination for now.” She motioned to the table. “We shall.” Sat back down across from her, eyes sharp behind her glasses, wondering how she wanted to play it this time. Licked her lips. “I have a fun idea,” she said after a moment, “to keep the mystery alive.”

“Let us hope your imagination doesn’t run out.” If her eyes hadn’t been covered, Morelia would’ve winked in her direction, but instead she sat down and laced her fingers together as she rested both hands on the table. She looked ready to do business, and maybe, in a way, she was. There was something about her voice that made her feel drawn to her, and for a moment the fae only wanted to keep her talking. The appearance of her tongue for half a second threw her off for a moment, and she was thankful the other couldn’t notice that her eyes were fixated on her lips. “Hmm. Mystery you say? If it has to do with our identities it would be a pity. I would love it if a woman as beautiful as you gave me her name.”

Marley’s eyes followed the other woman as she sat across from her, hands hooked together in such a neat way, resting on the table. She was much more formal than Marley herself, sitting with legs slightly spread, elbows on the table, chin on her knuckles. She tilted her head. “Oh, well, if you wanna know my name that bad, I’m at least gonna make you work for it,” she said, giving a smile, soft but somehow devious, filled with her every intention for the night. Her thoughts, for a moment, slipped back to Anita. And how this woman’s allure was just like hers. She pulled the thought away and focused on her, shifting so that her cheek rested in her palm and she rolled her lip between her teeth a moment. “Think you can live with that?”

Another laugh rolled off Morelia, her body relaxing a little. Oh, if she knew she wanted more than to know her name, and she was glad the other hadn’t picked up her wording. Popular knowledge of being careful with your name had spread faster than she’d liked, but every now and then she was lucky enough to get one - not that she needed it, of course. Ann Marie had worked so far, and she didn’t need a new one for now. She focused on her mouth once again, her own lips pursing while her head tilted slightly to one side, as she pretended to be pondering. “Well, I’ve always loved a challenge. This time is no different, my dear.” One of her hands extended, on the table, softly poking her arm. “What can I do to get it?”

Marley shivered at the touch, watching the other woman closely. Her eyes dropped to the hand on her arm for a moment, before coming back up. She wondered if they were looking at each other, or at different parts of each other. She’d never met another person so hidden behind glasses, like hers. “Tell me about yourself,” she said, words she’d somehow ached to ask someone else, but never did. Never would. “What’s a woman like you doing in a town like White Crest?” 

Her fingers lingered for a moment before returning to her side of the table. Morelia hadn’t expected that question as it kinda drifted away from the whole concept of mystery, but she would take the bait. “I needed a place where I could fit in and this town has given me exactly that. There was, also, an open job at the hospital that I was more than happy to fill.” She also needed to move away as far away from Virginia as she could, and her criminal record mixed with the lack of passport made it difficult to leave the country. Both truths that told different sides of the same story. Leaning back on the chair, she casually fixed her sunglasses. “I could ask the same. What does this town offer that has made you stay?”

“The hospital? Interesting,” Marley said, still leaning forward on the table. She was already fascinated, but this was making it more so. “This town certainly has its charm, and finding a place for everyone to fit in, no matter how...strange.” She was half tempted to take her glasses off, but didn’t. “Oh, the mystery and the death rate, of course. Do you know how many cold cases this town has? How many unexplainable deaths? How could I not be drawn here?” The waiter came by and they ordered drinks-- a gin and tonic for Marley-- before she focused on her counterpart for the night. “So here’s a hypothetical-- you meet someone in a bar, and you get on well with them, but you know they’re hiding something. Do you go home with them, or keep the night going?”

Her lips pressed together as she suppressed a soft laugh. With her luck, of course she had ended up having a blind date with a cop. “I always thought the lines of White Crest’s finest were filled with old, bald men. I’m pleased to see I was wrong.” After the other, she ordered sangria for herself. Morelia’s mouth remained closed for a few seconds after the other spoke, thinking about a good answer for that. “I guess my answer would depend on what I think they’re hiding. There are few things that would make me back away from an interesting person.” And like that, she took her glasses off and folded them, placing them on the table. She knew her eyes weren’t exactly special, not when glamoured at least, but she was well aware that her stolen magic was going to run out in the next couple of days, which meant that it was only a matter of hours before the black hues turned disappeared, leaving space to a glowing silver. “And, of course, the supernatural isn’t one of them.”

“Don’t worry,” Marley said with a smirk, “there’s plenty of old, bald men on the force still.” She grinned again, watching her, watching her movements as she answered, the way she held herself, the way her hair fell down her shoulders, the way she remained posed and postured as she talked. Something practiced, not bred. Watched as she reached up and took her glasses off and-- there was nothing strange behind them. So, why? No glowing red eyes, no iridescence. A glamor, perhaps? Marley knew a lot of supernaturals chose to glamor, and most Fae had to, to fit in. Was this woman Fae? She certainly had the air of one. “Few things, huh?” she said, leaning back finally. A hand reached up, fingers pushing gently against the wires of her own glasses. After a moment, she pulled them from her face, eyes cast down. “Gotta say, I like a woman who knows what she’s about,” she said, then, lifting her gaze, glowing red across the table. “Like what you see so far?”

Both her eyebrows shot up when the other looked up. Red eyes could only mean one of two things: either she was a vampire trying to impress her, which she had already discarded earlier after shaking her warm hand; or she was a mara, which made sense looking back. Morelia wasn’t really familiar with the species, not recalling ever crossing paths with one in the past at all. Still, she knew about them; or at least had heard stories about their fear induced appetite and how they were practically unkillable at night. A smirk slowly showed on her own face, suddenly very impressed. Had their meeting happened during the day, her reaction would’ve been completely different; but she was also protected by the night - in a different sense, but that was still effective. A soft laugh escaped her. “I had already figured out this night would be interesting, but you brought it to the next level. I’m definitely enjoying the evening.” Resting her right elbow on the table, Morelia used her hand to support her chin, her turn to lean forward on the table. She let her glamour go, flashing her own silver eyes for a few seconds, wondering if she had already figured out what she was yet. “Are you?”

Silver eyes. Marley knew about silver eyes. A species of fae. They were also creatures of the dark, of the night, slipping through shadows, just like herself. Though where she went invisible, they became shadows. And where she became intangible, they leapt through the dark from spot to spot. Still, it was almost nice meeting another who was wholly like her, but wholly different. After a moment, she slid her glasses back on, and looked across the table. The waitress came back with their drinks and set them down, gathering their food orders next. She wondered if the other woman actually needed human food, or if she was like her and fed off something other. “Oh, I’m definitely having a good time,” she smirked, tracing her finger along the rim of her glass, before dipping a finger in, and sticking it in her mouth, drawing it out slowly. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “you can ask for my name again.”

Morelia’s smile fell slightly as the other put the glasses back on, a little disappointed that their little show was over, but understanding why she did it as the waitress appeared. She took a quick look at the menu that seemed to have been forgotten until now, picking the first vegan thing her eyes landed on. Dealing with human food was always a gamble with her, as she was never quite sure how much iron she’d had to deal with. Avoiding meat and legumes usually seemed to do the trick. Both her eyes narrowed as the other teased her, and she wondered if maras were able to tell when a heartbeat sped up. “What happened to the mystery you were aiming for?” Though she knew the trick most likely wouldn’t work now that she had shown her true colors, there was no shame in trying once more. “If I ask nicely, will you give it to me this time?” 

The fae’s choice of food was interesting, though it made sense, once Marley remembered their weakness to iron. She looked down a moment, waiting for the waitress to walk away, before casting her glance back up at her counterpart. She didn’t miss the slight droop in her expression which signaled her disappointment at Marley’s eyes hidden behind shades again. Still, in public, without a glamour, she didn’t want the questions. A grin grew onto her face when she spoke again and Marley shrugged, cheek resting in her hand, the other playing with the little straw in her drink. “I said you could ask for it,” she replied, “I never said I was going to tell you.” Plucked the lime out from her drink, stuck it between her lips and bit down.

Another laugh threatened to leave Morelia’s mouth, but a sudden tug to the fabric beneath her arm made her attention suddenly shift, and she moved her eyes around, wondering if she had been too mesmerized by the mara that she hadn’t noticed a waitress bumping into their table. Weird. She blinked a few times, looking back at the shades, resting her chin on her hand once more. “Being a tease suits you, my dear. Maybe if I give you mine you can change your…” Her voice trailed off as another tug of the fabric made her whole arm tremble, and Morelia straightened as she watched the corners of the tablecloth move on its own, tangling around both of their wrists. The hell? Her free hand tried to yank the cloth, but it didn’t bulge, getting tighter by the second. “Are you --- Is this your doing?”

Something was happening, and in the blink of an eye, there was a strip of white fabric wrapping around Marley’s wrist. “What the--” she started, then looked up. The other woman was wrapped up, as well. “I’m not--” but she didn’t get another chance to say anything when the cloth yanked on both of them, pulling them from the booth and crashing to the ground with their drinks and everything else on the table. Eyes turned their direction. Marley felt the cloth begin to tug again and in an instant, allowed her body to go intangible. The cloth slipped right through, seemingly choking itself into a knot. But the other woman wasn’t so lucky, as the cloth wrapped around her neck and began to squeeze. “Fuck!” Marley said, reconstituting herself and standing up, grabbing at the cloth, trying to yank it back. “The hell is this thing? Someone get a knife!” she shouted to the room, people looking on in confusion and shock. “Don’t just stand there!”

The dim artificial lights were enough to avoid Morelia from disappearing, as there wasn’t a dark enough shadow she could blend with. As soon as the other woman easily disentangled herself, she let out a curse that was quickly cut short by the fabric wrapping around her neck, and thankfully she had been quick enough to slip one hand in between before it started pulling itself, tightening and quickly stopping the air flowing to her lungs. Shit. The lack of air made it impossible for her to fight against the thing; her hand wasn’t enough to allow the passage of oxygen, and Morelia came to the conclusion that if the other woman didn’t do anything, she would die a very humiliating death. Half her glamour was gone, panic and fear slowly but steadily rising inside of her, and her head felt lighter each second that passed, a weird and painful burning sensation on her lungs as they screamed for air. Silver eyes tried to find the mara, silently screaming for help.

Marley didn’t stop to question the black painting the woman’s skin, as her glamor supposedly slipped, opting to stow that information away for later. She leapt for the cloth trying to strangle her, wrapping her hands into it and tearing a large chunk off, sending her flying. Whatever it was screamed, which meant it was sentient. It could feel pain. Scrambling back up, Marley dug into her pocket, pulling out the lighter she kept there. Didn’t really think about the implication of setting a cloth that was strangling someone on fire, and flicked the lighter. Flame erupted. The sheet caught fire in an instant. Another screech made Marley drop the lighter, clasping her hands over her ears. Everyone in the restaurant tumbled with the noise as well. Someone was calling the police, others were scrambling to get away, abandoning their dinners. Someone had been heading towards them with the knife Marley had requested, but had since abandoned that quest as well. Marley watched the fire blaze up the creature’s skin as it screamed, finally loosening its grip enough for the other woman to escape.

If she wasn’t scared before, then she definitely was once whatever was around her neck went up in flames. For the first time in several decades, Morelia screamed, or at least attempted to scream with the very little air inside her lungs. Flashing images of a burning house in front of her eyes, accompanied by the feeling of a lit torch and dried grass on her hands; a past mistake that would haunt her forever. As soon as the thing loosened its grip on her throat, Morelia slipped her other hand between her skin and the fabric to pull it and the fire away from her, the screeching next to her ear nothing compared to other screams she’d had to deal with in the past few weeks, but this time she didn’t get resistance from it, the now dead cloth engulfed in flames next to both of them. Her chest felt tight in a way she didn’t know, and even though there wasn’t anything around her throat she was still struggling to breathe, black tears running down her face as her right hand touched her red marked neck, and her body suddenly collapsed from the effort, her glamour completely gone as her head hit the floor.

Shit. That was Marley’s first thought. A seasoned detective, trained in emergency tactics and for stressful situations and all Marley could think was-- shit. The next moment, someone screamed. Marley whipped around and grabbed another table cloth, yanking it from the table behind her, hoping it, too wasn’t sentient. Cover her up was her second thought, registering moments after the table cloth was lain over Morelia’s unconscious-- gods, please don’t be dead, she so didn’t need that kind of attention right now-- body. Pushing forward, Marley scooped her up into her arms, even as people started to head their way again. “Out of the way!” Marley barked in her authoritative voice. “I’m an officer of the law!” Flashed her badge as much as she could while carrying a body-- person, carrying a person-- across the room. People shuffled out of the way quickly. Someone offered to help, but Marley ignored them. Maybe she didn’t even hear them. Get her somewhere hidden, was her final thought, as she barged from the restaurant and bee-lined for her car. Safety was behind her tinted windows, laying the woman down and removing the sheet. Skin, pale slate, swallowing the shadows around it. Eyes closed but Marley could remember the swirling, white glow they’d had in the moments before her glamor returned. Antlers, digging into the leather of her back seat. Shit, she thought again, crawling into the car behind her and shutting the door. “Please don’t be dead.” 

A pounding headache blasted Morelia’s head, though if it was from hitting the floor or because her brain was still needy for oxygen wasn’t clear. Her whole body groaned as she slowly opened her eyes, confusion washing over her. Where was she? It took several seconds to realize she was in a car and that her glamour was completely gone. It wasn’t hard to add one plus one and determine that her companion had carried her, and the sensation of someone next to her only confirmed it. She blinked several times, before it suddenly hit her. She was alone in the car of a stranger that had recently set her on fire. Glowing silver eyes flashed open as she scrambled to sit as far away from the other, antlers hitting the roof in the process making her wince. “What the FUCK--” She mumbled, her back pressed against the door. her heartbeat steadily speeding up. “--were you thinking when you set that.. that thing on fire? I could’ve died----” And it hit her. She saved her. She was in debt. Shit. Without adding anything, Morelia opened the car door, and with the advantage of the dark night, she merged with the shadows, getting away as fast as possible. 

Marley frowned. She didn’t protest, didn’t argue, didn’t even attempt to stop her as she raced from the car and disappeared into the night. Lamapde, that was what they were. She looked up to examine the scratch marks on the roof of her car now, and the torn bits of leather on the seats. She understood the implication of what saving a fae meant. Eventually, she got out of the car and looked around, but it didn’t seem as if she was coming back. Not even a thank you. Well, that was fine. She knew how to contact her. With one last glance back to the shadows, Marley said, “You owe me.”

[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 3: Lilac

i wish you out of the woods

and into a picture with me

The Youngstown Grimms had made it sound like Logan possessed arcane knowledge, and would cast some sort of protective spell over Virgil. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this whole protection business being based on proximity.

Had those Grimms warned Logan that they’d signed Virgil up for college classes? Did they even know how Logan’s “protection” worked? It took Virgil nearly the entire allotted thirty “digestion” minutes to muster the courage to bring it up again.

Honestly, with his track record, that wasn’t so bad.

“So…” he drawled, as the two were slipping on their shoes to leave. “How is this gonna work, anyway?”

“This?” Logan pocketed his phone.

“Me, staying here, with you.” Virgil gestured between them. “Like, do I have to stay within a certain distance for your protection mojo to work?”

“For the time being, yes,” Logan explained as they exited the apartment and started down the stairs. “My long term plan, however, is to make a charm that will shield you in my stead.”

That didn’t sound so bad.

“But I will be able to leave?” Virgil clarified. “Like, during the day or whatever?”

As much as he didn’t mind sharing space with an absurdly gorgeous…if a bit standoffish…guy, being trapped inside day after day would drive him up the wall.

Logan made a noise of assent.

“The charm I intend to make will ensure that our arrangement does not overly restrict your freedom. Shelley has informed me of your intention to attend fall classes at Stetson University.”

‘My’ intention, sure.

Truthfully, art school had simply been the cover story to explain why Virgil would suddenly abandon Ohio and his Faire family. The Youngstown Grimms warned him that the whole Ren Faire circuit wasn’t safe for him anymore, not even as far away as Florida, not when his master had already tracked him down once. He still couldn’t imagine what strings the Grimms had had to pull to get him into a fancy, expensive-as-fuck university on such short notice, with only a GED to his name and no other transcripts…but they had, and they’d told him all his expenses would be covered besides.

Virgil was smart enough to recognize an opportunity when he saw it…and too selfish to turn it down.

“Oh, I suppose I should ask.” Logan paused before they left the stairwell. “How sensitive are you to iron?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck.

“Cars don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re implying. Most metal doesn’t if it’s refined enough.”

“You are fortunate.” Logan absently thumbed one of his pointed ear tips. “I hypothesize that my sensitivity lies somewhere between that of a true faery and an older changeling. My disguise glamour protects me somewhat, so driving around town is not a problem, but a cross country trip would be…taxing.”

Virgil winced. “That still sucks.”

Logan hummed, adjusted his glasses, and they left the stairwell for the overly bright, bleached parking lot.

Florida, ugh. Virgil squinted in the unrelenting sunlight. No wonder Logan’s house brownie wears sunglasses. He would need to buy a pair of his own, and soon.

Logan unlocked a nearby blue Honda Fit and they climbed in. Virgil observed how Logan’s dark, graceful hands did not linger on either the door handle or the metal seatbelt buckle.

“I can eat stuff cooked in ordinary pots,“ Virgil added as they pulled out of the parking lot. “But cast iron skillets, man…” He shuddered.

“An iron skillet would outright poison me.” Logan grimaced. “Even heavily refined steel is distasteful to cook in.”

That’s why he owns a copper kettle, Virgil realized. Probably all his cooking utensils are copper or aluminum.

“I was shoved into a wrought iron gate once at a Faire,” Virgil went on. “Burned like a bitch, and I only touched it for a few seconds. I haven’t really tested my sensitivities beyond that.”

“I recommend against it.” Logan answered Virgil’s raised eyebrow with a sharp look. “The enmity between iron and Fae is an ancient one. You won’t develop a tolerance.”

Something in the tone spoke of past experience to Virgil. Another little interesting tidbit about the man he’d moved in with.

His charged iPod and headphones lay nestled in his hoodie pocket, but for once, Virgil chose not to tune out the world. Instead he observed Logan’s long fingers on the faux-leather steering wheel, the flex of muscle in his forearms, the crease between his eyebrows as he navigated downtown Deland’s narrow Main Street.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Logan said after a long silence, as though weighing the words. Which of course made Virgil’s anxiety skyrocket.

“What fae abilities do you possess?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted; he’d been dreading that question.

His own hands, caressing bits of straw, color and softness bursting from the hollow shafts. Sewing needles and the dark, metallic scent of blood. Mocking words and cruel fae lips and under it all his power, flowing from his chest into waiting bodies…

Dolls. Abominations.

“I make flowers,” he answered at last.

Logan glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.

Virgil sighed and patted his pockets, finally plucking a loose thread from his hoodie sleeve when nothing else turned up. He laid the tiny string across his palm, and mentally pulled. Warmth blossomed in his chest, like unfolding flower petals, racing down his arm, rippling under his skin, seeping into the thread he held.

It quivered, and expanded, buds bubbling along its length before silently exploding into leaves, the end growing bulbous and green and peeling into delicate violet petals and a yellow center.

He stuck the newly created forget-me-not, stem barely as long as his pinky finger, behind his ear.

“Go on, you can say it,” he challenged, chancing a look at Logan, whose expression hadn’t changed. “Sixteen fucking years in Arcadia, and I end up with the most useless changeling power in existence.”

It was safer, disparaging his magic like it really was nothing but flower-making. Those Grimms in Ohio would never have helped me if they knew what I was, and why my master wanted me back.

The half-faery’s eyes were a mystery behind his glasses. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

But then they were pulling up to an ordinary suburban house and Logan was parking the car, and Virgil had a whole different, slightly more ordinary situation to fret over.

Interacting with people.

“Come,” Logan said, getting out. “Time to meet Nicodemus.”

Virgil dearly hoped ’Nicodemus’ wasn’t another brownie, or a pixie or a hobgoblin, or…

To Virgil’s vast relief, Nicodemus turned out to be a brown Labrador that barked joyously at Logan’s arrival and spent the next five minutes on its hind legs, eagerly licking the half-faery’s face.

Logan rubbed the dog’s head, heedless of the spit bath, and exchanged words and money with the gray-haired woman of the house. Virgil gathered that she often watched Logan’s dog when he was away. The two of them, dog bouncing between, carried a crate full of hairy blankets, some dishes, and several toys out to Logan’s car.

Virgil hung back in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t be called over to socialize. He stiffened when woman gestured towards him, and Logan said something at length. Virgil shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, wondering what excuses Logan gave to people for his changeling houseguests over the years.

Nicodemus trotted over, eyeing Virgil with curious black eyes.

“Hey…boy.” Virgil gingerly held out a hand. The dog sniffed it, sneezed, and gave his fingers a few licks. (Virgil grimaced and wiped them on his hoodie).

“I was hoping he would like you.”

Virgil startled, having not heard Logan approach. “Is that…what the licking means?”

The half-faery’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

“Thank you again, Stephanie!” he called, waving as the woman went inside. “Nic, come!”

Nic leaped obediently into the car’s back seat and settled with his snout just above Virgil’s shoulder.

“I suppose it is a bit late to inquire whether you are amenable to sharing a living space with an animal,” Logan commented in an uncharacteristically wry voice.

Virgil shrugged, reaching back to pet Nic’s neck.

“Dogs are okay, I guess. I’ve never had a pet, so…I don’t know much about taking care of them or whatever.”

Logan waved a hand. “I would expect no such thing. Nic is my responsibility.”

“Um, speaking of responsibility.” Virgil rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was thinking I should probably start looking for a job? So I can, you know, help out with rent and stuff?”

“Why?”

There was no judgement in Logan’s tone; only curiosity.

“I dunno, I just don’t want to be a freeloader.” Virgil shrugged, his shoulders hunched. “The Youngstown Grimms are already paying for all my school stuff and honestly I feel kinda bad about that.”

“I wouldn’t.” Logan raised an eyebrow at Virgil shocked face. “Do you truly think that an organization run by changelings, some of whom can literally transform physical objects into other objects, would have issues obtaining something as mundane as money?”

Virgil’s mouth twisted and he touched the flower still stuck in his ear…the forget-me-not he’d grown from magic and a bit of loose thread. Maybe making random objects bloom wasn’t terribly useful…but sometimes he forgot that such power was still extraordinary from a normal perspective.

Knowing that didn’t make his insecurities go away.

“Look, I dunno what they told you about me, but I was on the road with a Renaissance Faire for nearly two years before De…” Virgil swallowed, unwilling to say even the made-up name aloud. “Before my faery master found me. We didn’t have a lot and we never stayed in one place for long, but it was a good life, you know? They were the closest people I’d had to a family on the outside. And we all worked hard; you had to, to keep the Faire running. Everyone earned their keep.”

Logan hummed, rubbing a finger absently on the steering wheel. “Do you fear letting others pay your way will give them too much control over your life?”

Virgil picked at a rip in his skinny jeans. Logan was not as oblivious as his stilted language would suggest.

“I…yeah. I guess?”

“I am financially solvent enough to support myself and anyone the Grimms send to me, for however long that individual needs to stay.” Logan shot Virgil a look, his stormy eyes softening slightly. “However, I will not be offended if you wish to obtain employment and ‘earn your keep’, as you put it.”

Virgil leaned his head against the window glass, his lungs tight with memories, with fears, with feeling like any joy he scratched out of the barren soil of this existence would always be one faery whim away from being crushed.

Again.

“It’s just, last week I had a life,” he admitted softly. “Now suddenly it’s gone, and I feel a little…lost, I guess.”

Logan drummed thoughtful fingers on the steering wheel.

“Where were you initially rescued?” he asked. “Not four days ago, but when you first left Arcadia?”

Virgil didn’t quite suppress a shudder at the word Arcadia.

“Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think,” he answered lowly. “Some Grimms…not Youngstown; a different chapter…shut down an illegal trade between two minor Courts. My master was…”

He swallowed, unwilling to admit his faery master had been a fetch-dealer, that the operation those Grimms shut down that day had been a fetch trade. Trafficking in human dolls was the only Unseelie vice specifically forbidden by the Accords themselves. Faeries caught using them in their kidnappings earned an immediate price on their heads. And human thralls forced by said faeries to make those dolls…well.

The usually went mad.

The whole mess carried a well-deserved stigma.

“Let’s just say he was involved in a lot of shady Unseelie shit,” Virgil muttered, looking out the window again.

Logan’s fingers traced the wheel again, his gaze on the road but somehow also miles away.

“You escaped in the confusion?” he prompted.

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah. I hitchhiked to upstate New York and met old Betsy in a bar.” He smiled at the memory. “She introduced me to her Faire buddies and the rest was history.”

“And you were with them for two years?”

Virgil frowned.

“Yeah. What’s with the twenty questions?”

They’d reached the apartment lot; Logan turned off the car.

“Shelley and the Youngstown Grimms were wise to send you to me,” he said cryptically as they got out and opened the back hatch. It felt like the half-faery was changing the subject, though Virgil couldn’t say why.

“You know, before I left, Shelley told me that you asked for me.” Virgil narrowed his eyes. “When they told you my situation, they said you wanted me to come.”

Logan wore an unidentifiable expression as he hefted Nic’s crate from the back. Virgil moved to help. The shared burden made it easy for the half-faery to not meet Virgil’s gaze as they moved upstairs, Nic following placidly at their heels.

“I wanted you to come because I am in a unique position to keep you safe,” Logan allowed at last, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Both because of my heritage, and because Florida is such a long distance from your previous life.”

Virgil liked to think he had an excellent trollshit detector, mostly because his Fae master had been, among other things, a master liar. Body language, tics, tone of voice. Everyone had tells, even stoic half-faeries with extraordinary control over their facial expressions.

Logan was not lying…but he was definitely fae-dancing around something.

“If we are able to keep you out of sight long enough,” Logan went on, “it is possible that he will give up looking. As much as faeries love the chase, a single human thrall is, for better or for worse, simply not worth their time in the end.”

Unless that thrall was a fetch-maker.

Virgil swallowed hard. Well, if Logan wasn’t going to share his secret, Virgil sure as hell wasn’t revealing his own.

“So you’re saying I’m not worth their time?” he quipped instead, attempting to lighten the mood as they reached the top of the stairs. “Now I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Logan cocked his head. “I…had meant the words to be comforting. Did they not come across as such?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“How are you that literal? I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Logan frowned, shifting the crate to adjust his glasses again. “My colleagues tell me I am, in their words, ‘spectacularly’ inept at detecting sarcasm.”

Virgil swallowed a smirk. No shit, Sherlock.

“You’re gonna have a hard time with me, then.”

“Well, surely with sufficient communication we will…” Logan trailed off, and narrowed his eyes. “Ah. That was another joke.”

“You’re learning.” Virgil made a finger gun with one hand, prompting an answering eye roll.

Logan fished out his keys and the two guided the crate into the apartment. Nic bounded down the hallway and into Logan’s room; a smiling, irate Logan on his heels, grumbling that he’d better stay off the bed.

For a moment, Virgil breathed in the pleasant scent of the apartment, and listened to the soft sounds of Remy snoring in his cabinet, and allowed something like hope to lighten his heart.

He missed Ohio, but…this really wasn’t so bad.

“Oh for goodness sakes, really Nic?” Logan’s irritated voice drifted into the living room, followed by the man himself, holding a mangled stuffed animal. “That dog, I swear. Every time I have to leave him in another’s care, he destroys at least one of his toys.”

He made to toss the toy in the garbage, but Virgil scurried forward to stop him.

“Hang on, let me see,” he murmured, taking the toy and turning it over in his hands. It was a stuffed lion, chubby and smiling, with a squeaker in its belly. Stuffing was poking out of several messy rips, and the head was dangling by a mere thread.

“Yeah, I can definitely fix this. Do you have needle and thread?”

Logan nodded and went back into his bedroom, which Virgil barely noticed as he pressed fluff back inside and located all the busted stitches with practiced fingers. Logan reappeared with a sewing kit.

Virgil settled on the couch with the toy.

For a time the world faded; there was only cotton, yielding under his fingers; ragged edges folded and hidden; slick metal needle parting cloth and perfect stitches pulled tight. The satisfaction of tying the last knot and examining the body, ready to breathe life into its flowery heart and flaccid limbs, hear its first cries…

Virgil pulled out of the memory with a gasp, hand closing reflexively around the repaired lion, making it squeak. Slowly his surroundings filtered back in, easing the panicky tightness in his chest: couch, counter, front door, Remy’s cabinet. He was safe and out of Arcadia, out of Arcadia, and Deceit does not know where I am.

Logan sat in the chair opposite the couch, eating a sandwich and watching Virgil. A plate piled with more sandwiches sat on the coffee table between them.

How did he have time to make all those? How…how long has he been watching me?

Virgil flexed his sore right hand, trying to look casual but borderline freaking out on the inside.

He could have seen everything, I was seconds away from bringing that stuffed animal to life because it’s been so long and I got caught up, he’s gonna know what my power really is…

“Um, I think I’m done,” he muttered, gripping the lion and making it squeak again. An answering bark from the back bedroom made Virgil startle.

“May I?” Logan asked, holding his hand out for the toy.

Virgil held his breath as Logan pulled at the stitching, tugged at the head, waiting for the half-faery to call out how weird he’d just acted. But Logan only nodded.

“Excellent. This is one of Nic’s favorites; I know he will appreciate having it back in one piece.”

He stood and flashed Virgil a half smile, one that made his pulse race.

“Eat, I made plenty,” Logan added, gesturing at the plate and then disappearing into his bedroom.

Virgil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and ran shaking hands through his hair. The fading tightness in his lungs shifted into dull, stabbing pinpricks, making him hiss softly. It felt like thorns, choking his heart, brushing his ribcage with every movement.

The needle he still held in his fingers swelled and burst into flower: a single bunch of tiny purple blossoms framed by soft emerald leaves. Virgil bit his lip hard, tasting blood.

Lilac.

No, no, no, I had my power under control, I swore never again…he clenched his fists hard, crushing the delicate flower stalk, nails imprinting on his palms. Virgil focused on that pain, determined to push the dangerous feelings down, focused on his breathing, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, come on, Virgil…

The stabbing ebbed and he drew a deep, unsteady breath.

I’m safe here.

I’m safe.

And I can’t ever tell Logan what I was.

Purple lilac: first emotions of love

[andersoncharm]

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. /Blaine Self Para. February 20, 2020

Para: He is half of my soul, as the poets say.

Rating: PG.

Pairing: Blaine and his troubles. His father, Will,  makes an appearance. Mentions of a past, very brief and kinda toxic relationship with Kurt Hummel.

When: February 20, 2020 

Location: Boston, Massachusetts

Notes: Blaine can’t keep his mind from wandering to terrible places. His father brings news that causes him more strife.

Warnings: Sad Blaine? I don’t know. Not really Kurt friendly but, this is a Seblaine rp so, you’ve been warned. <3

OOC Notes: I tried to make this simple. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve confused anyone.

Blaine was normally an extremely happy guy. He’d been fun and full of too much positive energy his entire life. There had only been one time in his twenty-three years that he could recall not being able to summon the sunshine. And even then, when his mother, who was his Home, had been ripped away from him he pretended to shine and then cried alone in his room. He spent his teen years after her death pretending to be like any normal kid. Or as normal a kid as he could be considering he was a witch. It took him a long time to admit that all the things he did then were just ways for him to cope. He didn’t do a great job.

Like when he and Sam would steal the whiskey from his father's stash, as if he wouldn’t know, and sneak down to the river where Blaine would hide the bottle away from his best friend and refill it for them each time it would get close to empty and they’d drink it until they were sick. Or when he left his Ohio home to go on one of Sam’s McKinley High field trips that lasted three days, glamouring himself as a student, and didn’t tell his father, letting him worry for days.

Or when he’d let himself be Kurt Hummel’s freaking trophy witch for months. Letting the other boy put thoughts into his head about how even though they weren’t Fated that maybe they should stay together anyway because why not? And besides, no one could possibly understand Blaine better than him considering Kurt’s mother had also died when he was young. She didn’t waste away but, it was still terrible so of course he understood whole heartedly. Turns out Kurt really didn’t. Or if he did he was bad at showing it.

Sure. They’d had fumblings in the woods and sneaks in bedrooms with the doors set up to alarm them if their respective fathers came home. That part was fun at least. It was the very public dates where Kurt would introduce Blaine as “Blaine Anderson, you know, of Willem Anderson fame? His father is a Descendant.” His voice just polite enough to hide its condescending nature from the world. The tinkling little lilt that, for a very short time, made Blaine kind of smile, had started to grate on him more and more and he finally had to cut off the fling when Kurt went a step too far and introduced him as “ Blaine Anderson, you know, his mother’s a hero. Sacrificed herself all for a human stranger…” It was the little shrug like it was no big deal that had done it for Blaine. He’d given a head shake and a laugh of disbelief and left. Because at the end of the day it didn’t matter how sad or lonely he was, he was worth more than being some pretty boy’s boasting right.

Still, it took him years to feel good again. To feel even a little how he felt before she died. Sure, he let his smile come back slowly over the years and the move to Boston. And he let himself make friends at LeFey once he figured out they weren’t just hanging around because he was semi famous for two very different reasons. He felt good enough and seventy five percent himself during his years in Boston. It wasn’t until his beautiful Sebastian, who was actually the fucking sun, and his companion and ball of love, Ras came barreling into his life that he felt whole again. They brought that light and happiness full force back into his life. And now, because of something so stupid it felt like it was going to crumble. Like it was made of the thinnest crystal and one little tap would shatter it. Lately it felt like the sun was setting and nothing he did could stop it. The only time he could preserve it was when he was with Sebastian and no matter what he did there wasn’t a plausible way he could be with him every second without raising the concerns of his father and the Council and from the looks of it… His father knew. Maybe.

The man was pacing his office in front of Blaine, not saying anything but the words seemed to be stuck behind his teeth and if Will Anderson were to open his mouth something negative and harsh would come tumbling out. And it would be directed at him. Blaine sat, Freya sitting at attention on a stool next to him, at his desk, the one he’d spent the last few months learning advanced forms of magic. Potions that only the highest witches were allowed to use, charms and curses and how to break them and detect them. He was supposed to go out into the field next year. As in leave America in favor of England. It was something he didn’t want to think about. He sat there quietly and just watched while his father walked back and forth in front of the ancient stone window in his Headmaster’s office. He waited, dread filling his heart with each sisk of Will’s expensive shoes on the floor as he turned. This was it. Will was going to tell him that he knew all about Sebastian and he was going to try and make him leave him. He was going to threaten Sebastian or something and Blaine didn’t know if he could match his father’s advanced High Witch status but he’d damn well try. He even loosened up his fingers just in case he needed his hands.

Turns out he didn’t need them. Will Anderson turned, gave Blaine a nod, and then sat down on the edge of Blaine’s desk. His ankles crossed, fingers laced loosely together. “When was the last time you played your violin, Blaine?” His father asked, his voice smooth and clear. Blaine face scrunched up in confusion for a moment and he quickly had to rearrange his face to be more relaxed.

“The violin? I don’t know, a year ago?” It had been almost exactly a year ago, actually. Just after he told Seb that he was a witch. He’d be absently tuning and playing the old instrument when he turned around to put it away and his boyfriend was standing stupefied in the doorway. Blaine hadn’t even been trying to use magic and still it had charmed his boyfriend. There was a reason Blaine didn’t play it anymore. He'd practically been born playing the thing. All music, really. But, the violin was the first one he’d picked up and it was like breathing to him. When he used to go to the Charles River and play his guitar or keyboard for the people to calm them he never chose the violin because it was far too powerful and he charmed or healed too much even when he didn’t mean to. “You know I don’t like to play it often. It’s too risky.”

Will fixed him with a exasperated look. “Well perhaps if you spent more time at LeFay practicing instead of gallivanting around Massachusetts then you wouldn’t have to hide your magic so much.” Blaine opened his mouth to protest, all the sudden angry that his father assumed to know anything about his life especially when he knew damn well that his mother had always insisted they mingle with humans and not get so wrapped up in a purely magical world. She probably hadn’t intended for him to fall in love with a human but, well, Fate happened.

Before Blaine could speak up however, Will raised his hand to silence him. “I don’t care to hear your excuses. You’re going to do what you want, I know. But, you need to listen. There’s been some unrest in the community. Strange sightings in foreign countries, magic sprinkled in places it shouldn’t be.”  Will cleared his throat and gave Blaine a pointed look. And Blaine could almost swear that his father knew that he was the reason.

He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Stuff like this happens in the magic community all the time, dad-” He was abruptly cut off by his father standing suddenly, causing Freya to step in front of Blaine’s chest as if to protect him. His father watched her for a moment before speaking. “Hmm. It’s good that you’re so close to her… All of that being said, stuff like this does not happen often. Not to this degree… I asked about the violin because I think you should start using it more. You’re powerful with it. Did you know the Oracles are stirring? Of course not, you’re never here. However, you might need that power to protect us from any sort of threats that might come our way.”

“The Oracles? That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, dad.” It did though, and Blaine knew it. Were they going to start spitting out details of his and Seb’s life together? Were they going to tell the world that Hunter and Tony had helped them along? Why were they so important that Oracles were getting involved. He felt sick and once again wondered how any people would get hurt all because he fell in love with a human. As if he could help it. “You’re acting as if we’re going to have to go to war or something. It’s not 1692 anymore.” He attempted to joke but, knew it was in bad taste. He couldn't help it. He was terrified.

Will wasn’t having any of this. “103 year old Edna has been spitting out random words all the way over in Wales that nobody can make out. No amount of magic is moving her along towards her tellings. She keeps shutting down and starting back up. While three year old Zoe is so fussy and confused and babbling gibberish her parent’s couldn’t take it and felt the need to call it in. I don’t know what it means but I do know it means that something is coming. Something big. And I need you to be prepared. You need to start taking all of this seriously, Blaine.” Will leaned forward, his eyes softening for a moment as he really looked at his son and for just a second, a glimpse of his old dad and Blaine though he might touch his shoulder and say something kind. But, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Will stood up straight and made his way back to his desk where he sat down and instantly busied himself with work. “Now, I expect you here and learning more often. Not doing gods know what around the city. You’ll be here at five am tomorrow morning. Do you understand?” He spared a look up long enough to see Blaine nod, swallowing hard as he focused on Freya’s worried silver eyes as opposed to his dad's stormy blues. His dad gave a curt nod. “You may go.”

Blaine scooped up Freya, he didn’t need to, she was capable of keeping up, but he wanted something solid in his arms. He wanted to feel relief that what his dad knew wasn’t for sure about him and Sebastian. Only maybe. But, he only felt dread. Why were the Oracles stirring? If the Witches Council and The Order were exchanging information there must be more than just the Paris incident to look at. Had they seen Sebastian and him elsewhere? Was Blaine leaving magic traces? Blaine had always prided himself on being careful. But, if he could get caught in Paris then what the hell else was he messing up?

He tried not to think too much about it as he cautiously popped himself and Freya into Sebastian’s apartment. Ras greeting the two of them with fervor. His boyfriend wouldn't be home for hours but, Blaine needed to feel close to him. Needed to remember that they were real and worth the fight. The apartment felt and smelled so much like the him that he started to relax just a little bit as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

He made himself some Chamomile with a dash of calming magic in the kettle Seb had gotten him. Smiling softly to himself at the not so distant memory of Seb remembering that Chamomile was for calming a person down as he told Blaine to drink some. He drank his tea down as he slipped off his shoes and curled up on his side of the couch. The pup tucking himself behind his legs and Freya settling on the arm next to his head. He pulled the familiar and comforting Harvard blanket over him and Ras and let himself drift off to sleep to the soothing sounds of  pup snores and Prince Henry bantering with Danielle. He told himself that he just needed to calm down. But, in reality, Sebastian and everything he touched was his sanity right now. The only bright thing in a dark day. Being near him and in his home almost took away the pain of thinking too hard about the possibility of losing him. So he let himself sleep off the conversation with his dad. 

And when Seb came home later he didn’t tell his boyfriend about Oracles or the conversation or magic trails. He just pretended it was all okay and allowed himself to press kisses into Sebastian’s skin and then lose himself in Sebastian’s embrace. This was his. And this was theirs. Here he didn’t have to think about Sebastian hurt, or Sebastian loosing his mind, or Sebastian alone... Blaine could let himself think that the Council and the Order couldn't touch them when they were together like this. And as long as he believed that, they’d be okay.

They had to be.

/fin.

[joonie-beanie]

Anyway here’s the first bit of a fic I had been working on but then my brain turned to mush.

If you like it lmk so I can gain motivation to continue 

No I didn’t proof read

There are a few very important things to know about you, and the world you live in.

In your world, there are many living beings other than just humans, and beings that exist but aren’t necessarily living at all. Most prevalently, the largest populous next to the humans are Fae—the residents of Faerie, that come in all shapes and sizes. Fae aren’t uncommon in human society, and some likely live their lives without being recognized as Fae thanks to the power of Glamour. Glamour is the magic of Faerie—it allows Fae to create illusions. These illusions can be applied to anything from changing one’s own appearance, to changing the landscape of an area. However, most commonly you’ve seen it used by Fae to keep their less human characteristics under wraps.

After all, the less human one appears, the more human’s tend to ostracize—which makes traversing the human world a lot harder for Fae only trying to mind their own business.

For the longest time, you’d only known little about Faerie and its people, but…in the last year things had gotten quite complicated.

You’d been raised in the human world, assuming for almost your entire life that you were a human blessed with magical abilities. Since the Magical Awakening a century ago, it had become common for humans to possess some type of ability, and your specialty just so happens to be grave magic. You’re able to raise shades of the dead—shades being incorporeal beings without a soul, who are solely composed of a person’s memories before death.

Since childhood you’d been honing your skills, and had managed to become fairly successful Grave Witch for hire—occasionally helping out the local police department. However…your job had gotten you tangled up in a handful of not-exactly-ideal situations, and through it all you’d come to realize that…you’re not exactly human.

Your father—who had shipped you away to boarding school after the appearance of your grave magic—was actually a Fae living in the human-world undercover. He had used Glamour to keep his appearance in check your entire life. And, as you learned, had used a spell to keep your own appearance in check as well.

Though, it wasn’t exactly like you both had 4 arms and wings. No, you just…glowed. Like all Faerie who had some royalty in their blood.

You were Sleigh Maiths—a type of Fae regarded as royalty, and looking perfectly similar to humans, except for the glow from your skin.

With the awakening of your Fae blood, you had awakened another power inside of you—that of Planeweaving. Planeweavers had once existed in Faerie, sought out by all the courts because of their abilities to tie different realities and planes of existence together, but were rare, and the ability was believed to be lost until…you.

Which made you a target for all of the six Faerie courts to nab, and thanks to the awakening of your Fae blood, if you didn’t align yourself to a court in Faerie as a link to receive Faerie’s magic you would have died, so.

Least to say, you had been pissed at your father.

Luckily, or…not, you had made an agreement with the Winter King. In exchange for helping him solve a murder which had taken place in his court, he would grant you independent status as a Winter courtier for a year and a day.

Though you had nearly died in the process, you’d solved the murder and as such had been granted independence. So, you still live in the human world, just as you had. Thanks to a small locket charm around your neck—your Sleigh Maith glow stays hidden from those around you, and overall it feels like not much has changed, but—

Knock Knock

You glance up at the door to your room, and after a second the handle turns and a man you know all too well appears. Tall, well proportioned, and silver hair—your heart aches at the sight of him, but you make sure the feeling isn’t reflected on your face.

“The Winter King ordered me to fetch you,” he says, a look of apology already in his eye. Despite being the Winter Knight, Kim Namjoon is no fan of his King.

You groan, flopping back against your mattress. From the doorway, you hear Namjoon chuckle quietly.

“Do we have to go? I really don’t want to experience another revelry. The last one was dramatic enough to fill my entire quota for the year.”

Unfortunately, in Faerie there are four revelries a year—one to celebrate the transition of each season—and currently the longest night and the shortest day is upon you. Meaning…the Winter King is preparing to become the strongest in the realm of Faerie, and there’s no way he’s going to let his Planeweaving Sleigh Maith be absent from the festivities.

“You know if I could I would take you and run as far away as possible,” he responds, stepping into the room. There’s a fondness in his gaze as he looks at you, and you find yourself feeling a bit warm—memories of your relationship with the Winter Knight resurfacing.

When you’d first met Namjoon, it’d been during a police investigation you’d been aiding in. He was head of the FIB—the Fae Investigation Bureau—and at the beginning had really disliked you. However, through your mishaps and adventures which had entangled you in more dangerous situations than you care to admit, you and Namjoon had become close.

Well, as close as you could. As the Winter Knight, Namjoon could not disobey the orders of his King, and the King treated him very much as a lover on a leash. The King was aware of your and Namjoon’s romantic inclinations for each other, and very much made it a point to show you that Namjoon was his whenever the three of you happened to be in the same room together.

Namjoon was out of your reach, and so despite what mutual feelings may be present, you both are aware that it’d be foolish to act on them.

Sighing, you push yourself off your bed and onto your feet. You’d known for a few days now that the revelry would be taking place, but you’d very much been hoping that the Winter King would somehow forget about you.

“Okay then, lead the way,” you say, motioning to door. Namjoon cracks a smirk, but says nothing. Turning on his heel, he exists the room, and you dutifully follow after him.

To get to Faerie, you need to go through one of the magical doors that acts as a bridge between the two worlds. The most popular by far is the one located at The Bloom—a tavern in the middle of town that acts as a place of congregation for Fae and humans who are interested in seeing less human-like Fae.

So, Namjoon guides you to his car and then you’re off. When you arrive at The Bloom, you realize that less Fae are present than usual.

“A lot of Fae are likely already in their aligned courts, including the independents,” Namjoon informs you when he sees you looking around. You’ve only known about your Fae nature for less than a year, so Faerie law and practices and basically everything else are lost to you. You’re learning, but slowly.

You nod. The revelry, from what you understand, is a much anticipated celebration for all Fae of all courts. Despite what feelings the rulers of the courts may have for each other, all grudges are put to the side. Things that may be considered taboo are allowed, and Fae are simply expected to have the best time they can.

Side by side, the two of you walk through the tavern and up to the two large trees at the far end of the room. Leaves the color of the rainbow decorate the two trees, and the branches between the two trunks curve to form an archway. In the archway is a fog-like substance, but it doesn’t roam outside area—simply stays put. And when you touch it, there’s no feeling.

At first when you’d crossed into Faerie through the door in the Bloom, you’d been very hesitant, as you hadn’t known what to expect. But now you’re quite accustomed to simply walking through into the icy halls that reside on the other side.

“It’s best not to keep him waiting,” Namjoon mumbles, eyes hard as he glances into the doorway. You can only guess that he’s dreading returning as much as you are. You’ve learned that while Namjoon doesn’t exactly like facing the King to begin with, he really hates facing the King with you at his side. Why? Well, for one if the King is in a bad mood he doesn’t want you to take any damage from it, and he also hates when the King is possessive of him right in front of you…

“I can hardly wait,” you respond with a snort, hoping your sarcasm will brighten the mood, and it seems to work. Shooting you a small smile, Namjoon nods his head at you and then steps forward. The fog swallows him, and you follow after.

After a few seconds walls form on either side of you—composed of thick ice. The entrance hallway to the Winter court appears through the fog, and two guards in armor are waiting to greet you.

“Knight, Planeweaver,” the shorter says, inclining her head at you. Namjoon raises his chin slightly, an inclination of a greeting, and the guard turns. “The King has been awaiting you.”

She starts forward, the other guard stepping to the side to allow you to pass. Speaking nothing, the two of you follow your guide up the hall. Despite the dozen or more times you’ve been in these halls, you can never remember what path leads where. Every hall seems like it goes for miles, so when the other Winter courtiers—Namjoon and the guard included—are able to find their way so easily, you wonder if Faerie is trying to play some kind of trick on you.

Then again, Fae age much slower than humans. Namjoon, himself, despite only looking to be in his late 20’s, is at least 100 years old. When he’d informed you of that fact some time ago you’d been shocked. Apparently the Winter King is far older.

Finally, after some time, a large archway comes into sight. The guard leads you up to the archway—which has no doors, just a fog similar to that of the entrance to Faerie—and then bows, and turns away. You and Namjoon are left standing there alone, and you feel the anxiety start to pool in your chest.

The Winter King is a figure you tend to want to avoid at all costs. If you imagine a beautiful, regale figure, but with an attitude that is never quite pleasant, and always seems on the verge of attack, then that’s the Winter King. Namjoon has years of practice hiding his emotions from him and saying all the things he wants to hear, but you? Nearly every time you’ve interacted with the King it seems like something goes wrong.

“As long as you don’t say anything out of line you will be fine,” Namjoon speaks up, his eyes lightening as he glances over at you. You appreciate the reassurance. Bracing yourself, you and Namjoon step through the doorway. It spits you out into a large bedroom—brilliant decorations made out of ice littering the room. Opposite to the entrance, on the far wall, is a large vanity. It is there where you spot the Winter King, 3 small handmaidens flitting about. In fact, when you look closer you see that one actually has wings—which likely makes doing the King’s hair much easier.

“My King,” Namjoon says, bowing onto his knee. You glance over, and hurriedly mimic him. Across the room the King glances up, his hazel eyes falling on you both. Namjoon had mentioned to you once that the King’s real name is Jimin, but that it’d be rude to address him as such. Only family and the closest of friends get to do so.

[heirs-of-prythian]

A Night of Nightmares and Surprises part. 1

Well I think I once said that I don't write fanfics. But here I am doing one and that's only part 1. But I couldn't resist writing this cute scene that had been in my head forever out. I hope you like it. I do. Please forgive me for any grammatical mistakes, since English is not my first language (come to think of it I would probably still ask for forgiveness if the fic was in my first language)

______________

In the middle of the night, little Artemas snaps his blue-grey eyes open and stares at the ceiling of his dark room. The whole house is eerily quiet. But something is wrong. Art feels it in the air. Something is going on. So Art scans his room again while sitting up. Clutching his stuffed toy wolf in his arms, the five-year-old goes through everything that could be going on.

The feeling is familiar and Art had definitely felt it before, but he is still to tired to figure it out. Therefore he closes his eyes to concentrate better. And than in a rush it comes to him.

The raven-haired boy throws his blanket off him and slips out of his bed.

He needed to do something. And he needed to get there fast.

With the wolf in his arms, Art pads into the hallway and turns right. After a few seconds he stands in front of a closed door. The feeling of dread is strong and it makes him slightly uncomfortable. Judging from the looks and sounds of it, nothing is wrong but Art knows better.

Rather than making a physical effort to open the door, Art uses his magic to open the door and take down some of the glamour spell to cover the whole event up. The door slowly opens and reveals a big and dark bedroom. Or to be more specific the master bedroom of the mansion. The windows are open and the curtains fly in the wind, but Art can just barely make them out. The room is unnaturally dark. Art could make out different types of darkness whirling everywhere but mainly on the floor.

After scanning the room, the heir of night focuses on the male on the bed. The male is on his hands and knees, his head pressed into the matress. Breathing fast and as if he was in pain, clutching the blanket.

The High Lord of the Night Court is having a nightmare.

Despite not liking to see his father in this state and wanting to help him, especially since he is the only one at home right now, Art didn't make an attempt to cross the threshold. The swirling darkness would most likely warn his father for and attack intruders. Not wanting for either to happen, Art stands with both of his feet planted on the floor, and goes over his options in his head.

Going in like this was risky, since his father could accidentally lash out on him. And Art knows his father would never forgive himself if that ever happens, even if nothing happens to Art. So he scans the room again, searching for something, anything that could help. But Art comes up empty handed after a while. Sighing and and absently petting his toy wolf, Art decides to go with the most safe, but also the most crude option.

He takes a step back and builds up a wind-shield across the doorframe. After taking a deep breath, Art uses his most scared and hurt voice he has in his repertoire.

"Daddy! Dad!", he cries out, and indeed sounding like he was in distress and in need of help.

His Father seems to hear him, since he flinched upon hearing his son sounding scared. But it isn't enough yet to wake him from his nightmare. And realising this, Art ups his game and starts to make crying noises and shouts in panic.

"DADDY!", Art sobs loudly.

And it works like a charm, his father whirls to the door, already half off the bed. The nightmare seems to be forgotten. He looked panicky, determined and ready to kill whoever is near his son to make him that scared.

But before Rhys had completely stand up, he spots Art in front of the door. Looking completely fine, as if he hadn't been scared just a few seconds ago. Coming to a stillstand, Rhys' eyes search for any kind of injuries on his son or signs on why his son had just cried out. But he comes up empty. Sighing in relief, he sits back on the bed and rubs his face with his hands.

His son was fine, Art was okay.

While his father was calming himself, Art hasn't moved an inch. No, he's watching his father like a hawk, not wanting to miss any signs on his father remembering his nightmare. And he doesn't need to wait long for it.

Because just as Rhys wanted to ask Art, why he was there, staring at him and why he keeps his distance, the nightmare comes back in a painful rush. Panic clogs his throat, eyes going wide and frantic, his back stiffens and his whole body starts shaking.

"Dad", it comes softly from Art, "it's just a nightmare. You are in Velaris. In your room."

Rhys tries to focus on his son, but his panic still rises. Something was missing, or rather someone. He tried to look around, but just as he starts to do so, his son cuts his thoughts off.

"Mom's in the Mortal Lands. And you know that, Dad. You brought her there yourself yesterday. She is fine. Nothing is going to happen to her. Or you. Or me.", Art says calmly and smoothingly. Still not moving.

While Art is rattling of calming facts to his father, they never break eye contact. After his breathing normalized, Rhys buried his face into his hands. And Art still hasn't moved, there was still magical darkness everywhere and he isn't taking any chances.

"Dad?", Art calls out, hugging his toy to his chest.

Lifting his face, Rhys replied looking at his adorable son.

"What, little moon?", his voice rough and soft, full with love.

"Can I hug you?"

"Of course, you know that you can always hug me. Why are you even asking this?", Rhys is slightly confused. Continuing the thought, his eyes widen and his panic starts coming back.

Did he scared his son because of the nightmare or worse did he hurt him?

But before Rhys could think himself into panic, Art declares with a pout:

"Your stupid magic is everywhere!"

And only than Rhys discovers the Darkness whirling in the floor. Sighing in relief again, - he didn't scared his son - he calls his magic back. And just managed to catch his son, who practically throw himself at him.

Winding his arms around his father's neck and petting his father's head, Art makes calming noises. Rhys just buries his head into his son's shoulder. They stayed like that for quite a while, slightly swaying back and forth.

_________

Tagging: @half-breed-witchling @thelaziestgeek @mindnumbmikey @starlightheir @iamthebonecarver

(if you want to get tagged, just let me know)

[ernmark]

Before this past episode, I had a rough guess for how I thought Damien and Rilla’s romance progressed. 

Hearing a bit of Rilla’s backstory, though, I’ve made some changes to that hypothesis. 

As always, I wrote a fic about it.

The man at the edge of the clearing is dressed for a ride, but there’s no horse to be seen. Most likely, it was killed by the same monster that did that to its rider. 

A shame about the horse, really. Dampierre could have used a friend. 

And the rider? 

Well, he’s a knight, and that means he isn’t her problem. She’s Amaryllis of Exile, after all, not Amaryllis of the Second Citadel. She owes no allegiance to the Citadel or its King or its pig-headed brute squad. She could just leave him here, alone and unprotected, the way his people did to her parents. To her.

She has no obligation to help him.

She does anyway. Not because she has to, just because she can.

Damien wakes up.

That is the first surprise-- usually one doesn’t come back after being wounded so grievously so far from home. He knew it was impossible when he set out on foot, but he thought at least he could make it easier for Angelo to find his body.

And yet here he is. Alive, by the mercy of the Saints and some good-natured stranger.

Oh. That.

That is the second surprise. 

He’s being watched by a... she must be a woman, though he’s heard of nymphs and sirens and gumiho who can wear such beauty as a glamour. Her long curls stream down her back and over her shoulder; absently she braids a few strands between her long, deft fingers. 

She seems... familiar, somehow. 

He sits up-- or tries, before he collapses back into a remarkably well-made cot.  On the floor lies his armor-- in pieces, parts of it bloodied and torn and parts of it methodically cut along the straps. 

He looks up at the woman again. “I’m alive?” He barely manages a croak.

“Not if you keep opening your wounds like that,” she replies, cold and disinterested and perhaps a bit annoyed. 

Has he annoyed her? 

“Forgive me for my intrusion,” he says. “But I am eternally grateful for your hospitality.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t know any other way to answer. “If I may know, who are you?”

Apparently he may not, because she doesn’t answer. Her only reply is a scowl. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of the knights of the King?”

That raises even more questions. Is she not from the Second Citadel? Did he get turned around and wander into another land? Where is he? 

He clears his throat. “There have been no knights of the King in quite some time. I serve Queen Mira of the Second Citadel.” 

The woman looks unimpressed. “You could have just said yes.”

Damien frowns. He knows that voice. He knows that face. He-- Yes. He knows her.

“I’ve heard of a witch who lives in the forest just outside the Citadel’s walls. That’s you, isn’t it?”

She bristles. “Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t make it magic. It’s science and medicine, not a bunch of bullshit tricks.”

“My apologies,” he says, bowing his head. “I misunderstood.” 

Damien nurses a cup of tea and a bowl of broth while the herbalist nurses her other patients. Yet another surprise: he never thought an alleged witch would receive so much custom, let alone one who lives in the middle of nowhere. And yet, she’s clearly worthy of their esteem. She is curt, but kind, and treats each of them with a speed and confidence that he could only wish for in the barracks.  

They bring her bolts of cloth and baskets of food, but when she puts it away, her pantries are worryingly bare. The pile of wood is low beside the fire.

“I imagine it would be easier for your patients to see you if you weren’t so far away,” he muses when the hut is once again empty of visitors. “And you would be safer inside the Citadel’s walls.”

“I’m sure I would, if I were allowed to set foot inside.” She dons a sardonic grin. “Didn’t I introduce myself? Amaryllis of Exile.” 

Exile. Yes, that would explain a good deal. His heart sinks, though he doesn’t understand why. “Sir Damien of the Second Citadel, at your service.” 

Still-- as always-- she is unimpressed. “I’m pretty sure you don’t serve people in exile.”  “But I extend it to you all the same.”

When he’s well enough to leave her hut, she doesn’t ask him for payment, and he has nothing to give-- he only carried a small amount of money with him for expenses, and that was lost. The most valuable things he owned were his bow and his armor, and both are destroyed. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Rilla says-- or, her patients call her Rilla, though he isn’t certain he may use such a familiar name. “You didn’t ask me to save you, so why should I ask you for money?”

Damien only wishes he understood her properly. “You’re a remarkable woman, Amaryllis.”

“And you can keep those remarks to yourself,” she says, but there’s no venom in it. “Take care of yourself, Damien.” 

Rilla thought she was done with the knight. And yet here he is, persistent as a weed. She considers slamming the door in his face. She doesn’t, but she considers it. 

“What in the world are you doing here?” she demands instead.

“I wanted to thank you.” You’d think someone as dangerous with a sword or bow or whatever wouldn’t fumble so much, but he almost drops the basket he’s carrying. “For what you did for me.”

“I told you not to worry about it,” she says flatly. She doesn’t look at that basket with any inkling of temptation, even when his fumbling dislodges its covering and reveals at least a week’s worth of supplies, and produces the distinct rattle of coins. “Without your intervention, I would have died.”

“That’s what medical professionals do,” she says, but sighs. “What did you put in that basket, lead weights? You look like you can barely carry it.” She takes it from him, expecting it to drag her down, but it doesn’t. By all means, it’s a regular basket. But even without its weight, his hand is shaking.

She frowns. “Let me take a look at that arm.”

“What? I didn’t mean to impose--”

“Just get in here,” she sighs, and ushers him inside. “We’ll call it even, since you’ve overpaid for your last visit.” 

When he pulls up his sleeve, his arm is covered in bruises and lacerations. 

“Saints,” she breathes. “It’s been all of-- what, a week since you left here? How in the world did you do this to yourself?” 

And maybe that was a bad question to ask, because he tells her as she mixes together herbs and applies poultices to his wounds. As much as she’d like to be annoyed, there’s something oddly engaging about the way he tells the story. It’s... charming, in a way. 

When the story ends, Rilla is enraptured, her eyes fixed on his, her face transfigured by her smile.

Only the Saints themselves could have sculpted such a radiant smile. 

He’s sure he would do anything to see it one more time.

“Sir Damien!” Sir Angelo cries after flipping Damien onto his back for the fourth time in twenty minutes. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s nothing.” Damien clears his throat and drags himself to his feet. “It seems you’re doing especially well today. All that practice is clearly paying off.” 

“You’re too kind,” Sir Angelo says, clapping an enormous hand against Damien’s aching back. “But that can’t be it. You’re terribly distracted. Tell me.” He hunches low and lowers his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that still manages to reach the farthest corners of the training field. “Is it... a woman?”

“A woman?” Damien’s laugh is about as effective as Sir Angelo’s whisper. “Of course not. Really, Angelo, that’s absurd. A woman. Ha! What a thought! As if I had the time for romance when there are monsters to slay and a Citadel to defend and evil-doers to apprehend.” 

“Of course not.” Sir Angelo gives him the least subtle wink Damien’s ever seen. “Perish the thought.”

Perish the thought. Yes, that would be wisest, wouldn’t it?

Because it is absurd, and Damien knows it. It’s just a bit of infatuation. Her kindness doesn’t imply interest, it’s just evidence of the kind of person she is. A single smile isn’t an invitation. 

He knows she doesn’t return his feelings. He knows that she never will. He shouldn’t intrude on her life.

The next time Rilla sees Damien, he’s a little more shy and a lot more quiet than he was before, but that might have something to do with the unfortunate contact rash that’s covering half his body. It’s pure chance that she runs into him at all-- he’s wandering aimlessly in the woods, his eyes swollen shut, and she barely manages to stop him before he crashes into a tree. 

She should be irritated, but there’s something kind of adorable about his flustered apologies as she walks him to her hut. Besides, it’s a fairly easy fix-- she’s been elbow-deep into noxious elderweed enough times now that she’s developed an effective treatment for it. Within an hour the rash is gone and he’s feeling well enough to chop her firewood and patch a leak in her roof.

And if he feels the need to do those tasks without his shirt on... well, she isn’t complaining. 

Damien is just going back to deliver Rilla’s payment. That’s all. 

That’s all. 

Because she’s his doctor, not his paramour, and he is determined to treat her as such. 

Even if the sight of her smile does as much to sooth his spirit as her salves do to sooth his body...

“No,” he says aloud. “I am her patient, and I ask nothing more of her than that.” 

But then another thought occurs to him. 

“But... is that too much? She’s a very busy woman, after all-- am I taking too much of her time? I’m certain she doesn’t see other patients as much as she does me. Am I pressuring her for attention? Am I annoying her? Saint Damien, should I leave her alone, or would she take that to mean I don’t respect her skills as an herbalist?”  The words fall out of his mouth so fast it feels like he’s choking on them. He can’t breathe. 

 “There are weeks when I haven’t stopped by-- did she feel relieved by my absence or was she insulted? Saint Damien, does she hate me?” 

His heart is racing. His blood is too cold in his veins. Saints save him, how could he have done everything so wrong?

“Damien?” For once, Rilla’s lovely voice is the last thing he wants to hear. He should excuse himself. He should stop bothering her. He should-- “Damien, what’s wrong?”

“I-- I can’t breathe--”

And then Rilla’s hands are on him, her fingers pressed to his throat. “Elevated pulse, hyperventilation...” She presses her ear to his chest, and he shouldn’t feel as happy about that as he does. “But no fluid in the lungs, no coughing, no obstruction... it doesn’t look like a seizure...” Her arms are wrapped around him, her hands steady on his back. It’s just to keep him from falling, and he knows it, and yet all his attention is drawn to the points of contact between his skin and hers. “Damien, is it some kind of allergy? Have you been poisoned?” 

“No,” he manages to choke out. “No, it’s--”

“Damien, look at me.” In that state he can do nothing but obey. Her eyes are entrancing, and he finds his breath caught in his throat. “Now. Breathe.” 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, breathing in tandem. Time seems to warp and shift until his heart begins to slow and his lungs remember the purpose they’re meant to serve. 

It’s excellent timing; the first drops of a rainstorm are filtering through the canopy overhead.

"My hut isn’t far from here,” Rilla says. “Can you make it?” 

For a moment, Damien can only sway, but he’ll make do. “Yes.”

Perhaps he should feel guilty about becoming her patient yet again, but he can only feel a relief as he steps back into the familiar herb-spiced air of her home. Before he knows what’s going on, she’s eased him into a chair and there’s a glass of cold tea in his hand. 

“Do you know what happened?” she asks. “Can you talk about it?”

“It’s nothing, really,” he admits. Of all the people to witness an episode, it had to be her. But then, of course it would have been her. “They happen from time to time, and they pass on their own. It’s just a-- a fit of nervousness that goes too far. I apologize if I worried you.”

Rilla looks at him oddly. “I’m a little bit surprised,” she admits. “You’d think someone who fights monsters for a living wouldn’t have all that much to be afraid of.”

He attempts a smile, but it feels more like a grimace spread across his lips. “It isn’t monsters that frighten me.” It’s absurd. What must Rilla think of him? He waits for her to laugh, but she doesn’t. 

She’s looking away from him, crushing rain-damp herbs with a mortar and pestle. With every creak of grinding stone, the herb releases a sweet, fresh scent. And all the while, she sings.

Her eyes are fixed on her work with an intensity that he knows all too well: she’s self-conscious, and trying to push through it. 

She, too, is nervous.

He watches her, enraptured, as she passes from one song to another, and then to another, and the drumming of rain on the rooftop and thunder in the trees act as her percussion until they drown out her notes.

“It’s really coming down out there,” she muses, sidling up beside him.

“It is.” For the first time since she started singing, he tears his eyes off her and looks out the window, and into the gathering dark. “It will be dark soon. I should be going.”

“In this weather?” she asks. “That can’t be safe.”

“I’ve dealt with worse than a little rain.”

“I would know,” she says flatly. “I’ve patched you up from it. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” He can feel her eyes on him. “You can spend the night here. Wait out the storm.”

He fumbles-- “I couldn’t-- I wouldn’t want to besmirch your honor.” 

She laughs. “Damien, I’m in exile. My honor can’t get much more besmirched than that. Unless it’s your honor that you’re worried about.” 

He knows what she’s asking: is he ashamed of her?

“it isn’t,” he stammers too quickly. “You must know it isn’t-- I would never insult you that way, but I wouldn’t dare to presume-- you must understand that I would be honored, but I couldn’t ask--” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore; his tongue has tied itself in knots and his words are all wrong, but Rilla presses a finger to his lips.

“Damien, stop. Breathe.” She’s smiling, soft and fond and a little bit sad. “If you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to explain yourself. A simple no is enough.” 

And not for the first time, he recalls what he would do for that smile. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “But I do want to stay.” 

“Then just say so.” And she kisses him. 

And tentatively, awkwardly, blissfully, he kisses her back.

[elyelsonfree]

So I’m in a D&D campaign where I’m playing a zombie named Alice who joined a bounty hunting organization with her necromancer/friend Evan and one of the stipulations was wearing a charm to keep her dead...ness...from being obvious. SO I wrote a short scene of her getting that charm because drawing the comic for this is going to take 800 years and I’m an impatient bitch lmao. Anyway I figure why not post it, enjoy this short scene I wrote for funsies.

Alice zipped up her pack, having double and triple checked that she hadn't forgotten anything. She did a check in the mirror to make sure her armor was straight and proper; the last team leader had gone on sabbatical and she wanted to ensure she didn't look like a total dumb-ass in front of whoever the new one was.

“Okay, same as always; I should be back either tonight or tomorrow, but I'll send word if I get delayed more than three days; though I'd probably be back before it got here, heh. I'm tryin' ta stay optimistic that it'll be a quick check and we'll find out the town's just bein' whipped up into a frenzy or somethin'. Should be nothin' to worry about, kay?” She turned and smiled at her friend, who had been watching her worriedly since she'd started to pack. “Seriously.” She walked over to Evan, putting her hands on their shoulders. “I'll be back before you know it. Seeing how you get wrapped up in your projects, you probably won't even notice I'm gone.”

Evan's mouth was a thin line firmly pressed together. This close she really noticed how dark the circles under their eyes were getting; she wondered if she had more to worry about them than they did about her. They looked as if they wanted to say something, but they broke eye contact and deflated a bit, looking towards the pack. “Alright. If you lose any limbs, do your best to collect them and bring them back with you so I can re-attach them.”

Alice laughed, dropping her grip on their shoulders. “Haven't lost any yet.”

“Seriously,” Evan persisted.

“I'll keep it in mind.”

“It'd be expensive, and I don't know how well you'll take to donors.”

“Hah, I know! I'm not too keen on losing limbs myself, y'know.”

Evan nodded, satisfied in that response. They dug around in their pocket for a moment. “There's one more thing before you go,” they produced a small package and held it out to Alice. “Here.”

Alice took it, examining it briefly. It was a small package wrapped in parcel paper, tied with a string in a little bow. “Aw shucks, a present?” she grinned, pulling on the string and unfolding the paper to reveal a jade ring on a length of rope. A necklace. “Huh, nice.” She grinned. “Is it my birthday?”

Evan looked a little uncomfortable, shifting on their feet. “Serge said,” They closed their eyes, sighing. “Since he's not big on the whole necromancy thing, and the general public might be uncomfortable with a 'zombie' just...running around...he wanted me to make sure you had a glamour. You know, to make it easier to blend in.”

Alice nodded, none too bothered by the idea. She'd gotten used to her appearance, but she recognized she was too conspicuous. Being a walking, talking reminder of mortality made it a bit difficult to blend in. She slipped the rope around her neck, and noticing nothing happened, tucked the ring under her shirt so it'd have skin-to-skin contact.

The change was instant; her mottled, greenish skin was flushed and tan again, a healthy complexion. Her now pink lips almost looked chapped to her compared to how pale they'd been a moment ago. Her hair hadn't changed much, it was still black and green, but it looked shinier and healthier. What had seconds ago been wounds stitched shut, some hastily and some with surgical precision, were now scars that looked long-since healed. Her right eye still didn't work, and it still looked milky, but seeing the whites of her eyes being...well, white again...she didn't realize how much of a difference that would make.

Alice exhaled slowly, a wave of sadness and longing washing over her for just a moment. She shook it off and smiled, turning to Evan. “Can't even tell the diff—” The look on Evan's face had the words dying in her mouth. Their expression twisted with guilt, she could tell Evan was uncomfortable. Absently, Evan reached for her hand. Still cold.

The silence stretched on for too long.

Evan dropped her hand.

“Don't....don't wear it around me, okay?”

Alice look skeptical. “Aren't I nicer to look at this way?” Evan tsked, looking away.

“You're always nice to look at,” Then, briefly flushing, they stumbled to correct themself. “That is—how you look isn't important to me, if you're comfortable, it's—it was shitty of me to try to tell you what to do, whatever you want to look like, it's fine.”

“Hey.” Evan looked up from the floor a bit sheepishly, their face burning. Alice's smile was gentle, and she clapped a hand on their shoulder again. “It's okay. It's weird, and I wish we didn't have to do this either, but I'm okay with it if this means we aren't gonna be killed for messin' with “dark” magic or whatever. You do have t' stop blamin' yourself for my situation though, okay? You'll figure it out, I know you will. In the mean time, I'm okay. We're okay. Okay?”

Evan looked up at her for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath and wiping at their eyes, they nodded. “Okay.” The response was soft, barely above a whisper. “Okay,” they clarified, louder, nodding. “This is okay. This will just take some getting used to.” They smiled, and Alice could tell they were faking it, but better to put on a brave face and push through than dwell on what neither of them could change. Yet.

“Alright, I'm gonna go before they send a search party for me. Take care of yourself while I'm gone, alright? I don't wanna come back and find ya passed out on a stack of books again, ya goddamn nerd.”

Evan laughed, genuinely and loudly, a tired grin spreading across their face. “This goddamn nerd is trying to bring your sorry ass back from the dead, have some respect.”

Alice snorted, grabbing her pack off the bed and slinging it over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, just remember to take a bath and eat something once in awhile. I'll see ya later.” “See you later. Be safe.” “I will.” Alice closed the door behind her, only pausing for a moment to let out a shaky breath. They were gonna be okay.

[silveredglass]

(I don’t really know what this is, but I kept thinking about this & ..)

A leaf blows in his face. It’s large and orange and a little spiky; the edge of it scratching his cheek, already sensitive from the cold, as he swats it away. But it’s the leaf blowing in his face which finally gets Teddy to laugh.

It’s been like this lately. Teddy silent and sullen. Harry filling in their outings with one-sided chatter and far too many treats. He looks down at Teddy, his giant ignored ice-cream dripping over his hand as the smile fades from his face too quickly.

Draco had suggested it was a phase, nothing for them all to worry about much, he'd made a joke saying that Teddy was advanced for his age, 'All the Black children are of course, he's probably entering his sullen teens early.' But before they went to Andromeda’s for Sunday lunch the next week he'd gone out to Diagon and come home with half of Ron and George's inventory as well as a Firebolt branded training broom from Quality Quidditch; all this with Teddy's birthday seven months away still.

Teddy hasn't even taken the broom around the garden yet.

So, Harry is looking down at Teddy, as the smile disappears too quickly and there is something in his young face in that moment which reminds him so much of Remus that Harry feels his chest almost ache with it. For the hundredth time, he wonders what is wrong. 

Harry reaches out and runs his hand over Teddy's soft, light brown hair, and as he does, a tendril of a thought creeps into his mind and settles there accompanied by a sort of guilty dread. All this time, and he’s just realised he hasn't actually asked Teddy himself what is wrong.

He tries to remember if Andromeda has actually mentioned if she's asked him either. He knows she's chatted with his teachers, but he can't remember her saying that she's asked Teddy directly. He's sure if he asked Draco he'd say that he had. And he probably has, Harry thinks fondly, just in some sort of indirect and completely indecipherable to anyone else but Draco manner.

Harry brings the leaf back up to his cheek and pokes himself with it absentmindedly. He needs to talk to Teddy straight away. What an idiot he’s been. "Teddy, come sit down a moment." He says gently, even though he feels a little frantic, a little unsteady with his need to rectify things now. Now!

Harry takes some of what Hermione calls ‘Harrys-three-deep-breaths-he-promises-me-he’ll-take-before-following-a-trail-of-spiders-into-a forbidden-forest’ as he guides an unprotesting, but decidedly scuffing his shoes on the ground Teddy over to one of the benches that line Broadwalk.

When they sit down Harry takes the ice-cream from Teddy and mutters a quick "Depulso" followed by a wiggle of his fingers over Teddy’s own and "Tergeo." Teddy shakes his no longer sticky hands and looks at them curiously.

"Shouldn't do magic in public Harry." He whispers.

"That's true Ted. But I didn't touch my wand, just did it quick like."

"Cousin Draco would say you're a show off."

Harry grins, "He would. That's true." Harry watches Teddy for a while. He wonders how long his hair has been that unchanging light brown for. He opens his mouth. And shuts it.

He goes to run his other hand through his hair and he realises he still has the leaf in his hand. Again he pokes his cheek with it.

"Harry, are you going to make me go to the pirate ship soon?"

And. Well. The wording of that is all wrong.

For some reason Harry's heart is jumping round in his chest. He feels proper nervous. "Ted.” He starts. Deep breath, “What's up mate. You seem very sad lately."

Teddy slides off the seat so he's just really leaning against it and starts skimming his foot back and forth across the pavement.

"Ted?"

Teddy turns and looks at Harry suddenly, "Can't tell you."

And he's not sure why, but Harry holds up the giant London plane tree leaf in front of his face and says in a silly voice, "What about Mr Leaf-head? Can you tell Mr Leaf-head?"

x

When Draco steps out of the Floo the drawing room is empty, but interesting. For starters, there is a half empty bottle of Firewhiskey on the original Finn Juhl Ash wood side table, next to a lowball glass that is not on a coaster. Which yes. That's interesting. As well as this there are several bags on the floor, Boots. Draco knows what that is. Some type of Muggle shop.

He picks up the closest bag, it's full of boxes. About six of them. Draco picks up the next bag. Same thing. Same thing, different colours. Then Draco remembers, Harry had Teddy this afternoon.

Draco twists his wrist and let's his wand drop down into his hand and spells the twenty tiny pearl buttons that run along from his collarbone over his left chest open. He shrugs off his robe, dropping it on the sofa and, pausing only to pick up the bottle and take two quick swigs right from the neck, he goes upstairs.

He finds Harry in the bathroom on the second floor. He's sitting on the closed toilet, reading a garishly coloured publication named ‘Beauty and Haircare Charms and Potions for Twitches and Twizards.’ Something smells artificial and odd. And there is a lot of blue gunk all over the sink, the mirror and Harry's hair.

Draco leans against the door frame and takes another swig. Harry looks up at him and his stupid lovely eyes look bloodshot.

"What in the name of Merlin's most baggy ones is a Twitch?"

Harry's voice is a little rough, but he answers with a feeble attempt at his trademark crooked grin, "Apparently it's an almost teenage witch."

"Ah." Draco nods.

"Teddy." Harry says, gesturing towards the sink with a jut of his chin.

And Draco nods again.

"He..." Harry starts. But stops.

"Draco..." He tries again.

Draco looks at the bottle. He has another sip and holds it out to Harry who grabs it and swigs.

"He's been sad for how long do you think now?"

Draco rubs his lip. "Not sure."

"Before Christmas would you say?"

"I suppose. Months now. Six or so?"

"Yeah." Harry sounds angry. He is looking at Draco again, eyes bright and hard. "Since the Christmas concert at his school maybe?"

Draco makes an uncommitted noise.

“We never asked him what was wrong. We all talked about him. We talked to other people. We tried to cajole him with treats, took him to every bloody fancy day out we could think of, for fucks sake Draco we went to Barry Island and you drove a dodgem car!”

“Yes. I went to Barry Island, I’m unlikely to forget. Give that bottle back.” Draco says drily, but it’s an imitation of his usual light sarcasm. The truth and the meaning of Harry’s words are washing over him.

“But we never asked him what was wrong.” Harry’s voice cracks a little.

Draco sips from the bottle again and feels heat climb up his face, rush down his neck to his stomach. It’s not just the whiskey. 

He could say he tried. He could tell Harry how he’d told Teddy the story about the dragon toy that Grandma Malfoy had crocheted for him and how upset he’d been when one of his father’s crups had ripped it up and how his Mother had taken him out to show him a Peacock nest, nestled between some huge clumps of grass near a copse trees and told him to watch the eggs... However, Teddy hadn’t really seemed to understand what Draco had been saying and now he thinks about it, Draco isn’t sure either. Also, he’s not sure that the birth of more annoying birds that paraded around and pecked him at been any comfort at all at the time.

He’s been staring absently at the white tiles that line the wall by the bath, he glances to the mirror and meets Harry’s eyes in the reflection. He drops his gaze to that scar on his chest from the locket that is still raised and pink against Harry’s brown skin, even after all these years. Draco sucks in a shivering breath. 

Harry must have worked out that no one had asked Teddy what was making him so sad and just bloody gone and done it. Draco can see it as clear as if a pensive memory; Harry suddenly realising that they’d all gone around half-cocked and not hesitating, but instead needing instantly to put things right. Merlin, Draco hopes they hadn’t been on the merry-go-round near the entrance to the playground, Harry would have charmed the whole thing to a stop and caused some sort of statute breaking scene straight away. He looks back up to meet Harry’s eyes again and feels something welling inside him. This galloping instinctive man that he’s grown to love so much, who himself is just a mess of loyalty and love and almost stupidly good intentioned bravery.

He has no idea why Harry has bought a shop worth of muggle hair dye, or why he’s covered the bathroom and his own stupid unruly head in blue muck, especially when Draco can very quickly teach him some easy glamours to make his hair any colour he wants, but it’s all so Harry. Needing a practical solution to whatever problem he has found out about, and needing it straight away. Fuck.

Draco crosses the floor in two quick steps and kneels between Harry’s legs, the bottle clinking on the tiles as he puts it down roughly, one hand tight on Harry’s warm solid forearm and one wrapping around Harry’s neck he pulls him in and kisses him hard and long.

[ournorablr-blog]

Pandora jewelry collections which have been holding

Present in cyberwrold you will discover certainly remarkable pandora black friday sites to consult with and then study from, yet unfortunately it's also possible to find men or females crawling the researching to manipulate the specific weaknesses. With all the substantial rise in via internet web based net sites workout. are probably commonly it's wrong to advice and also swapping footage via absolute guests. Parents or guardians of young children and teenagers employing web pages like the Websites like myspace as well as Social networks absolutely require tools and equipment that can help them to record the actual children's pastimes. Inspection software packages that experts claim hails from PC Pandora is seen as a overseeing computer program so that you to definitely report exactly what's going on on your laptop. It can help your family track many techniques from screenshots, email, swift messaging and consequently just the thing internet resources of were to. Pandora charms are portion of the great Pandora jewelry black friday pandora charms collections that have also been holding page of Glamour magazine in the neck and wrists of countless famous actresses. For a long time period, Pandora Jewelry on the marketplace as exclusive products possibly not had any competition and lots of other businesses in progress by imitation or copy of your concept of jewelry. As a way to meet new market requires, the company focused with custom Pandora charms just to regain its dominance plus market influence. This is reflected inside Danish jewelry line will be based upon a very unique concept image. Charm bracelets joined together across several sectors of small accounts, different accounts, spacers, charms and clips might be attached to all your bands for an accentuation on the personal touch. On the opposite hand, another way to draw attention will be the combination of regular Pandora expensive jewelry with cultured pearls plus precious stones. + If you are girlfriend is into fashion or is keen on wearing special jewelry pandora christmas charms accessories, the most notable choice of Christmas gifts for her could well be jewelry like Pandora bracelets. It doesn't have to get too expensive, but its distinctive fashion has made itself differentiate yourself. If you think it too simple to choose up one, you could combine several pieces of these, and they will definitely appreciate your thoughtful soul. As one of the most famous fashion jewelry, Pandora jewelry has a distinctive charm. You will often have noticed its name, pretty magic and very balconies and an abundance. By choosing Pandora rings as top Christmas gifts abdominal muscles to worry about obtaining identical one. The primary value connected with Pandora jewelry lies in strategies. The unique design of Pandora jewelry helps wearers express themselves partly because Pandora jewelry could be personalized. Whatsoever males and females prefer to get the most last gadgetry and pandora disney collection car powered products virtuous much as the name new small plus fatless PSP and marque established new remarkable definition televisions spell another grouping should get unsurpassed jewellery producershonorable comparable tiffany and Leo Pathway. Purchasing electric supercharged items can sure helpfulness women and men decompress, Tiffany Silver Anklet bracelets uk, but intellection nigh that both males and females seat the age from the second at run plus unlikely the asylum, it mightiness head representation purchasing one occurrence they are competent to see each of the reading? Feat tiffany allows individuals to terminate this as they are able to spot on tiffany at their arm mainly, as vessel as neighbour with their neck? This signifies that both males and females can continually stroll neighbor to of their evening to daytime standards of living and convey absent its adornment.