#roaming faerie shop

[thewhimsicalnugget]

🚀👽🚀👽🚀👽🚀👽🚀👽🚀

[venturethroughtheveil]

Beyond The Pines [Pt. I]

[Series description: Two years ago, dad died from cancer, leaving you to raise your younger sister, Vivian, alone. Your best friend, Ellie, was one of the few support systems you had until your feelings for her seemingly put a strain on your relationship. When Vivian goes missing, can you trust Ellie to help bring her back?]

[Author comments: I've put together an audio to go play along as you read. Voices are *ALL* AI-generated using ElevenLabs. I did not include Y/N's voice in order to preserve your own inner dialogue. This series will be slow-burn, and will have smut and graphic depictions of violence. 18+ only.]

[Credit to Youtube Channels Ambient City (horse stables); Hursty Outdoors (walking/snow); Music: Gustavo Santaolalla (Opening Suite; Longing; Unbound)]

Be sure to expand the audio to play from the beginning!

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You slipped a glove off, braving the winter chill to scavenge your jacket pockets.

Sugar cube.

A rare commodity for your generation; you were lucky to find a small box of them while scavenging a ravaged coffee shop. You twiddled the rock-hard substance between your thumb and index, anything to dissociate from the girls’ conversation. Something about Dina falling into a pile of shit; you tried not to smile at that.

Fresh, powdered snow crunched beneath the heel of your boots. The warm glow of faerie lights danced across the ground at the stable’s entrance. 

Jackson was quiet. Peaceful. Safe. A stark contrast from the nightmarish infected and worse – bandits – roaming the mountains outside town limits.

They pass you.

“C’mere, Phantom,” The sleek, black mare whinnied and happily trotted into her refuge, “my pretty girl.”

She was a young horse, strong, with a spitfire nature. You had that in common.

When you weren’t on duty, you and Ellie used to race her and Shimmer on Cirque Trail, stopping to stuff your pockets full of wild huckleberries, which Joel made into killer pies. You frowned at the thought.

Gently, you threaded your hands through Phantom’s mane, silently thanking her for keeping you safe another day.

"Because you've been so good today," you murmur, presenting the sugar cube in a cupped hand. Immediately, Phantom gnashes it between her teeth, nose flaring.

Her face is just too comical. You laugh, wiping the slobber from your palms on your worn blue jeans.

The shrill creak of another stable door shutting disrupts the moment. Dina laughs at something Ellie says.

“Night, Ellie.”

From your peripheral, you see the woman leave.

The last six hours of patrol were miserable, from the clutch of infected you cleared to the dry dialogue between you and your friends.

Well, you were friends until three months ago at the town dance when you watched Ellie and Dina kiss. At this, you passed your glass of whiskey off to an equally dumbfounded Jesse and walked straight out of the hall, tears pricking your eyes and bile rising in your throat.

Beyond patrols with them– which, despite your pleas, Maria continued to schedule, likely to force a reconciliation – you hadn’t talked to either since.

Apart from working well together, you and Dina weren’t inseparable, so avoiding her has been relatively easy. On the other hand, avoiding Ellie, your ex-best friend, has been excruciating. No matter how hard she tried – showing up at your door in the dead of night to beg you to come outside, leaving joints on your windowsill, landing snowballs square in the back of your head – Ellie couldn’t get more than cut-and-dry responses out of you.

Eventually, she stopped trying.

Part of you was embarrassed at your childish behavior, but you couldn’t face her, not after that night.

You closed the latch to Phantom’s stable, hyper-aware of the forest green eyes that bore into your side profile.

Without a word, you make your way over toward Mike, who was on duty tonight.

“Hey - thanks again for picking up a shift so short notice, Y/N,” he gave you a sympathetic smile, “with the horde that’s passing through, we can’t be too careful.”

‘Bullshit. This is all Maria.’

“Sure, don’t mention it” Your tone was casual, but irritation and exhaustion were etched into your features. Desperate to go home and avoid Ellie – who was clearly waiting for you, you quickly scribbled in the logbook.

‘Four runners + three clickers in Tetonia. Cleared.’

You said goodnight to Mike and walked straight past the freckled girl. She was propped up against the stable entrance, brows furrowed and lips in a tight line. She looked tired.

“Uh - hey...”

You keep walking.

“…okay…”

‘Fuck off,’ you wanted to say. Instead, you shook your head and gripped your backpack tighter, eyes unable to meet hers.

No more stargazing with her. No more all-nighters snuggled up watching cheesy 1980s horror films. No more spitballing ideas for her next set of tattoos – a rabbit skull; an arrow; the numbers 000129 – she never explained that one; an ouroboros. No more. You had bigger things to worry about.

She made her choice, and it wasn’t you.

‘UGH,’ Your face scrunched up in a cringe.

She could have at least told you. While her head was in your lap – your fingers gently combing her auburn locks to the soft tune of Johnny Cash’s Hurt filling your bedroom – she was dreaming of Dina the whole time.

And you could have it all, my empire of dirt.

I will let you down.

I will make you hurt.

Heat bloomed across your face in embarrassment. You never told Ellie that you loved her – that you were in love with her – hell, you didn’t even understand it until you saw them lock lips at the dance. Now, you were cursed to watch them fall in love while you self-isolated and grew more bitter by the day.

The walk home was about thirty minutes from the stables. A good chunk of land on the outskirts of Jackson that's been in the family for generations.

Hopefully, your sister wasn’t asleep. You needed to vent.

‘If I walk fast, I’ll probably get home at 10ish.’

Fragrant pine and earth filled your frost-nipped nostrils. Even with your heavy parka, and thick, fur-lined boots, the cold settled deep in your bones. Without a flashlight, seeing your hands in front of your face would be impossible. It was that dark out.

The metal of your keys stung your battered hands. You became keenly aware of something behind you as you turned the lock. No need to reach for your pistol; it was obvious who was in your driveway.

‘How the fuck did I not notice her?’

“So, you’re stalking me now?” Without turning around, you tapped the heel of your boots against the worn, wooden deck to knock off the snow. You then kneeled to untie them. “Go home, El.” There was an authority in your voice.

Footsteps approached, crunching through the snow. 

“Maybe I’m not here to see you,” Ellie shrugged, “maybe I’m here to see Vivian.”

“I really doubt that.”

You turned and looked up at her, batting snowflakes from your lashes. It was the first time you’d really studied her face in weeks.

Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, cheeks hollow as if she’d not slept or eaten, yet, with that constellation of freckles smattered across her face, the deep forest green of her eyes, those lips, she was still the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen, more beautiful than any model from those Vogue magazines your sister collects.

“You look like shit.” You lied.

“Gee, thanks.” A smile tugged at the corner of Ellie’s lips. “Can I come in? It’s cold as shit out here.”

You hesitated; time seemingly slowed as you studied her. Ellie’s eyes met yours, unwavering. That stupid cocky smirk was still etched into her face.

“Take your shoes off,” you conceded. “Don’t track horse shit into my house.”

Family pictures, odds and ends from your grandparents’ vacations to Maine, and cheesy words of affirmation your mother hung years ago adorned the entrance of your home. It wasn’t your style, but it felt wrong to take them down.

Ellie’s eyes traveled around the room, searching for changes.

The cabin was simply too spacious for just Vivian and yourself. Two stories tall, there were four rooms and three baths. Maria has scheduled to move incoming residents downstairs sometime next month. This angered you more than Viv. This was your family’s home, and you certainly didn’t want strangers sleeping in what once was your parents’ bedroom. You didn’t have any say in the matter.

Your younger sister, on the other hand, was enthusiastic. For her, it was ‘too quiet,’ being just the two of you. You couldn’t really blame her, though. Most interactions between you since your dad’s passing have stuck to mostly your venting about patrols and Maria and all the house repairs needed. Vivian would talk about her newest boyfriend – if you can even call them that – the boys never lasted more than a month.

Dad passed two years ago from cancer.

It was a devastating loss to both of you, but you especially had little time to grieve. Vivian was just 14 at the time. She’d started supervised patrols with Jesse only one week prior. Dad was proud.

When everything went to shit, you took extra patrols to cover Viv’s duties. You did this for a few reasons, to let her have the chance to be a kid and grieve, to provide for your baby sister, and to avoid facing the reality of your situation. You two were alone in the world, and you weren’t ready to raise a 14-year-old.

Ellie made the extra effort to be there for you both. She’d walk Vivian to school and training, cook dinner, and often help with chores. She’d spend ration coupons on old, crumbling makeup or cheap-smelling candles that your sister adored.

It wouldn’t be totally out of character for Ellie to walk all this way to check on Viv, not at this hour, though, and you both knew it.

‘So why did you let her in?’

You set your shoes down at the entrance, inviting Ellie to do the same. The grandfather clock in the adjacent dining room read 10:13 pm.

“I’ll tell Vivian you’re here. I’m gonna head to bed –“

“Come on, Y/N,” Ellie grabs your arm, “I can’t live like this anymore. You don’t answer the door, you won’t talk to me,” she grips you tighter, “you won’t even fucking look at me.”

Her touch burned your skin. You try to yank back your hand to no avail. She was much stronger than you.

“I fucking miss you, I miss my best fucking friend, and I don’t even know what I did wrong.” Her eyes are pleading, desperate.

“Let go of me, asshole,” you demand in a whisper-yell. “you’re gonna fucking wake Viv.”

But it was useless; Ellie’s eyes were determined, glossy, as if she were on the verge of tears.

She pulls you closer to her, chest pressed against yours, and you’re sure she can feel your heartbeat pounding out of your ribcage. This is too close. Intimately close.

“Talk to me. Say what you need to say.” She demands. “yell at me, hit me – anything – so we can move on and pretend you haven’t been acting fucking insane the last few months.”

Her lips are too close to yours.

“Don’t make me.” Your voice was small, eyes welling with tears. Emotions that had been bottled for the past three months. It was your turn to beg. Beg her not to do this. Not here, not ever. All you wanted was to grieve the loss of your friendship and move on so you could get your shit together for your sister. There was no room for weakness in your life anymore. Cutting her off is easier than a painful rejection.

Ellie’s eyes searched yours for an answer, and her lips were pulled in a frown.

“I need to know, Y/N.”

‘Don’t do it.’

You weren’t the best at impulse control. It was a trait you got from mom, something you thought you’d begun to improve at. But the body heat between you, the desperation in Ellie’s eyes, and her nails digging into your now-bare shoulders were too much.

Ellie’s lips were chapped compared to yours. Salty from the tears that had flown moments prior. The kiss was innocent, sad. Your lips moved gently against her still ones. This wasn’t how you dreamt it happening.

The kiss was over as soon as it began.

Ellie pulled back, freeing you from her iron grip. You both stood there, facing each other for an eternity. The grandfather clock ticked loudly.

She looked dumbstruck, cheeks blooming red, and it wasn’t from the cold.

“Shit”

White-hot shame finally engulfed you as you realized what you’d just done.

‘So much for self-control.’

Without another word, you grabbed the jacket at your feet and rushed upstairs, two steps at a time.

Part of you wanted to seek refuge in your sister’s room, cuddle up, and cry into her shoulder like when you were kids and mom and dad would have screaming matches downstairs. Instead, you barged into your room and locked the door behind you.

Ellie doesn't follow.

[ofstormsandsaints]

You could do a post about Yui and her outfits when she was still living with her father in the church (along with some headcanons)? It's canon that Yui had a rather austere and humble life, so I'm guessing her clothes were always used or second hand.

It's longer than I expected-

Fashion Headcanon - a Yui Komori lookbook

Humble coquette meets the church girl roaming in a forest full of violets.

-Her colour palette is soft. So, so soft.

-Beige, white, pale pink, baby blue mixed with bits of faded navy blue and brown.

-Loves plaid pattern or those very delicate floral designs on clothes, colours slightly washed out, making everything cohesive.

-Doesn't mind vibrant colours in general. She finds beauty in many, many things but she knows that jewel shades will look garnish on her.

-Yui prefers when her clothes aren't too tight around her chest. Her tops are generally puff sleeved, off-shoulder with ruffles on the neckline to blur the shape of her torso.

-That, even before those fuckers would make her self-conscious about her chest. Pricks.

-When wearing tank tops or t-shirts, she would wear a cardigan or a wrap-up top that has subtle strips of white lace at the end of its sleeves.

-She's simply more confortable with showing her legs or her shoulders. For instance, she loves how her pale curls fall and brush the line of her shoulders. (but the diaboys too😔)

-Knitted mittens, square necklines, lacy lolita socks, vintage chiffon blouse embedded with little flowers, myosotis, daisies, stars of Bethlehem.

-She knows how to sew and to mend her clothes when it's needed. She is cautious with her belongings though.

-Wears second-hand clothes. Because life at the church was obviously more austere and Yui grew without the materialistic need to buy and own stuff just to see it piled up in her closet. Plus, she never wanted to appear spoiled rotten or anything.

-But she likes second hand clothes also because the fabric is soft. It's comforting for her to know that the clothes she owns now, had a life before.

-These grandma blouses with small embroidered details on the sleeves or on the collar ? Stan.

-Second hand fashion allowed her to explore a different sense of fashion - to create outfits that looked good on her and not trying to look like models in magazines. So you can find a sweet blending of reminiscent 2000s and 60s fashion in the way she dresses.

-Keeps her outfits simple and practical all in all, because she's known for being quite active.

-She cooks, cleans, helps the nuns in the garden or during charitable works.

-Therefore, she would never wear heels too high, skirts too long or too short.

-When going out to do some groceries, she always ends up looking at some shops, as there is something soothing for her in watching all these different clothes and shoes displayed behind the window. She doesn't buy anything, but she envies just a little bit the groups of girls who enter these shops, giggling and ready to buy something nice.

-No jeans or leather jackets like the girls of her age. Her father didn't allow her to wear those - he never even bought her clothes.

-Well. Not never never, but until very late, Seiji would only gift her books, stationary supplies, some tea...but never clothes, makeup or jewellery. This, combined with a certain solitude and the absence of a feminine figure in her life, Yui didn't have much choice but to observe a lot. She wanted to care about her appearance. She didn't know how at first.

-Interestingly, books and art influenced her style. Without even realising it, Yui would become the modern version of spring faerie, living a peaceful life in rhythm with the bell and the services.

-Spends hours making jewellery.

-The floral hair pins and the matching necklace? Her doing.

-She is crafty and loves doing activities that require patience and creativity, pearls glistening under the sun, tinkering with little hearts and stars. Nothing complicated. Just what she needs to give that graceful faerie twist to her outfit.

-She works like this, at her vanity or on a bench outside, in front of the garden for hours. Sewing or crafting the most precious details that no one except her will notice. She works until her eyes are tired and the tea remaining at the bottom of her cup is cold. But it is during time like this, that she feels the most a peace. The happiest.

[wheelchair-wizard]

Irish Mythology.

VOL 10

The Sluagh. Soul Stealers.

Of all the wonders and terrors in Irish folklore there are few quite so terrifying as the Sluagh. Tales were told of their wild hunt long before the coming of Christianity to Ireland, and even today old folk in the countryside will keep the windows on the west side of the house fastened tight at all times, but most especially during wakes or if someone in the house was unwell, for fear of the Sluagh coming to pay a midnight visit on their humble homes.

Wicked or saintly, kind or cruel, the Sluagh play no favourites, they'll take the souls of all that cross their path, although some say they have a particular taste for the living spirits of those who have found true love. The ancients used to think they were faerie gone terribly wrong, warped and twisted, without fear, reason or mercy. When the light came to Ireland they became the souls of lost sinners seeking to drag the unfaithful down to hell with them, but the result was the same.

The host of the unforgiven dead roam the earth on Samhain, Halloween, and it is for this reason that all fires were forbidden on that night in times gone by, so as not to attract their attention. Even death itself was no release for the souls they captured joined them on their hunt, spiralling throughout the lands of Ireland and further abroad on that darkest of nights.

Said one monk in times of yore, "The spirits fly about in great clouds, up and down the face of the world like the starlings, and come back to the scenes of their earthly transgressions. No soul of them is without the clouds of earth, dimming the brightness of the works of earth. In bad nights, the Sluagh shelter themselves behind little russet docken stems and little yellow ragwort stalks. They fight battles in the air as men do on the earth."

If denied their rightful - as they see it - feast, they don't balk at the slaughter of cattle, cats, dogs, and sheep with their poison darts. It is said that the Sluagh "commanded men to follow them, and men obeyed, having no alternative. It was these men of earth who slew and maimed at the bidding of their spirit-masters, who in return ill-treated them in a most pitiless manner. They would be rolling and dragging and trouncing them in mud and mire and pools."

In the form of a vast flock of black ravens twined about with undulating shadows they came, the echoes of their wings being found in stories of ill-omened birds heralding bad times ahead. The truly broken hearted might be attacked, or the foolish or unlucky might call them upon themselves by uttering the name Sluagh nine times over and over, pronounced sloo-ah for fear you might say it yourself, perhaps in a fit of sneezing. Upon closer inspection the great birds look more like wretched thin shades of their previous selves, with gnarled talons like the blackthorn's boughs for hands and feet, and wings of dusky smoke.

And once they have your scent let me tell you - you're in trouble then! If the pitiable mortal that has drawn their eye can bestir themselves it would be well to get indoors, with all locked and fastened, until the beating of dark wings fades with the light of dawn. Chroniclers of old also wisely advised avoiding places of loneliness such as dark forests and empty streets, lest a passing hunt might take a fancy to you! There is one other way to avoid joining them for all eternity, although most dreadful it is, and that's to give them another person in your stead.

They say a woman was eaten alive by the Sluagh in Co. Roscommon

Christy,

Male, Husband, Dad, Family man, Friendly, Easygoing.

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[ournewhome1926]

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[hazelsheartsworn]

Want You in My Room

“Want You in My Room” by hazelsheartsworn  // @jurdannetrevels​

Track 1 of Dedicated, a @jurdannet​ collab fic with @figonas​, @lizziebxnnet​, @slightlyrebelliouswriter23​, and @laequiem​.  Dedicated Masterpost

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Pairing: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Rating: Explicit (E)

tags: teasing, solo masturbation, mutual masturbation, public masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and there was only one chair.

cw: nsfw, teasing, solo masturbation, mutual masturbation, public masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism

Word Count: 9074

Read it on ao3

“Hell Yes, Poppy, you stab him in the heart, girl!” I shout to the empty room.  Vivi lent me this novel while we visit and stay at her apartment claiming that the main character and I have a love for daggers and fighting in common.  While it certainly isn’t impressive for its military strategy, it is entertaining for a vacation read.  

Cardan and I are visiting Vivi, Oak, and Heather for two weeks before Oak returns to school.  This morning, I am stealing a private moment to relax before going on a shopping trip.  I lean back against the pillows on the bed on Oak’s bed and continue to read From Blood and Ash.  

I follow along with Poppy’s panicked rush out of the keep into the snow and my muscles tense up when Casteel catches up to her. While the Atalantians are fictitious, I can’t help the comparison to the Folk, each with their beyond-human nature and abilities.  It is to imagine Poppy’s terror emphatically, intensively, because those feelings are familiar to my own with the denizens of Faerie. I gasp when Casteel bites Poppy’s neck, my own hand pressing the tender skin above my collarbone.  Poring through the narrative, I wonder what it would feel like to experience the tug of Cardan’s sharp teeth on my skin. I close my eyes briefly and fully form the image before returning to the unfolding scene.  Thankfully I’m alone in this room right now.  I won’t admit it to anyone else, but I feast on the story, my own body reacts to the angst and smut as I read. When I squirm and shift, Oak’s bed springs creak in response. I just hope no one else in the apartment notices it. 

I am so engrossed in the filthy tale before me that I’m only vaguely aware of two legs slithering between mine, feet first, stopping to hem in hips.  I barely have time to register this awkward position before Cardan rotates himself and pitches me over onto my stomach, a maneuver the Ghost must have taught him recently. Cardan hovers over me, hooting with pride at the situation while I huff frustrated. 

“You made me lose my place,” I complain.  I scowl at the closed book discarded on the bed. 

“Is that so?” He grabs my hips, pulling them back off the bed so my ass is in the air and pinned against him like we are animals in the wild. “Because it looks to me like you're in exactly the right place.”  I can hear the smile in his growl, feel the tempting rigidity of his hard-on as he presses into me."  Wiggling in his grasp, my ass rubs right over him and my core tightens in response.  His responding moan gives me an idea. 

I take the opportunity to strike back. I lean back, pushing my ass into his hips more,  distracting him so that when I quickly turn and flop my back onto the bed, he doesn’t notice that I slip one leg on the outside of his.  Using his momentum, I grab his left hand and tug, upsetting his balance enough that it’s an easy thing to have him flipped and pinned under me.  He, now supine on the bed, startles at the cold feel of the dagger pressed to his neck. Since I’m straddling his hips, I can feel the twitch of him beneath me. My eyebrows flick as I give a quick smirk.  

I'm a bit impressed with myself.  While we rolled, I grabbed a dagger hidden in my hi-top chucks.  Taryn ordered them custom from an Etsy shop with stiletto knives embroidered on the spine which also covers the hidden sheath attached there.  She says it’s so I can “take my hospitality wherever I roam.”

“Well, this seems familiar, my sweet nemesis,” Cardan smiles, slightly surprised, but decidedly less nervous than the night he’s remembering. I try to recreate that manic grin, to churn up those conflicting emotions again, but it’s difficult.  So much has changed since we fumbled through that toothy esurient kiss. We are no longer disenfranchised power-hungry enemies, but High Queen and King of Elfame.  I’m distracting myself by recollecting our start.  My legs are clenching inadvertently and squeezing his torso.

“Ergh, Jude” he poses, “I came to see if you were ready to leave.”  He gently presses a finger to the dagger, staring into my eyes as he pushes the tip away from his neck. “Unless--ah,” he rasps as the knife draws a bead of blood from his finger tip, “Unless you desire to change our itinerary, to spar first,” his eyes grow darker at the suggestion.

I pull the dagger away, lean up slowly and watch him as I sheath it in my sneaker.  His beauty and pull is almost painful. It makes me want to relent, to take him on the bed right now, to muss up that hair, those clothes, to mess up that beauty a little bit.  

“No,” I pause, fetching his hand to suck on his cut finger, lapping at the welled-up blood on his finger pad. He’s watching my mouth, eyes still dark, twitching below me again.  He looks ravenous.  We won’t make it to the store if we stay like this much longer.

I release his finger and my breath with it. “No, the point is to explore first and play later.”

When I lean forward onto him and press a chaste kiss to his lips, both of his hands grab fistfuls of my backside.  I am startled into a quick laugh and use the movement to unseat myself from him and stand up beside the bed.  I help him up from the bed and in short order, we climb into the back seat of Heather’s Volkswagen Beetle and set out.  

The thirty minute drive doesn’t help my nerves, nor does Cardan’s long fingers tracing circles on my knee as we sit in the backseat.  Heather drops us off in Portland on the way to some gallery photo show with Vivi.  

While the store stands alone, the parking lot is neither too large nor too small.  The shop front is tasteful and not garish like I expect. The sign above the entry says “DEDICATED, to play, to love, to everyone.”  The shop title that doesn’t insinuate the lingerie and kink warehouse that it appears to be inside.  Still, I’m unsettled. 

Though I am the High Queen in Elfhame, here I feel so out of place. Like the woman in that one film I watched during my exile. Where she's taken from the streets and into all the swanky jewelry stores and clothing shops. Only this is a swanky sex shop.  I flinch at the door chime, much like that main character flinched at the playful snap of a jewelry case.

Cardan notices my hesitation and rests his hand on the small of my back.  It’s such a reassuring gesture, incongruous with our history.  I’m still amazed sometimes at how we got to this place of casual intimacy.  I turn to him, to acknowledge his touch and I’m met by coal-black eyes crinkled with a sense of laughter and mischief. He knows I’m uncomfortable, but is smart enough not to say anything right now.  He’s lucky I agreed to come here, though it had more to do with Heather’s advice than satisfying Cardan’s desire to make me blush.

As soon as Heather found out that Cardan and I were married, and once he was no longer a snake, she cornered me on my last visit.  Convinced, rightfully so, that my sexual knowledge was limited and determined as “the only responsible influence in our lives,” Heather forced me and Cardan to review mortal sex-education with her.  Apparently she did the same thing with Taryn when I was posing as my twin for her trial in Elfhame.  It wasn’t bad, actually, and Heather wasn’t judgmental about my lack of experience and questions.  That’s actually why we were here.  Part of my “education” entails experimenting and exploring so that I can truly learn what I like.

Vivi recommended this shop in Portland.  It has enough, in her words, “variety”, that she can walk around with her ears un-glamored and no one bats an eyelash over it. Of course, as soon as Cardan heard about these plans, he insisted on joining me.  

 As we look around, I notice there are two floors with the main level and a second one lower. Directly in front of us there’s a straight path to the center of the store where a wide and open stairway leads down away from the doors.  The whole first floor has more common merchandise, “vanilla stuff” Vivi calls it.  It starts on my right and creates a circuit around the stairs, ending at the cashier’s stand on my left.  Heather insists that I also browse the lower level with “kinky” stuff.  Thumping music and flashing lights pulsing upwards add to my insecurity.  

“Where would you like to start?” Cardan asks with a sly smile. There’s still that look of mischief in his eyes.  Before I can think more about what that means...

“Um, over here,” I point, gesturing to the nearest section. Clothing racks take up the largest footprint of this top level. In this section, I’m surrounded by streetwear--t-shirts with crude remarks, an abundance of short plaid skirts, and gaudily colored corsets.  

Cardan and I both measure our hands against the length of the shorter skirts.  I watch him trace one finger down the length of a skirt, the same finger my tongue soothed this morning.  My own mouth waters, at the memory or the image of that clothing failing to cover me, I’m not sure.  I turn away before I can see his facial expression and look around.

Honestly, most things in this section don’t appeal to me given the clothing available to me in Faerie. After quickly scanning the racks, I am ready to move on.  Cardan turns slowly to follow, still reading some sign about custom screen-printing.

We move on to accessories.  Cardan’s gaze snags on the clear cases containing body jewelry.  Whether for himself or a prank, I leave him be, especially since I don’t want to debate which silly nipple rings will embarrass my adoptive murderous dad most.  Cardan’s rictus is too eager, he must have found something glittering and garish with which to taunt Madoc.

I roll my eyes and drift away, letting my hands graze the multi-colored feather boas and suede vests with fringe. I find it hard to begin, unsure about what I want or need.  I’m not embarrassed by sex, certainly not after my upbringing in Faerie, but I am self-conscious of my lack of experience.  Perhaps it would be helpful to start with costuming, to put on the clothes and act the part.  I am accustomed to wearing a mask at court, or to putting on figurative armor to meet the challenges of palace life. This is but a new arena, and I can wear the clothes to act the part until it feels natural.

Glancing around, I find bins with a variety of stockings.  Stockings are commonplace in Faerie clothing, though they’re more practical and plain than the variety here.  These are all nylon and decorative.  I’ve seen magazine and internet ads of scantily clad women wearing these.  It seems as good a start as any.  As the bins are, I have to bend at my hips and lean down to sift through what’s available.

There are too many choices and the size charts vary by brand. I always find it difficult to determine my clothing size for mortal clothes.  Holding several pairs, I try to figure out which size I need.  With personal tailoring, I don’t need to know any measurements. Frustrated, about to give up, bowing my head in exasperation, a familiar heat presses against me.  Cardan has lined up directly behind me, his hands on the bin on either side of me. I straighten up at the waist, turning my head and torso slightly to glimpse behind me.  I can’t move more, Cardan’s hips are holding mine in place.  My body delights at this remembering how close I was to tumbling with him this morning.  

Cardan chuckles, “While I contend that a queen should never deign to sift through any bin, I cannot deny that the view is incomparable.” He cups and lightly squeezes each butt cheek quickly before returning his hands to the bin ledge. He leans his chin on my shoulder. The feel of him is distracting and my frustration leaves me flustered. I turn around, creating space between us with my elbows while still holding two handfuls of stocking packages.  His long arms can accommodate the space and still cocoon me between the bin and him. He lifts both thumbs to caress my curves that are within reach.

In a valiant effort to ignore every glancing touch and sensation, I decide on Large tights because I know my muscles are larger from constant sword practice.  Before I discard the rest, I keep a set of classic thigh-highs with the visible stitch line. I drop the remainder and catch Cardan’s half-lidded stare.

“We should split up and look around independently” I rush. “Heather has urged me to explore for myself and you're…distracting...” I trail off.  He smirks back with a knowing look, but doesn’t argue.  He presses himself flush to me and tilts his head painstakingly slowly to my ear.  When he speaks, his breath tickles.

“Consider carefully,” he pauses to nip at my ear right where the cartilage is pierced. “I hope you share in my depraved tastes.” I shutter my eyes closed as he licks my ear, slowly turning as he peels his body away from mine.  The hair on my arms is standing up and I feel small tingles everywhere my body misses his.  I stare after him sauntering to the opposite side of the store.

I dive into searching through the store.  Toward the back I find nicer lingerie with lace and embroidered edges.  I shuffle through rack after rack quickly diverting to the next at a rapid pace.  I gain momentum as I go, doubting more and more that I’ll find something that matches the high standards I didn’t realize my brain set up.  I check myself breathing in slowly to try and slow the staccato of my thoughts. I refocus and frown at the next rack.  A hanger rests haphazardly on the frame, like someone rushed and didn’t take care in replacing the garment.  My fingers move before I think to fix it.  

I separate the hangers around it and freeze at what I see.  I think it’s called a teddy, with a fitted corset and panties combined as one garment.  The cut and design are well made, the boning sturdy, but the design ensnares me.  On an ivory background, curling and twisting all over are finely embroidered black snakes. I am hypnotized.  There is no same or similar pattern here, I was thorough in my search.  It feels like a portent, the displaced hanger, the timing, the overlapping stitching that vaguely reminds me of faerie clothing.  I look for a tag and see it’s in my size.  I clutch my discovery to myself and look around quickly, as if a child caught with contraband. I don’t see my husband near me.

I sweep around the rest of the first floor passing by shoes, athleisure and fitness items, and through a section filled with the short shelving of pharmacy aisles.  There’s prophylactics and items for safe and healthy sex practices.  Before the checkout lines, I finally turn to the stairs. In order to reach them and head down I have to walk through an aisle of shampoo bottles.  It’s one of the most colorful sections of the store and I walk distracted by the shapes, shades, and slogans. At closer inspection, I realize they’re all lubricants. The selection is extensive and as I reach the end of the row, about to descend, I swear some of these seem familiar, like I’ve seen them in Elfame.

Directly down from the stairs is a section dedicated to anal sex practices.  The section seems to progress from basics to more advanced play. I guess this from the signs; the one on right says “Anal 101” and looks to have items like anal douches and more lube; on the left “Cheeky Chique” has what appear to be animal tails, long ropes with beads that increase in size, and some items that look more like items from a doctor’s office.  In between there are so many shapes, I can’t tell where some of them would be used. There are even kits with toys of various sizes and plugs with decorative jewel motifs.  Since I don’t see Cardan here, I turn around to see the rest of the lower level.

Unlike above, this part of the shop seems much more like the fancier department stores at the mall.  There are boutiques of various kinks and pleasures.  Each section has an attendant trained to help in that specific interest.  On the sides of the stairs, there are kiosks with a variety of brands and styles of vibrators. One kiosk has a special on vibrating cock rings. My eyes scan to the farthest parts behind the stairs.  There are so many ropes, ties, and whips, wide bars, swings, and wedges.  I step toward it, very curious and immediately letting the memory of Cardan in my custody rise. But then, my eyes snag to a familiar silhouette, tall, lithe, curls of black hair that my fingers long to tousle.  My husband, the High King of Elfhame, is standing before an entire wall of dildos.  Of all manner, shape, and color, they’re stuck to the wall by suction cups and if you look askance, you could mistake them for a rock climbing wall.  In fact, between the rigging from the bondage, the dildo wall, and the final section with several dancing poles to test out, this half of the store looks like a kinky obstacle course.  TVs in the burlesque dance section blare a music video of a man sliding down a pole singing, “Call me by your name” in the chorus. It’s super catchy and I notice Cardan bopping his head and dancing in place to the beat.  

In front of this area are fitting rooms and I head there before Cardan can see me.  These rooms are nicer than typical fitting rooms. They fit the boutique vibe down here.  There are full size doors and walls for separation, lush carpeting, and a triptych panel mirror at the end of the hallway where customers can model. I choose a door to the left, enter, and close it quietly.  The individual rooms are well designed.  Near the door is a forest green velvet “wing back” chair.  With well-padded cushions, cabriole legs finishing with ball and claw feet, it adds a sense of luxury to the room. The chair’s most impressive feature is the deep flared wings that come almost to the edge of the arm rails.  Someone sitting there would have the sense of a private, exclusive show.  Two hooks are on each side wall.  A flat mirror fills the wall opposite the door, with a small square ottoman flush against it, a match in color and details to the chair.  

I hang up the items to try on and begin to undress. First I try on the stockings, pleased that  I have estimated my size correctly.  With my back to the mirror I turn my torso to look at my legs.  These stockings have a stitched line up the back  and I like the way it undulates to match the curves of my muscles.  It's a pleasure to let my eyes follow the line from my heel to my butt and I like the little smirk I see glancing back at me.  This is a good start.

The thigh highs have the same stitch in the back and I decide to keep them on while I try on the teddy I found.  I slide the straps off the hanger, and turn it over to figure out how to put it on. It is better that I didn’t see the back of this before getting into the fitting room, there’s little to constitute a back.  There are four interlocking hooks, each connected by two black adjustable straps on each side. The whole effect looks like four wide X letters across the back, about four inches of space..  The bottom portion just has two adjustable black straps that taper down into a V like the cut of panties, without any fabric in between the straps.

I gulp audibly, and my anxiety spikes as I unhook everything.  I fumble stepping into it feeling foolish that something so skimpy requires such deliberate focus.  I turn with my back to the mirror and that helps me guide the hooks together appropriately.  When I’m done, I place my hands on my hips and slowly turn around, watching myself in the mirror the whole time.  I am reminded of how different my body is, how human it is in Faerie.  My breasts are full and they spill from the balconette bra cups.  My arms and shoulders seem too large, too muscular from my years of sword training. My legs are similar, with sculpted quadriceps and ridges to my calf muscles.  Even though I am High Queen, it is so obvious I am an import to Faerie, my mortality conspicuous. Even now it shames me sometimes. Abruptly I drop my hands, overcome with nerves.

I can calm myself before battle, discern the turn of phrase mid sentence from a politician, but here I am getting anxious about my self-image.  This whole time shopping I have been working myself up over intimacy.  I catch myself worrying my left ring finger, the missing knuckle.  It’s my tell and I stop, pressing on the tip while I shutter my eyes closed and let loose a breath. There is no need to succumb to such worry. My every mortal curve is a fascination to Cardan.  Just today he’s focused on my ass, touched it at every opportunity.

I turn said ass to the mirror and grab it with both hands, filling my fists.  How pleasing to feel its voluptuousness, to see it set the back straps of the teddy at a full curve.  This is good, I am fine, emotionally and aesthetically. . My shift back into an athletic stance is automatic, running through the familiar poses will serve as a balm to my disquieted nerves.  I mimic holding a sword and weave myself through guard positions, watching my form in the mirror, just as I used to do as seneschal.  I stop at window guard so I can see my legs flex and I appreciate the musculature.  I know the work and hours that have created these shapes and I am, genuinely, proud of it.  Even with the massive scar on my thigh, my legs show my journey, my survival in Faerie. I’ve earned this body and it looks good.

I face the mirror again and smooth my hands down the tummy panel, appreciating the boning and embroidery.  My hand flows down, where the front of the teddy ends like my mall-bought underwear.  But unlike my typical panties, when I feel down farther the teddy gives way to nothing except two strategic strips of fabric.  Per store policy, I left on my tanga-cut undies, but the teddy straps outline them, like a stencil I once had that marked the shape for a drawing you could then color in. However the fabric filling this stencil colors in exactly what should be exposed.  A voice within me that almost purrs with anticipation when I think about how Cardan would react to my ass in this. On a day like today, when he’s touched it, groped it, and pressed an eager hard-on against it, this would undo him.

It’s too alluring to resist tracing the slivers of skin peeking between the fabric on my ass.  I stare off for a minute, enjoying the feeling of drawing my knuckles down my ass, enjoying the slight resistance pulling my finger pads up. Without thinking I shift my weight, move a hand to the front, and trace over my panties triggering the most sensitive part of me despite the fabric barrier.  I feather light touches all over the fabric, the skin underneath eager for each sensation, eager for more.  My hand agrees.

A small pleasant hum bubbles out of me and I pause, cautious, all too aware of where I am. When I glance back at the mirror, I see cheeks growing pink, lips slightly swollen from teeth nipping at them.  My eyes look slightly spooked. Part of me knows I should finish trying on clothes and return to shopping with Cardan.  But that small voice from earlier is now brazen, invigorated by the thrum of blood charging through my veins, emboldened by the throbbing below my hand. 

“No, Queen,” she whispers inside my head.  “Move past any shame with your defiance.  Satisfy yourself.” My likeness smirks back, lips rolled inward, knowing the voice will win my inner debate. 

I falter somewhat as I continue. I think through the different parts I’m touching clinically, like I’m matching up the parts Heather made me diagram during her lessons.  I swirl my fingers back over my clitoris, enjoying the teasing sensation, indulging the temptation to repeat myself, the stimulation. After a few times, I ease my hand down, perking up when I realize how wet I am through my underwear, how swollen I already am.  I push the fabric aside, my fingertips quickly drenched. I withdraw my hand, bringing it close enough to see the shine from my own arousal. I can smell myself and the heavy scent goes to my head.

I am transported back to when Cardan took me to that small room off the dais. To his too clever hands. I remember his hand slipping between my thighs. I lift my left leg onto the ottoman near the mirror, letting my own hands trace up my thighs. The nylon of the stockings ripples on my skin creating little pulses of sensation. But I delight when my hands move past the texture of the stockings and back to my bare skin, cool compared to their destination. I drag my nails lightly on the inside of my thighs, letting myself invest in this fantasy—one where I am aware that I could be caught at any moment.  

The panties are still pushed to the side and the slight air circulation feels cool at the junction of my thighs.  I huff slightly through my nose when my hand returns, covering that wet warmth. I drench my fingers with my own wetness and let them roam.  I return to my clit, lubricating myself and enjoying the response. I can feel my arousal swell and I press down, swirling my fingers in a slow beat.  I enjoy this, noticing the ways I jolt with various manipulations. I become wetter and feel an ache build up lower.  I work my hands back down, spreading my inner lips with two fingers and I am very slick.  I let my fingers limn the outer edges, teasing the skin. My knee shakes a little with it and I open my eyes to look at myself in the mirror.  

My pupils are slightly dilated and I’m flushed. With one leg raised and my hands reaching down, my shoulders curve in on myself. Mesmerized, I observe myself in the mirror while I resume. I stare in awe as my body shifts, clenches, and relaxes. I enjoy seeing myself this way, vulnerable and yet, not. My body is wondrous, a marvel of movement and pleasure. My own eyes reflect the truth in this. I am Jude, High Queen of Elfhame, mighty and magnificent.

I straighten and the movement forces my hips forward, and forces my fingers to touch the opening of myself. My eyes shutter closed as I tip my neck back with the sensation. This, this is where that ache is building. I use my middle finger to trace around it, to tease the skin there.  I reach in a little farther, clenching and coaxing myself to relax in quick order, repeatedly.  The skin is so sensitive and different from the rest of me. Between my memory of Cardan’s ministrations and some new instinct, I follow that pleasurable ache.

I sink my finger deeper and start to pump it very slowly.  I keep my eyes closed and focus on how it all feels, on the drag and thrust of my finger, on the silky texture caressing back, on the ways my body answers to itself, pushing and releasing in turn.  I twist my leg on the ottoman, allowing more access. I let out a small mewl of a sound in appreciation and alter my pace, diving deeper with each thrust of my hand.  I revel in the sensations, giving in to a full fantasy. I imagine all the moments of Cardan’s touch, the way his fingers caress my skin. I let my own hand roam.

I imagine it’s his hands tracing my curves, cupping the swell of my breasts, swirling over the nipple taut below the fabric cup. As soon as I cusp fingers around and lightly pinch the tight peak, my other fingers flinch inside me.

I gasp with the new sensation and a new inner exploration starts fresh.  My hips buck in response to my finger, slowly flexing inside me at its deepest.  Breaths come gasping, hot, heavy and involuntary as I curl the fingers inside me, trying to sate and soothe the deep ache building up inside me.  I can’t make sense of how my body reacts of its own accord and I have to brace my free hand against the mirror, an anchor to my fevered ministrations.  

I am frenetic, I feel wanton, I feel utterly human and powerful. It’s liberating, to learn more about my body, what I can do to tempt, tease, and exhilarate her. I acquiesce to my own needs, thinking less and less about what my hand is doing, what I should try next, and rather just feel.  My hand roves freely in and out of me, my soaked fingers moving to coat every fold, flickering quickly over and back where I throb most.

When I’ve returned my fingers inside me, I quiver with need and push on with a reckless fervency. As tension builds up low inside me, I notice a tickle on the back of my legs.  Quickly, it rises, following the line of the stockings.  I shudder at the sensation and freeze, sure that it’s not the air-conditioning circulating. If my suspicions are correct, someone has improved their slyfooting, and lockpicking, yet again. 

I have one leg on the ottoman and the other on the floor, both tense bracing me. I have one hand deep inside of myself and the other pushed against the mirror white knuckled with strain. My back is to the door, but I’m sure I would have heard someone come in. My eyes have been closed this whole time.  I’m wincing as I open them slowly, staring into the mirror.

It’s a relief and anxiety to see Cardan sitting in that green wingback chair, moved closer to where I stand.  Relief that I haven’t caught the attention of the store, anxiety that Cardan has seen me completely unguarded, unknowingly. I spy a shimmer by the door and recognize it as a glamour that Cardan must have put up to protect me from being discovered.  My relief grows, knowing that even this unarmored, I can trust him.  

I meet his eyes, ink black and hooded with desire in the mirror. He slouches forward in the seat, legs splayed wide, one elbow is propped on the chair arm, its hand braced against his cheek . I find his other hand carefully draped over a bulge in his pants. I meet his eyes again, a smirk having grown across his face at this silent entente.

“Don’t stop on my account” he drawls while his tail bounces and skims playfully along my ass. “You’ve always been the more industrious of us, I’m not surprised you took Heather’s exhortations as agenda tasks. How diligent you are, my Queen. Though I’ll admit these toils are far less boring—I think I’ll join your efforts.  Besides, weary as I am from browsing and eager as I am for a repose, this is the only chair.”

He has frozen me with his words and I can’t find the riddle in his coy flirtations. What does he mean “to join” me? I turn to face him, wariness present on my face. He stands and I watch him stalk toward me, with animalistic grace, his stare predatory. I feel drawn to him, lean my body forward to meet him, but he pulls up just enough to not touch me.  Inches from each other he leans around me and I hear a squelch against the mirror.

Behind me, he has affixed one of those dildos to the mirror a little lower than my hips, at a height I can access, OH!

I whip my head back to face him. He is grinning, trying to hold back a laugh. “I examined and searched for something close to my own grandeur, and while not perfection, this will make do.  Ever diligent, I want to make sure your classroom studies are as close to the reality.  I’m curious to learn as well.  May I join by watching you? I’m eager to discover what secrets you unwittingly hide.”

I take everything in with my eyes, the closer chair, the dildo, the earnestness of this request written across his face.  “Okay,” I whisper less assertively as my brain sorts through the emotions and urges of my body competing with one another. Lust and pleasure override any reticence.  Mighty, magnificent Jude likes the idea he’s proposed, that I continue to pleasure myself while he watches, that I touch myself without his interference.  

He watches me, hungry and expectant. He moves the chair closer but still far enough away that we won’t be touching. A shiver that has nothing to do with cold or nerves runs down my spine. I feel powerful rather than defenseless, alluring in my near nudity.  I can see the want in his eyes and he is unrepentant. He no longer ties shame to his desire for me. It’s invigorating. I ache all over again with this development.

Cardan sits again, in the same way as before, the High King a ready spectator. His right hand rests on his pants bulge. I turn again, showing off my body as my hands outline my curves. I reach toward the ceiling in a full body stretch, catching my hands in my hair to pull the style loose.  I rush my return to the ground, aware of bounce in my breasts and ass.  His eyes track the movement and I catch his fingers tracing his length.  I crave more from this exchange.

I nod toward his hips as I say, “I wish to amend our arrangement. I yearn for some inspiration. Join me by touching yourself. We can both find pleasure from watching each other, as both exhibitionists and voyeurs.” Remembering some details about the teddy, I unhook the straps at the top of my hips. Jet black eyes watch the panties as I shimmy them down my legs and step out of them. When I reach down to retrieve and re-hook the straps, I sell it by giving Cardan an unobstructed view of my breasts spilling out of the cups.  Without any underclothes, I wonder if my earlier bet to see him undone will come to fruition. I play coy, bite the corner of my lip and turn to and fro to show off the lingerie, smoothing my hands all over my body. 

My wager pays off as I see him unzip the seat of his pants and his penis springs out, eager to join the fun.  Cardan catches himself in one hand, casually draping his fingers around his erection. He moves his hand up and down so slowly it’s immediately sensual and hypnotic. His long fingers suit his girth and I know I’m gaping while I watch each stroke, his fingers wrapped around in a relaxed grip that seems to tighten and loosen with each pump.

“Stop biting your lip like that or I won’t be able to stay in this chair,” He quips.  “Resume your performance, I missed the beginning of your foray into public masturbation.”

He’s right, I’ve been chewing the corner of my lip gawking at him rather than holding up my end of the bargain.  I roll my lips in, flick at my left fingertip, admonished, and back up closer to the mirror, still facing Cardan in the chair.  A thrill zings through me at the thought of driving myself to orgasm in front of Cardan as he does the same.  Provoked by his chiding and by my impatient lust, I am keen to make this a challenge for him.  I close my eyes again and let my fingers roam everywhere on me. I keep them pointed and aligned with my wrists, as if I were extending the movements to ballet positions. With the backs of my fingers, I skim up my ribs, past my breasts and collar bone, up my neck and along my chin. I lean my cheek in to meet my hand.

Pivoting on my fingertips, I lean my head back and rest my palms along the column of my throat, exposing it for Cardan’s benefit. I can hear him shift in the chair and I delight in it, knowing he is not immune to this show, to my intentions.  My teeth peek through my smile as I slowly turn my gaze onto him.

I stare into his depthless eyes feeling them devour my image. I up the ante and start to narrate, “First I touched myself everywhere, imagining it was your hands mapping the paths of my body, the valleys” as I smooth my palms flat against the expanse of my chest below my neck,  “and the peaks.” I drag my palms along the sides of my breasts pushing them together, letting him see how the teddy strains to contain them.

I squeeze my chest closer “But I couldn’t replicate everything perfectly,” I pause, slipping each breast from its cup, my taut nipples tightening painfully in the cooler air.  

“I had to improvise that clever tongue of yours” I whisper and slip two fingers into my mouth, deliberately mimicking what I would do to him, what I want to do to him. He lifts his head from leaning on his fist as I trail my wet fingers over each nipple.  It’s hard not to clench my thighs when the skin pebbles and tightens. Something tightens low in my belly the more I tweak and fondle my breasts. He breathes audibly through his nose and I bite my bottom lip to stifle the moan trying to escape. I remember this feeling of power, the voluptuous satisfaction of it. It’s potent. 

My hands keep moving, caressing more intensively than before, responding to my body’s reactions in kind. With each movement, he can see my face, as well as my backside, both confessing to the jolts of pleasure I feel.  I glance at him before I let myself get carried away.  His gaze roves, stopping for a few seconds everywhere, at my face, my hands, my curves. When he peeks at the mirror, I bend forward so he has a better view of my back and ass, at the negative spaces between the straps. He looks as if he regrets agreeing to sit out and it emboldens me.

“I remember behind the dais, how easily you slipped your hands between my thighs” I remind him as I execute the same actions on myself. My hand is surer, confident in its placement. The stockings pucker and I halt to adjust and smooth out the tops of the nylons before caressing my inner thighs again. How well I tease myself, running my fingers over the teddy over and over again. I pet, pinch, and push with every part of my hand near my clit. I remember the paper covered with my name and use his own words as a cadence to my movements. I drag my fingers up the fabric, barely covering my swollen lips, and flick them back down with increasing force, like his manic writing on that old scribbled page. Imagining his voice gasping my name only boosts how sexy this feels. I let my other hand grasp and squeeze wherever it can, wherever it feels good. In the back of my mind I make a note to remember this for future masturbation, it certainly gets me going.

Cardan is holding his mouth behind one hand, the movements of his other hand more intentional. He is decidedly more angular, more at attention sitting in that chair.  His grip on himself looks stronger, as if the anguish from staying in the chair directly correlates to more forceful rubbing.  He’s so hard and his cock strains forward, toward me. Cardan’s hand is swift and punishing, matching his strokes to the flick of my fingers. My clit flutters and my breath comes out like a whimper at this, watching him time out his masturbation to mine. 

“Back Up,” he growls implying that I should use the dildo now.

I can barely respond with my ragged breathing, “I’m not finished yet. Don’t you want to know what I did next?” 

He doesn’t stifle the noise crawling from his throat.   It centers me enough to shoot him a saccharine smile, hinting at malice.  Twisting slightly, I lift my leg back onto the ottoman, skimming both hands up and down my thighs, ensuring the fit of my stockings, tapping playfully on my knees, leaning a stretch into my bent knee, flashing him from the mirror.

“Even in this dim room, can you see how wet I am?” I lead his eyes there with my hands, fingers trailing the straps along my ass. When I follow the straps down, I switch again, reaching from the front to the same spot, dragging a finger along my slit, dripping wet. I lift it in front of me, letting the slickness catch the light before slipping it into my mouth and licking it clean.  With one hand in my mouth I lower the other and plunge a finger into me. I jolt myself with the action, releasing a keening gasp as well.  I move my finger quickly, letting the sound travel to him.  I brace a hand on the leg supported by the ottoman and he has a full view of me, of my finger rushing in and out, of my legs and ass shivering with urgency in the mirror.  I train my gaze on him, watching every twitch and movement, imbibing on his reactions and his restraint, getting drunk on the pleasure radiating from both of us. Then, I add a second finger. 

A lazy heat coils low in me. I lean back my shoulders against the mirror to brace myself.   As I continue to draw my fingers in my sex I share my final discovery, “Next time your fingers are inside me…”

He makes a strangled sound like he’s imagining doing just that. His hand freezes and grips himself tightly frozen and staring while I continue.

“Make sure they’re deep inside me, and draw your fingertip upward as if curling it back.” I act out my narration.

“I p-promise that I’ll - ah - that I’ll squirm for you” I stammer.  I can’t tell if I’m chuckling, or moaning, or letting out plaintive chuffs.  I cannot help the way my knees quake, how a heated flush rises up my chest and face. My arousal builds steadily.

He no longer smiles coyly. ““Use the toy,” he commands with a feral rumble.  It takes me a moment to stop, my body loath to pause the momentum.  When I push my torso from the mirror and glance down, looking at how to use the dildo on the wall. It takes a second to realize I’ll need to bend at the hip so that the geometry will work. I do so, using two fingers spread apart and hold my labia in place.

Despite how wet I am, I go slowly, letting my muscles contract around the dildo, sliding backwards until my ass touches the mirror. My whine at the floor is guttural while it fills me.  I have braced my hands on my knees. It’s slow at first, letting my body adjust, using small back and forth movements to make everything slick. I keep looking down as I focus on this task.  While it’s a new sensation, the monotony doesn’t halt my arousal. Soon, I’ll reach a balance of slickness and friction. 

He interrupts, “Would that it were me inside you right now,” and he groans while he continues to pump with a steady vigor.  I slide slowly along the length of the dildo, from tip to wall. I’m warm from exertion, but the mirror is cool against my ass. I’m ready to go faster. 

“Watch the mirror, see the dildo as if you were behind me,” I command. When he moves his onyx eyes there, I glide along slowly again, letting him see every bit of me while I make the toy disappear. I rock back and forth a few more times.

“Watch me now. Can you see me in the mirror like you’re behind me?  Watch me take every inch of this toy and imagine it’s you fucking me,” I taunt.

“Sweet Villain!” He spits out the endearment like it’s a curse. 

“Fuck, Jude! Fine then, thrust as if it were me. Think of me and nothing else,” he barks, but it’s so hoarse it sounds like he’s begging.  I increase my tempo, breathing harder as I go.  He grunts with exertion, too.

He continues, “Moan. Make it worthy of me.” I keep working, pumping myself on the silicone, but I can’t quite get the right traction to the movement with my hands and weight leaning forward without support.  

“Come closer, My King. I just want you to get a little bit closer. Bring the chair right before me,” I suggest.  Without protest, he lifts the chair and sets it down. It’s within my reach, but there’s enough space that we don’t touch. He staggers back down in the chair. He waits as I spread my legs a little wider and brace each hand against the arms of the chair. We are inches apart, maybe a foot, each with a much more intimate view of the other.

“We still watch each other. Our hands only tend to our own needs.” I grit out, wiggling my hips to adjust to the new angle.

“Yes, my darling god.” He laughs and starts stroking himself again.  “I am ever obedient to your demands.” Seeing him up close makes my mouth water. He is exquisite, painfully so. Even while aroused, even while touching himself, he seems indolent. I do hope this pains him.

With better balance, I can thrust harder and faster. I do so, my knuckles whiten as I grip the armchair. Wisps of hair slip from my braided crown. The loose strands echo my movements. They come so close to Cardan’s face. I don’t hold back from breathing hard, from allowing myself to make noise.  This close, it wouldn’t matter if I tried to muffle myself. I am sweating from the exertion and from the stimulation. My breasts, still free from the balconet, sway heavily. As they hang down, nipples erect, they swing so low, so near to Cardan’s manhood. May he be dizzy trying to watch it all.  May my scents, my nearness, my brazen display overwhelm him. I don’t think it’s terrible that I want him on his knees before me, literally or figuratively.  

I lust for this, my arousal is full-bodied and robust. I commit to my satisfaction, to the thrill of it. I keep my eyes closed as I guide myself along the dildo. I don’t think more than whatever it takes to flex my legs and thrust backward. I gain momentum as I go and soon my ass smashes against the mirror with the force of my lunges.  The stockings are slipping on my thighs. I let his noises in, I do imagine that it’s his cock I’m riding. Waves of pleasure are building in me, a tide surging as I continue. My toes and fingers, and ears start to tingle as I near orgasm. My eyebrows furrow as I coil tighter and tighter working toward a release.  

“Look at me,” Cardan snarls, but I ignore him, I’m so close.

“Open your eyes, my Queen.  Look at me when you come.” and I relent. He leans forward just enough to let our foreheads touch, and when we lock eyes, I feel his tail touch me, right where I’m throbbing.

“CARDAN!” I cry out wildly and instinctively as all the tension crests. Even though I am watching Cardan, my vision blurs at the edges. I can only keep my eyes trained on the abyss of his eyes, unfathomable and yet full of intelligence and hunger. He’s memorizing every bit of me at this moment.

    My face scrunches while I keep thrusting, captive to the ripples of pleasure pulsing through me. I can feel my vocal cords strain but are these noises of anguish or bliss?  I’m panting loudly as I catalogue sensations all over my body; tingling fingertips, cramping arches, loose hairs clinging to my sweaty face. When I hear the slaps of Cardan’s hand rubbing himself, I lift my eyes to his.  His eyes shine with wonder, and they cringe as he also comes close to finishing.

    “Jude,” he wails as our eyes meet. He tries to stifle his moans and the noise reveals the struggle. His face contorts while he squirms. Since I am still leaning on the chair arms, over him, he comes shooting directly upwards. I feel the heat of his semen as it hits the belly panels of the lingerie.  I smile, relishing that he’s spilling on the fabric, forcing this fantasy into reality.  He keeps coming, splashing more of the fabric and me. With better timing, I would have liked to lean down and take him into my mouth. I imagine drawing my tongue up the length of him like his tail trailed up my leg earlier.

I start to move so I can lick him clean, but Cardan catches my mouth with his. It’s playful and loving but possessive, showing me that he has his own fantasies that he’s eager to play out. His second kiss is slow and languid, a promise for later.  I pull off the wall, sighing as I do, proud and satisfied. 

After standing and settling for a few minutes, I look to the chair where Cardan still sits. Our content smirks grow into genuine smiles.  He tilts in the chair and retrieves a handkerchief, offering it to me first. Grateful, I wipe my thighs and everything else still wet, including Cardan’s semen on me. 

“Well I guess I have to buy this now.” I joke as I return the hankie. 

As he wipes himself dry, he scoffs, “Jude, you could be wearing soiled sackcloth and we would still buy it because what I just witnessed was exquisite,” and he means the image as a compliment. I feel myself blush in response.

“Needless to say,” he continues, “this design is well met and I have designs for further ravishment.”

Already eager for more, I start forward, eyes locked with his. I lean my palms on the chair arms again, mimicking what we just did, reminding him of what we just did. I make sure we’re still not touching each other.

“You broke the rules,” I start.

“Well, you--” He begins and I interrupt,

“--You broke the spirit of the rules” I cut off.

“My sweet nemesis, I think you were intentional in your words. You left open the way around the wording. I have committed no transgression and, I posit, that’s exactly what you wanted me to do” He debates.

I can’t keep a straight face because he’s right. And while I could, the lie is heavy on my tongue. So, I glance away with a small smile, choosing not to give a rejoinder. He already knows the truth.

There’s one final question that surfaces from my sated serenity and I ask, “Why did you hold yourself back? I noticed that you waited.”

“Dearest Jude, I thought it was obvious.” he replies and brings a hand to touch my cheek. “ I want you to really explore and find real ways to pleasure yourself, on your own.  Though I have no regrets interrupting for my own benefit. But, truly, it’s you first, always.” He becomes very shy with this admission and looks around with the panic of an animal looking for the quickest escape from a predator.  Whether happy from endorphins or trusting the intimacy of our situation, I swoon at his words.  My face lights up at his candor, and I initiate our soft kisses, tender and reverent. 

We clean up. I try on a few more outfits and model them for Cardan before he sits me in the chair and re-braids my hair into a crown. We wander the rest of the store together, shameless in our affection, constantly pressing light touches to one another.

We are thorough in our sampling of the store, and brimming with ideas as we reach checkout with a full basket. Some toys are for Cardan, some are for me, but all of it fills me with excitement for more exploration and experimentation.  Something has shifted in me today. I leave more confident in myself, in what satisfies me, and that Cardan wants me unquestionably.  Removing each other’s armor is exhilarating rather than upsetting. 

Soon we’ll return to Faerie, taking with us our new purchases, including a certain stained teddy. 

[ghoustlysoul]

Part One — Tethered Souls

Summary: Once there was a fairytale amongst faerie folk, it was a rumor that an immortal soul may resurrect in a mortal body to right their wrongs before passing into the beyond. Queen Orlagh’s daughters die, and she needs to know if it is all make believe.

Or, Jude and Taryn are the reincarnations of Queen Orlagh’s dead daughters.

Warning: sexual scene, explicit language, mentions of murder

Word Count: 2500

Rating: E

Tags: @fantasyfox10123

— — — — — — —

Edge of Elfhame, Faerielands

Eight Years Ago

Breaking through the fierce current determined to work against her movements and drag her to the depths of the sea where it had dragged her heart, the Queen of the Undersea forced her eight slithering tentacles in tight motions, propelling her entire body through the rippling current. Around her, the coal-black sea thundered ravenously. Across the seven seas, far and wide, the bodies of water devoured venturing souls and departing hearts. It gobbled them up and sent them far into the depths. She raged, ripping through the waves as a whale dove into the air and sunk back into the waves, disappearing into the darkness. Into the unforgiving depths she forged, and she alone controlled.

The sea, harsh and unrelentless, tugged anyone into the pits of the sea, even it’s maker.

Diving headfirst, Queen Orlagh shredded the waves. Her long, taxed tenacles burden the weight as she looked forth to the lands of her ally. To the lands of Elfhame. Her body moved briskly. Urgent. Rushed. She fought the unwillingness of the sea, magic buried beneath and forgotten. Determined, her own willingness was enough to reach the shores, seizing the High King of Elfhame and plucking his gold-spun hair piece by piece; fresh flesh chucks mended to the golden hair. She marveled the image. It, perhaps, was the only encouraging fulfillment nourishing her blood other than the distress voices her daughters sent out moments ago.

Her two precious daughters. She valued them as a pirate his gold, a guard his sword, a blacksmith his metal and fire. Hearing their panicked, melodious voices drafted on the winds and crashed on the silent seas, she treaded her beloved kingdom, and the entirety of the coral city and homes sanded from beloved mother peals nearly toppled. Ripples crossed the calm waters, alerting few and far. Shop keepers barred their doors with stealth kelp. Roamers swam beneath the reef upholding the city.

The seas bristled and slowed, collecting the soothing call of land. The land-maker. The High King of Elfhame. His beckoning summonsed reckoned the fury shaking the ocean and plummeting her adored home. She halted. She answered his call. She rushed to the surface.

“King of Elfhame,” she sneered, shredding the surface. Tall, monstrous waves grazed the clouds behind her, rushing the land hundreds of yards away. The rolled across the seat, and they collided beneath the Undersea Queen. Toppling behind her, the water crashed like an endless waterfall. White foam fell around as snow from the tips of mountains. “Release my daughters.”

The High King coiled his knobby fingers into tight knots, registering the words. Their heaviness. Their weakness. Tilting his head, the slightest bit, he gazed momentarily at the Undersea Queen’s silhouetted body, black against the raging seas and a thin line of the sun’s dying light outlined her slender body as the waves settled. Pressing his lips tight, the High King posed a simple question, “What treatment shall indulge me if I do otherwise, Queen Orlagh?’

His light, tender voice unnerved the elder queen. She roamed the seas long before the High King’s great grandmother dawned Faerie. She witnessed Faerielands rise and form. She watched power hungry fae trample their brethren in the means of power. She helped Mab squander the ruling courts and kingdoms before her and aided the Blood Crown’s lineage. All while she roamed the seas below, maintaining her own crown and arms, which she slivered fins and plucked scales to mount her position. She ensured her own power, a young siren, to forge a safe keeping if she ever desired a family. Now, the man before her threatened their brokered peace, quenched her lineage, and taunted her as if she were a helpless, stranded soul at sea.

She ruled the seven seas and called the depths her homes. She feared no man, immortal or mortal.

“I do not control the seas, merely encourage, and I shall see your kingdom rejoice at the bottom of it, unless my eldest daughters are returned,” said the Queen of the Undersea. She gripped her trident tight in her dominant hand, dragging her left hand across one the honed points, and she sliced her the ashen blue flesh of her palm. Blue blood, a few shades darker than her yet lighter than the bottom of the sea, dripped into the rocking, salty waters. “I vow the ruin of your kingdom, the chaining of your offspring, and the sweet flesh of your meat between my teeth and bones gnawed.” The Undersea Queen smiled briskly. Daggered teeth illuminated on the reflective light bouncing off the dawned rolling waves.

“Have me, then,” the High King encouraged, a petrifying smile adorning his own wrinkled, strewn face. His smile was bitter. His weathered skin wrinkling around the edges. “Feast on my flesh, suckle on my bones, quaff on my blood. Your daughters have been,” he ceased momentarily, watching the waning light drift beneath the unsettled waves that quivered heavier and farther out to sea, “have been taken care of. Serena and Vanora breeched our treaty, and their life was the dept to be paid.”

Silence beckoned, each rocking wave grew and collasped into the seas until it rippled into a static state. The rushing water seized. Little tremors of water rang out loud and beyond, listening ears yearning the beckoned calls. Orlaugh gripped her trident till her knuckles were the foamy white peppering fresh rolled waves toppling one another; the movement a betrayal, giving away she still breathed. She still conquered the silent seas.

Her trident heated as if the fraying light blasted its last moment into the forged metal. The Undersea Queen glanced upon the High King, her ally and friend, as if she watched a whirlpool devour her city. Around and around, everything spun till a dizziness erupted, overtaking her with it. Her fingers relaxed on the trident, and it slipped between her fingers, sinking to the bottom of the seas where it would scrape and shattered the ground beneath the weight. As the blood crown fitted the High King of Elfhame’s head, the seven seas trident forged into her hands, and only to those that dripped the same blue murky blood as her.

Queen Orlagh chuckled softly. A loose, faulty noise. Two tears slipped from the corner of each eye. Raising a shaky finger to the High King, her rebellious laugh rattled the stars above the sky. “A child, your child, shall be born on a night the sea went silent, when the stars are clear and remembered. He will be the ruin of Elfhame, and my children, Serena and Vanora will ensure your children shall be slaughtered after your passing of the crown. A child for a child, and a crown for a throne. I swear it.”

King Eldred’s bronzed eyes flicked wide, eliciting staggered emotions he had not released in decades. Possibly centuries. His lips trembled as he fought off the ragged breathing that sent his weakened ribs raging. Closing his lips, he marveled over the Undersea Queen’s words, the hardened twist, the cursed promise. Her enchantment would hold till the High King swayed another lady of his court into a night of bidding, laying her and having her far through dawning sun and brightening mid-morning sun, yet he eased his face, waxing an unrelenting boredom seep through.

He would be gifted the essence of life and rebirth in his bloodline if there were to be another offspring sired within his chambers. Six children, each a capable heir. Six children, his lineage blessed. A sixth child, a doomed kingdom. He tsked loudly, the air rattling the noise. Studying the Undersea Queen, he knew the weight of her words if he ensured another successor, and on her words, he possessed a kingdom to worry about. However, the elder bastard cackled heartlessly.

King Eldred tucked another golden-spun lock behind his left heir. The ear harboring five pure-gold, heavy metal loops. Each earring adorned an engraving of his children’s initials. A letter pertaining their first name, a letter pertaining their given name, and a letter ‘G’ marking their heritage. Their blood. Their worth. He showed them proudly, mockingly, and Orlagh’s two tears slipping down her pale, ashen cheeks and dropping into the stilled seas carried her anguished cries stoned into the salty tears.

Her people would know their loss. Her people would weep her weakness.

“A curse such of such magnitude is treason, Queen of the Undersea,” King Eldred said, a mock serious engraved in his voice. “One which requires tribute, so I offer two forms of punishment, dear Queen. A mockery, and a loss. A kingdom for a child, and a child for a child. To procure an heir of two great Kingdoms, I shall bear a child with, yet if the ones before us sully me, then they shall you. To take my beloved kingdom, and I shall your third child.”

Words cemented in the earth and sea and sky, the King and Queen nodded respectively, and their heads held high as they receded to their own kingdom; King Eldred bedding a young courtier with a line’s swishing tail while Queen Orlagh founded her own arrangements with a young faerie prince who’s spike thorns along his fingers had her withering in painful delight as they scraped her lifeless blue skin. The burning scratches along her flesh, to her body’s delight, as the salty seas poured into the wounds had done nothing to riddle the mind-numbing pain. The loss of not one, but two children.

She sunk her filed nails through the night-spun hair, inky emptiness with glimmers of hopeful starlight. Tugging the silky ends, she tangled her fingers further in her lover’s hair as he pounded deeper inside her. The onyx eyes—intense mirrors of the ocean’s depths, so empty and endless they were black—stared bleakly at the shark bone crib donned with killer algae along the white, near translucent, bones. A new edition on the crib containing her last daughter. She kept eyes peeled and watchful. The stirring infant drew her eyes longer till she permanently latched onto the kicking feet and squealing giggles.

“My darling queen, must her noises interrupt our delights? I have very short time till my father learns of my departure,” her lover grunted, pressing violent kisses along her neck, and his tongue caressed the queen’s flaring gills. Grunting lowly into the pocket of air surrounding his nose and mouth, he cursed the queen’s name in an unforgiving prayer.

“Harder,” she said lowly, a cruel demand. Her nails raked down the silky strands of night parting at the tips of her talons. How easy. Oh, how easy. She applied the slightest pressure and nails would rip through blood and hair and bones. Her fingers would mush the brains, playing delightfully with the graying chunks, a last thought still rippling through the nerves. She gripped down tightly, snapping her lover’s head back. She glanced fearlessly into the eyes so opposite of the great lineage they descended and drew power from. “Tell me,” she grunted as his hips snapped roughly against her clenched thighs. The water swished brilliantly around them. She met her lover’s starlight eyes. “Tell me if the truth of faeries souls, do they venture to the beyond after death, or do they travel to a mortal host to right their last wrongs before moving on?”

Her lover, eyes drawn tight, moved himself deeper. His grunt flooded into the fresh air pocket—the single thing keeping him alive so deep beneath the sea. Thrusting deeper inside his lover, his cock grazed her clenching walls. “Fuck.” He mewled like a prayer answered by the gods, a good omen from beyond. He focused on the women before him, perched wonderfully warm on his cock as he filled her over and over, body lost in pleasure, yet hers rivaled his in the most vulnerable and open ways. “My love, my queen, if I give the answer, will you enjoy me as much I am thoroughly enjoying you?”

“Please,” she said, lips a quiver. Her plea was nearly breathless. However, her gills gulped down the salty seas surrounding them. There was neither a reason to be breathless nor struggle to breathe. Flicking her eyes on her babe, she rode her lover harder. Her legs tightened around him, drawing the faerie’s body flush against her. She released a loud gasp, her lover filling her so. “I enjoy myself now, but the answer will lessen my distraction. Please,” she repeated, moving her hands to cup his faced as she stared into his eyes.

“Their souls everlasting, their new bodies contrasting. An immortal life fulfilled, so much a mortal one they must build. If they are to be free, they plea, they plea, they plea already, but there must be a fee to be so free,” her lover said. An uttered enchantment turning the immortal mortal and the mortal immortal.

Happily, the Undersea Queen clutched her lover, intertwining their bodies closer as she was content to dream. Her hazy eyes followed the child feet away. Her little sighs drove her lover’s body into a frenzied commotion. He filled and emptied her. He brushed his thorny fingers over her bare skin, and when she given into her lover’s pleasured delights and shouts had she found herself toppling a blissful edge with him.

“Balekin,” she shouted, hoping the king heard her far in the depths of the sea. Heard his son’s betrayal, a wickedly sweet sound that her finding the pleasured ends with her lover.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Odd Future [Chapter Three] Resolve [Erik]

Mornings were never kind to me. The entire concept of the early bird never encouraged me enough to want to tear ass out of bed at the crack of dawn and start the day. The same can’t be said for Alice, however. Her enthusiasm woke me, urging me to get dressed and meet with Gianni for training. Sadly, I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to having her inside my head; her every emotion combating with mine. It was strange.

I crawled out of bed with a whine and retrieved the basin on the chair, taking it downstairs; a routine Alice stuck to. Lucia was in the kitchen cutting up potatoes and carrots as I walked into the living room. Her bright eyes widened in surprise upon seeing me.

“Early to rise, are we?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Master Gianni agreed to teach me magic.”

Lucia hummed.

“Did he now? He never struck me as the teaching type.”

“I may have annoyed him enough about it,” I said with a laugh.

Lucia snorted.

“You have always been rather persistent,” she mentioned. “But what reason do you want to learn magic now?”

I can’t tell her the truth; that I’m not Alice. She’d never believe me.

“Someday, when I’m older, I want to travel,” I answered.

It was the truth; only I had no plans to come back.

Lucia narrowed her eyes and sat down her knife.

“I wasn’t aware how interested you were to travel, dear.”

Was she worried about me? Alice had been with her since birth. It made sense for her to have an attachment to Alice.  

I smiled.

“Not right now, though. I’d miss you too much.”

Alice would; I knew so.

Lucia narrowed her eyes and smiled.

“Come now dear, you’re going to make an old woman cry,” she uttered. “Let me get you some water to wash your face with.”

Walking around the table, she took the basin from me and filled it with water from the pot over the fireplace.

“Go and get dressed while the water cools. Your clothes are on the line outside,” Lucia ordered.

I thanked her and rushed outside to the line. The sun was coming up over the horizon, barely awake, but a few people were roaming around, setting up their kiosks for the travelers.

I learned that Gondolia was a port city that made its gold – the currency in Erdrea – by trading everything from fish to wares to explorers who passed through. There was a lot of history here to learn; I was eager to hear it, but not at the moment. I picked out an outfit; a pair of trousers and an olive-colored shirt, then went back inside to wash my face and get dressed.

“I’m heading out,” I announced once I was done.

“Don’t forget to put on your shoes. I better not see you without them after what happened yesterday,” Lucia reminded me.

Of course. I slid on a pair near the door, then rushed out into the street. According to Alice’s memories, Gianni lived in a shop with a sign that read DeLuca on it. I located it a house down from the orphanage; a large shop with a wooden stall that a familiar slime rested on.

“Good morning, Tempest,” I greeted him.

He bounced with glee.

“Is Gianni home?” I asked with a laugh.

Tempest leaped from the stall and bounced through a wooden door into the shop. I took that as a yes. Following him into the main room, the scent of earth and flowers permeated my nose. What sort of wares did Gianni sell? There were stands lined along the brick walls covered with strange items that I had never seen before, and barrels loaded with wooden swords and axes. It reminded me of an old country store; it smelled like one too.

I picked up a soft, fluffy staple fiber, admiring its rainbow-colored threads. Was it cotton? I had never seen anything like it before.

“Master Gianni,” I shouted. “What is this?”

A door opened near me, and a familiar mage walked out into the room.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” the said man stated. “And to answer your question, that is Faerie Fluff.”

What an unusual name.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

Gianni walked over and took the fiber from me, spinning the stem between his finger and thumb.

“I obtained it from a Gnawchid; a nature beast. This one material can be used to craft clothing and costs 250 gold, so be careful not to destroy it.”

I shot him a glare. I’m more responsible than that. On another note, it was interesting to learn that monsters could be farmed for materials. Maybe I could even learn to craft items.

“So, you are a greedy merchant, and a mage,” I stated.

Gianni grunted.

“I’m resourceful is all.”

Tempest rammed into his side, urging a groan of discomfort from the mage.

“Knock that off,” Gianni snapped.

Tempest recoiled and jumped into my arms. Poor darling. I nuzzled him.

“He likes you,” Gianni mentioned with a grin. “Most slimes are afraid of humans, but some have been known to attack humans weaker than them.”

“But I’m not a bad slime,” Tempest stated with a slurp.

Did he just speak? My eyes grew wide in disbelief. I don’t recall him talking in Alice’s memories.

“Interesting,” Gianni hummed. “Very well then, come along. We’ve wasted enough time.”

He walked back through the door he came out of, leaving it open in his wake. Tempest leaped from my arms as I followed Gianni into another room as open as the last. This one was mostly empty except for some straw figures tied to pikes in the ground. What were they used for? Perhaps a training room.

“Do you know the fundamentals of mana control?” Gianni asked.

Hard no. I shook my head.

“I thought so,” he confirmed with a sigh. “Every creature and human have mana. It is an intentional force used to cast spells.”

Okay.

“But there is a limit to how much mana a being can use,” Gianni continued to explain. “For instance, you are new to magic, so your output is only at 2%. A common slime could beat you.”

How reassuring. I understood though. No mana meant no magic. It was like a fantasy RPG.

“Is there a way for me to recharge it?” I asked.

“Only rest can replenish mana,” Gianni answered.

Damn. That was a problem. In Erdrea, there were no potions to restore mana points; health points too I imagined. I’d be a sitting duck out there.

“Has your enthusiasm deterred?” Gianni asked.

“No,” I uttered. “I still want to learn, but now I believe magic alone will not be enough.”

I needed to learn to fight or at least defend myself.

“Of course not,” Gianni laughed. “But I see that you are serious about leaving Gondolia one day.”

I was.

“I understand the feeling, Alice. I too wanted to see the world once,” Gianni mentioned.

He whistled twice and Tempest peeked into the room.

“A dagger please, my old friend.”

The slime disappeared for a moment, then returned, bouncing into the room. He spat a wooden dagger out onto the floor, watching me with hopeful eyes as I picked it up.

“Do your best,” Tempest cheered.

Do my best at what? I had no idea what I was meant to do with it.

“Let’s not act hastily,” Gianni uttered. “You have yet to cast a spell. Face the targets.”

I sat the dagger down and turned towards the straw figures. There were three of them, so I chose the one on the far right to focus on. But what was I meant to do?

“How do I cast magic?”

“Start at the beginning,” Gianni answered. “Raise your hands and envision fire. Once you have that in mind, form it into an orb and project it at one of the targets.”

Okay. One fireball coming up.

I closed my eyes and raised my hands, envisioning fire as I was instructed. It sounded easy enough. But nothing happened. Was I doing it right?

“Why is it not working?” I asked, peeking open an eye.

Gianni snorted.

“It’s not about just seeing the fire, Alice. You have to feel it too; understand its fundamentals.”

I knew casting spells was not going to be a cakewalk. Once again then. I pictured an open flame, dancing madly in my mind. Something about it drew me to it as I understood it. What was fire, but a reaction in which substances combined and combusted? It was straightforward. But was that enough?

You have to feel it too, I recalled Gianni saying.

Damn. What did fire feel like?

The closest memory I had was the time I burned myself attempting to smoke a cigarette to impress some high school boy I barely knew. The cherry fell off when I flicked the ashes and burned through my pants, leaving a mark on my thigh in the process. It was embarrassing and hurt like hell. But I could never forget it. The slightest contact produced an instant, blinding pain.

A sudden heat surrounded my hands. Good. I formed the flame into an orb and imagined it being emitted from me. Opening my eyes, a fireball no bigger than grapefruit appeared from thin air and shot towards the target, missing by a few inches. Luckily it vanished before catching anything else on fire.

I did it, but damn, my aim was terrible.

A wave of exhaustion consumed me, and I leaned down panting. Where did it come from? The feeling was so sudden.

“It’s just as I thought,” Gianni mentioned. “Your mana is only good for one spell.”

I shot a glare at him. Next time I’ll aim at him.

“It’s expected, Alice. You have a low mana output, but training will increase it,” Gianni explained. “We will discuss more on it once you are rested. Take a second to catch your breath, then take up the dagger. Let me see how well you can fare against an old man.”

Was he serious? He wanted me to spar with him. I took an uneasy breath and retrieved the dagger, holding it in my hand. For some reason, I had a bad feeling about this, but I lunged at him regardless, going for a direct strike. But as I expected, Gianni deflected my arm and used my momentum to throw me to the ground with an oomph.

Damn that hurt. I groaned in pain.

“Try again,” Gianni ordered.

I snorted in annoyance and got up, putting some distance between us. Again, I tried and again I was thrown to the ground.

“Again,” he ordered.

For the next few minutes, I tried to reach him, but over and over he tossed me to the ground, sometimes going so far as to taunt me for failing. I had enough. I was exhausted and sore; there was no way I could beat Gianni. He had to have known.

“I’m done,” I declared, sitting up on my knees.

Gianni hummed.

“Are you giving up already?”

Did he have to phrase it like that?

“I just need to rest. I can’t beat you,” I answered.

“Do you think monsters will allow you to rest? The answer is no. You may be lucky enough to escape, but what if you aren’t? And how do you expect to land a hit if you keep coming at me the same way over and over?”

Gianni had a point. I barely knew how to hold a dagger. What was I even doing?

“Show me,” I ordered.

He grinned. Taking the dagger from me, he positioned it in his hand the correct way, demonstrating a slash with it.

“You are young and mobile, Alice. You should have no problem catching me off guard.”

But Gianni was experienced. I had no real ––

No. I couldn’t think like that. Taking the dagger from him, I positioned it in my hand and put some distance between us. There was no time for excuses. I lunged at him, faking a direct strike, but at the last second, I darted to the right and spun around him, aiming for his back. But all at once, Gianni beat me to the punch. His reflexes caught me off guard, striking me with the back of his hand. For an old man, he was fast.

It was strange, but I knew that I would fail again. I let myself get too riled up, thinking I could win. The adrenaline was intoxicating. I hit the ground with a thud and lay there in defeat.

“How do you feel?” Gianni asked.

“Like a failure,” I sobbed.

How did he think I’d feel?

“Not to me,” he mentioned. “I saw an improvement.”

I widened my eyes. He was right. There wasn’t much of one, but it was much better than before. The characters in an RPG leveled up through experience; they didn’t start at cap out. In order to get stronger, I needed to level grind.

“I want to try again,” I stated.

Gianni grinned.

“I am happy to see that this was not a wasted effort. But perhaps you should rest. I am going to start your real training tomorrow. From now on you come here bright and early every day and practice until you can bring me some Faerie Fluff from a Gnawchid.”

I nodded in understanding, wiping the tears from my eyes.

Mornings were never kind to me, but for Ann’s sake, I will bare them.

For the next nine years, I boosted my mana output and trained like mad crazy. There was still much for me to learn, but Alice and I were ready to brave whatever storm Erdrea had to throw at us.

If only we knew the danger that loomed over the horizon.

[under-the-lake]

Hallowe’en - What We Kept from Samhain

What we see today, when Hallowe’en is on the doorstep - or rather about two months earlier in shops - can be summarised in a few words: spiders, pumpkins, scary monster faces, witches’ hats, sweets. Moreover, it is a festival now made for kids. Obviously, because it would make more money than if you targeted adults. If you have read more about Samhain here or elsewhere, you’ll know that this lot sounds veeeeeery much mercantile and far from any Celtic tradition. Indeed, but.

Because there is a but. There is a link, even if people are not aware at all that what they do is deeply rooted in pre-Christian traditions. Let’s have a look.

Obviously, if you ask anyone in the street today about what Hallowe’en means, they’ll answer monsters and sweets and kids. Not a festival for adults. Well, that was not the case back when Samhain was important. It was a festival for everyone because it was New Year, and everything had to be cleaned (physically or financially or whateverally, really), new fires were lit, etc… Sweets can be related to the offerings made to more-or-less malevolent spirits and fairies that night, and monsters can be related to the fact that the culture included a spiritual world not completely separated from the realm of the living, and that Samhain was a liminal period in the year, which would make the two worlds even closer to each other than they would be during the rest of the year. Disguises were already in use at Samhain too, and we’ll see why later.

Monsters & Co.

Barriers between worlds were breachable during Samhain, so offerings were made during the festival to fairies, for instance. The gifts were placed well out of the villages. Fairies weren’t those unsavoury little winged things people have inherited from a Victorian tradition and that Disney-dictatorship has translated into Tinkerbell (though the original book already had her so, but you know how books struggle against other media… ; see picture below). Fairies, or faerie, are supernatural beings or enchanted ones, living in a realm of their own. In Irish myths we have the aos sídh, who are the barrow-dwellers, and also called the faerie. Remember Aillén Mac Madgna? He was a fallen of the Túatha Dé Danann, and was called a fairy, though he burnt Tara every Samhain for twenty-three years until Fionn came and stopped him.

There are some creatures and beings more specifically active at Samhain, and here is a short description of some of them. None of them is really remembered at Hallowe’en, replaced by screaming ghost figures and werewolves.

Among the specific creatures associated with Samhain is the púca, a fairy and a shape-shifter. He is said to appear most often in the shape of a black horse (see picture). The púca got offerings from the harvest to keep him checked. Some beliefs are that if the harvest, cattle and foraging is not done before Samhain, the púca will render it all inedible.

Another Samhain-apparition is the Lady Gwyn, who is a headless wanderer-chaser and who’s accompanied by a black pig. Why the heck a pig? At any rate, she is pictured in two different ways according to different sources. Either she’s a good spirit, guarding crossroads and graveyards from other less nice creatures, or her purpose is darker, and she is there to lure the odd wanderer to their doom by asking for help, or offering some glowing treasure.

Then there’s the Dullahan. The Dullahan is a headless rider (male or female, depending on sources), who roams the land in quest of victims (picture below, credit to https://www.theirishplace.com/). He is more prone to appear at some particular festivals, carrying his severed rotting head with him. No gate stays locked before the Dullahan, and anyone spotting him would go blind. The Dullahan can take lives, but, according to some sources, only if he speaks their name, and he can do that only once in his journey. The name spoken will mean death for the bearer, and there is no countercurse. The myth of the Dullahan has survived in many cultures, and for instance in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington Irving, published in 1820. It tells the story of a soldier who lost his head during the American War of Independence, and comes back every Hallowe’en to look for it.

Worse or not? - the Sluagh, a creature that steals souls from houses, always flying from the West (so… the Enemy doesn’t always come from the East, does he, Mr Tolkien?). Are those sort of Dementors? Whom do they steal souls from? Dead souls from the family? Or straight from living people? At any rate, ancient tradition says they are faerie gone terribly wrong, fearless and merciless. People would keep their western windows closed tight at all times, for fear of the Sluagh coming for a soul. Some sources say that it is because the Sluagh come out at Samhain that all fires had to be extinguished at that time, so as to avoid detection. Other sources say it was because a year had ended and needed to start afresh. I’d rather back that second one.

Now about the banshee. Aka the Bean Sídhe (picture of the Bunworth Banshee, Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland. 1825). Bean Sídhe actually means woman of the barrow/rath. They were originally graceful and gentle women of the people of Danu (i.e. the Túatha Dé Danann). Today we think about banshees as horrid howling old hags. Actually, Irish mythology tells that the Bean Sídhe can take three forms, one being that of a beautiful woman, one that of an old woman with red eyes, and one that of a red-headed long-haired woman in a white dress. Some sources say Bean Sídhe sings people to their deaths, though most say they foretell whom in the clan will die, and that hearing her keening meant someone in the clan or family would die. They are, in some sources, considered a household fairy, who would be attached to a family and move with them. Myth has it that at first, the Bean Sídhe would keen only for the five foremost Irish families, the only ones being blessed with a lament by one of the faerie, wherever the dying person was. Her cry was the first news of someone snuffing it in the family. Those families were the O’Neills, the O’Briens, the O’Connors, the O’Gradys, and the Kavanaghs.

During Samhain, people also wore disguises. Usually, those were animal skins, along with their heads. And not bunny rabbits. Usually scary animals. The idea was to hide themselves from their deceased relatives who would be able, that night, to come back and visit, since the barriers between the realms would vanish. The disguise would prevent relatives from imposing upon the living, or taking them to the otherworld. Spirits were also believed to leave their barrows/raths to mingle with the living, which would probably be one more reason to hide oneself. Those people were called aos sí (pronounce ‘ees shee’), meaning ‘the people of the hollow hills’ and the raths were the sídh (shee). As barrows go, those were believed to be portals to the otherworld and very prone to opening during Samhain, the most liminal time of year. Remember the story of Fionn against Aillén and the saving of Tara? And again, rings a Tolkien bell? The Barrow Downs (aka Tyrn Gorthad) are exactly that, and Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry experience the trouble of meeting the Barrow-Wights on their way to Bree. The Hobbits meet the Barrow-Wights during a foggy morning, which is, as fog goes, a liminal moment in weather: orientation goes haywire, sounds are muffled, nothing is really right.

All Hallows Eve

In the eighth century, Pope Gregory III decided that 1st November would be All Saints Day. That’s yet another example of how a new religion takes hold of what they would call pagan traditions and usually consider a threat to their domination. Using a traditional feast to build a new one (or a sacred location to build another temple) is common throughout history, and has as an aim to assess the power and predominance of the newly come/imposed belief. That is particularly true for monotheistic religions, though in the case of Samhain, it was not completely possible to annihilate the old rituals, but it looks like Christianity had to do with it rather than completely against it. The Day of the Dead is celebrated on 2nd November since it was created by the abbott Odilon at the monastery of Cluny, France, in the 11th century, and is either ‘only’ a way to remember the dead, because they don’t come back in the realm of the living, in Christianity, or is a way of feasting over their coming back for a day, like in Mexico, where traditional and Christian beliefs mingle for that feast.

There was no real way to occult the idea that the realms of the living and the dead would be in closer contact during that time, so the Church had to make do, basically. It is now widely believed that the Church tried to wipe off the important festival of Samhain and replace it with something that it would sanction, as it did with many other celebrations, like for instance Christmas.

About the name of Hallowe’en, though, as feasts tended to start on the evening before the actual day - as they did in Celtic tradition too - the day of All Saintss, i.e. All Hallows, started on All Hallows’ Even, 31st October. Evolution of language made it into Hallowe’en or Halloween. Traditions of disguising and hiding from the otherworld were kept. There are also the lanterns and the sweets… but why?

Why Do We Carve Pumpkins? - Jack o Lanterns

And why Jack? You could ask. Well. They weren’t always pumpkins, to start with. Pumpkins sailed to Europe in the 16th century, so millenia after the beginning of any sort of Samhain festival. At some point in history, people, in addition to using disguises, started to carve root vegetables like turnips into scary faces and place a candle inside, to keep the evil spirits away and with them a bloke called Stingy Jack. Having lanterns was an expensive business, so people used root veggies to the same effect. Later those were replaced by pumpkins, but the idea was the same. Some casts of carved turnips are visible at the National Irish Museum.

So what about that Jack person? That is a tale that comes after Christianity had overtaken Ireland. It goes like so: Stingy Jack was a penniless drunkard, who liked roaming the roads at night. One such night, he came upon a body with a twisted face on the road. Thinking it was his end at last and that Death had come for him in the shape of Satan. Not willing to depart this world without a last sip, he asked the devil to come and have a drink with him at the pub. They went. After a few pints, it was time to pay, and true to his name, Jack asked the devil to cough up, because he was skint. The devil was too. Jack told the devil: ‘Turn into a coin so I can pay and then you turn back into yourself whenever the bartender is not watching.’ So the devil, acknowledging the level of trickery in Jack, turns into a coin. Jack, trickster among the tricksters, decides not to pay but to pocket the coin and go. Trouble is, in his pocket was also a crucifix, meaning that the devil was basically at Jack’s mercy. You can imagine that Satan wasn’t very happy with the arrangements. He asked Jack to free him, but Jack bartered with the devil: ten years to let him go. And Satan agreed. What were ten years for an immortal thing like him?

Ten years later, the same scene repeated: Jack stumbled upon Satan on the road and the devil told him it was the moment to fulfill his part of the bargain. Jack, true to himself, asked for an apple to feed his empty stomach. Satan - he was really daft - didn’t see the trick, and climbed up an apple tree to get what Jack asked. Meanwhile, Jack carved a cross into the trunk, and Satan couldn’t get down. Asking for his release, the devil heard a second demand from Jack: ‘I’ll let you down if you promise never to take my soul to Hell.’ To which the devil agreed, frustrated to have been outwitted once more.

Eventually, Jack died. He arrived at the gates of Heaven, but was rebuked and sent to try his luck in Hell. Arriving in Hell, Satan, keeping his promise to Jack, didn’t take his soul in. And Jack was then left to roam the limbo with an ember inside a hollowed turnip for light.

That’s how we have turnips and now pumpkins at Hallowe’en. Naturally, this story has many versions, and the number of years allowed to Jack and the ways the crosses are used change from one story to the next. However, he always meets the devil twice and is denied entrance to both Heaven and Hell, and wanders the Earth with a turnip lantern. The Irish first called him Jack-of-the-Lantern, which soon shortened into Jack-o’-Lantern.

How Come Hallowe’en Is a United-Statesian Affair?

I’m not speaking of Dias De Muertos, which is a Mexican festival that is, though related, completely different, mostly because it has a way more religious connotation than Hallowe’en (which has none).

If we look back at the US history of immigration from Europe, it is quite obvious that Hallowe’en cannot have travelled there via the so-called first settlers, because of their rigid protestant laws. The celebration of some sort of yearly festival seems to have started in the southern colonies, by the telling of ghost stories, and pranking, maybe to remember the púca and other pranksters from Irish folklore? Nothing really widespread happened before the great waves of immigration of the 19th century, when a massive arrival of Irish settlers fleeing the Potato Famine brought Hallowe’en with them. Before the 19th century waves of immigration arrived, there was a move to change the prank-and-witches feast into something more neighbourly, more community-centered. By the mid-19th century, the feasts had become more centered on games, food and festive costuming, trying to remove anything frightening or grotesque from the feast (quite intriguing, given that it was also the boom of the gothic movement). The consequence was that by the 20th century, Hallowe’en was basically a garden-party/town parade business. The 1950s baby boom meant more children, and the parties moved to classrooms and homes, and were more directly designed for younger humans. The trick-and-treating was also revived, and giving out sweets was a relatively cheap way to avoid getting pranked. Obviously, this can be related to the tradition of making offerings to faerie and getting disguised to avoid recognition by malevolent spirits, but it has come a long way from Celtic Ireland to this.

Today, Hallowe’en is a huge commercial event: for instance, 25% of all sweets bought yearly in the USA are bought for Hallowe’en. Europe had not been touched a lot by this wave until recently, but there are not really parties or trick-or-treaters on continental Europe. They are a thing on the British Isles, obviously, but I reckon the US version of Hallowe’en has taken over the traditional one. There are sort of revivals of new fires and traditions, of course, but they are marginal compared to the mercantilism of today’s Hallowe’en.

How it happens in the Harry Potter books

There is not much in the Harry Potter series about Hallowe’en, but it is a time of danger and a turning point in the story, usually, because weird things happen that shouldn’t be happening: Lily and James Potter die at the hand of Voldemort, and Harry survives; Quirrell makes the Troll enter Hogwarts in Philosopher’s Stone; Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday is on Hallowe’en, and famously, Harry, Ron and Hermione attend his 500th Deathday party in Chamber of Secrets, and it was on the same day that the Chamber of Secrets was opened for the first time after fifty years, and the Basilisk Petrified its first victim, Mrs Norris; in Prisoner of Azkaban, Sirius Black enters Hogwarts on Hallowe’en, frightening the Fat Lady who must be replaced by Sir Cadogan for a while; in Goblet of Fire, the Triwizard Cup is launched and Harry chosen as fourth champion.

Besides, as Harry and Neville were born on 30th/31st July, it is likely they were conceived on or around Hallowe’en the year before.

So Hallowe’en is an important date, because in the first four books something central to the plot happens. However, in terms of links with Samhain, there is practically nothing. Is it because the lore in the Wizarding World is already rich enough? Because no kind of religious reference was wanted there, be it ‘pagan’ or not? Pumpkins and live bats are the only references to any kind of tradition in the books.

Everyone can make their own idea about how they want (or don’t want) to celebrate Samhain or Hallowe’en. I separate the two because now that I've learnt a bit about Samhain, it is impossible to relate it completely to the 21st century version of Hallowe’en. However, I hope you enjoyed this trip throughout cultures and history. I did.

Sources

Online Sources:

http://www.ancienttexts.org/library/celtic/jce/beansidhe.html

https://brewminate.com/samhain-the-celtic-inspiration-for-modern-halloween/

Text of the Second Battle of Mag Tuired: https://celt.ucc.ie//published/T300010/index.html

https://celticmke.com/CelticMKE-Blog/Samhain-Tlachtga.htm

http://fermoyireland.50megs.com/bansheestory.htm

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow - text: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/41/41-h/41-h.htm

https://www.history.com/topics/halloween/history-of-halloween

https://www.knowth.com/the-celts.htm

https://thefadingyear.wordpress.com/2016/11/01/the-puca-and-blackberries-after-halloween/

https://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/paganism/holydays/samhain.shtml

https://www.bbc.co.uk/bitesize/articles/zbkdcqt

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Samhain

https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Joukowsky_Institute/courses/13things/7448.html

https://www.theirishplace.com/heritage/the-dullahan/

https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/samhain

https://www2.nau.edu/~gaud/bio300w/frsl.htm

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/when-people-carved-turnips-instead-of-pumpkins-for-halloween-180978922/

Bookses and Papers

Farrar, J., Farrar, S., & Bone, G. (2001). The Complete Dictionary of European Gods and Goddesses. Capall Bann Publishing, Berks, UK.

Harari, Y. N. (2014). Sapiens: A brief history of humankind. Random House.

Johnson, P. (2008). The Little People of the British Isles - Pixies, Brownies, Sprites, and Other Rare Fauna. Wooden Books, Glastonbury, UK.

MacKillop, J. (2006). Myths and Legends of the Celts. Penguin UK.

Meuleau, M. (2004). Les Celtes en Europe. Ed. Ouest-France.

Rees, A., & Rees, B. (1991). Celtic Heritage: Ancient Tradition in Ireland and Wales. 1961. Reprint.

Rowling, J. K. (1997). Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, Bloomsbury, London.

Rowling, J. K. (1998). Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Bloomsbury, London.

Rowling, J. K. (1999). Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Bloomsbury, London.

Rowling, J. K. (2000). Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Bloomsbury, London.

Rowling, J. K. (2007). Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Bloomsbury, London.

[sastielcreationschallenge]

🎊 Happy New Year @karategirl80​ 🎉

Sam and Castiel didn’t think about it much when Jack’s recent interest in Celtic lore turned into his next big hyper fixation. He would talk about the Loch Ness monsters, selkies, leprechauns and faeries and never shut up. It was like Jack needed to infodump everything at the dinner table, which made Dean sometimes leave to eat in peace in the library, which made Sam mad because he hated mayonnaise stains on the old manuscripts. Which made Cas mad, because he hated it when Sam was getting mad. Cas was the one who didn’t contribute much to the conversations but Sam was engaging a lot with Jack’s preferences and he had a thing to say about almost everything. Everything Jack knew, Sam would know, too, and maybe even more.

They would battle each other in board games like Trivial Pursuit but Jack would fail badly in card games. Jack didn’t have a poker face at all, he wasn’t even able to not show the others his cards. 

He understood the rules, of course, he did, Jack was a fast and eager learner and when he heard something once he would remember it for the rest of his life. But he just couldn’t control his facial expressions and he hated playing against Sam or Cas. And Dean would beat him in any card game, he was the hustler of the group and used to cheating. 

When Jack wouldn’t shut up over Samhain and Yule about Celtic mythology, faerie courts, gaelic language and even New Year’s passed with him holding lectures about the possible mating habits of elves, Sam decided they needed a holiday in Scotland. Just him, Cas and Jack and Jack could go do some monster hunting. Dean welcomed the decision so much, he took a ride to Lebanon the same evening to stock up his whiskey stash, also bacon and all the unhealthy stuff Sam would complain about. It’s January 3rd when they land in Inverness, Scotland. Sam is jetlagged, but Cas and Jack seem fine and while Sam takes a long nap in the BnB, Cas and Jack would go outside and roam the area. 

Jack woke Sam after six hours of coma with the words: “Sam, did you know the novels from Diana Gabaldon take place in the Highlands?”

Of course he knows, he thinks, silently groaning. He read them all and had a tiny crush on Jamie Frasier when he was a teenager. 

“Is that another hyper fixation incoming?”, he asks and Cas scoffs.

“I’m sorry, my love. I tried to keep him away from the shops but there’s advertising everywhere and he bought two novels.”

Sam raises his eyebrow. Jack is off to his room, because it would maybe trigger some questions about two adult looking men sharing their bedroom with their adult looking son (who sometimes didn’t behave very mature, but that’s another issue).

“You know these novels have a lot of sex in them? The problematic kind?”

Cas peels his way out of his trenchcoat and the red tie with reindeers on it. He received that as a gift from Dean, and even if he’d never admit it, he held Dean high still. No matter what happened between them, Cas was still loyal to a degree that Sam sometimes got a tiny bit jealous. 

“You’ve read them, you’ll tell him.”

Of course Sam will. He laughs at Cas’s approach to let just Sam handle the situation, but since Cas has proven himself no big help with the whole “Talk” stuff, Sam will do it anyway.

Sam gets up to go to the en suite bathroom, brush his teeth and take a quick shower. He knows Cas followed him and is watching him shower instead of just coming in himself, which Sam would encourage. 

“Come in”, he says, “Or do you want to creep on me?” 

“I like watching you.” 

There’s more rustling of clothes and Sam knows, Cas is undressing and folding his clothes neatly, like he always does. 

The shower gets hot, then steamy, it’s such a small cabin, not much space to fool around in, but Sam is already eyeing the bed again, and now they’re alone and Jack will be busy reading historical porn with consent issues he can relax a bit more. Since Cas and Sam feel and act like Jack’s dad it also feels like really having a kid around. Sam is always on alert and expects knocking on his door. Also no funny things happen around the bunker anymore, Cas and him rarely find a peaceful moment for themselves. 

Maybe it’s the fact Sam is indeed a bit pent up and refreshed from his nap, that he doesn’t care much about Jack being away in the next room, when he pulls Cas on his lap in bed, both of them still dripping wet. It doesn’t matter right now. The church bells outside ring and drown Castiel’s moans when he lowers on Sam’s body. In moments like this, Sam thinks he can see the angel’s halo and the shadows of his broken, thin wings on the walls. 

“Why do you always want to be intimate after a shower? Not practical.”

Sam laughs about Cas’s words, he knows it’s a habit that mostly results in them needing another shower, but when Cas joins him in the bathroom it’s like a reflex he can’t stand against. And Cas is so pliant and also otherworldly appealing, Sam would never reject him.

“Yeah I know, I know.” 

They’re wrapped in the blanket, no matter of how they ruined it already. Jack knocks out and Cas jerks up.

“Dads! I want to see a Kelpie!”

They look at each other.

“Come in!”, Sam calls out and Jack opens the door.

“Claire saw a Kelpie in book one, I think I want to go see one, too!”

Sam gets up, but keeps the blanket up to his chest and smiles at Jack. 

“You read that whole novel in under an hour?”

Jack nods eagerly. “Yes. It’s nothing, just 640 pages. I’m half through volume two. Will we go to France next?”

“Do you want to visit Maitre Raymond?”, Sam jokes. But he won’t go any further here, Cas hasn’t read the books, he maybe feels left out.

“No, I want to see the castles! I also have some questions about what happened to Claire when she was with Louis…” 

“Okay, okay, yes, I got it. We’ll visit France next, but first you want to see a Kelpie. I think we’ll have to spend a night in the Culloden moor, where the battle of Culloden takes place.”

Jack is so excited he doesn’t comment their nakedness or blurts out “did you have sex again?” before he goes to pack his bags. 

“You really want to sleep in the moor? Is that legal?”, Cas asks, while he gets up to go take another, more cleansing shower. 

“Anything for our kid.” 

Sam grins and follows Cas to the shower. The water pressure is great, the temperature boiling hot, as Sam loves it and Cas doesn’t mind.

“Anything for our kid?”, Cas asks, a sheepish smile on his face. 

Anything for Jack. 

“And anything for you, too”, Sam adds, kissing Castiel’s shoulder. 

“I’m happy the way it is”, Cas whispers and leans in Sam’s embrace. 

Sam is, too.

[thewhimsicalnugget]

A magical potion for a magical person

[missytearex]

It’s been a really weird month, but I read some great fics! Go check these out and remember to leave kudos/comments if you do. Under 10k fic are under the cut.

💎 adjudication by @bottomlinsons --- [fic post]

larry | 75k | mature

Harry's been engaged to Princess Charlotte of Ryde for as long as he can remember. He's come to know her, to love her, through the letters she's sent him over the past three years.

But when the wedding finally arrives, Harry quickly learns that nothing is as it seems. With his crown and country at stake, Harry must decide who to trust in this strange new land. And the sly Crown Prince of Ryde doesn't seem inclined to make things easy.

💎 The Second Hand Unwinds by @kingsofeverything​ --- [fic post]

larry | 51k | explicit

Louis Tomlinson is one of the first members of NASA's top secret Chrono Exploration Program. When things go wrong and he's sent further back in time than planned, he has no other option than to show up on his ex-boyfriend's doorstep.

💎 future full of yesterdays by fliptomybside

narry | 44k | mature

Niall studies astrophysics, Harry studies Niall.

💎 The Space Between by @lads-laddylads --- [fic post]

larry | 39k | explicit

Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why.

Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

💎 Every Lonely Place by @ham-palpert --- [fic post]

larry | 38k | explicit

Facing the fact that he’s been prioritizing his career over his relationship, Harry proposes to his longtime boyfriend Louis on a whim. But when yet another work emergency takes precedence over their plans, Louis decides he’s had enough. Harry goes to bed drunk and alone, and when he wakes, he finds himself in an entirely different world. Over and over again, Harry visits a lifetime he’s once lived, across time and dimensions. And wherever there’s a Harry Styles, there’s a Louis Tomlinson.

💎 with no way out and a long way down by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed --- [fic post]

larry | 31k | teen and up

Prince Harry is ten when he receives his soulmark.

💎 I Want To Be With You Everywhere by @haztobegood --- [fic post]

larry | 30k | explicit

A Seed from the Cherished Tree A Cloud from the Mighty Summit A Flower from the Perpetual Volcano A Pearl from the Perceptive Lake A Love across the Faery Realms

Fae Proposals were a rare and ancient ritual. The presentation of the four Tokens to one’s mate would initiate a lifelong, inter-realm bond between their souls. But the Tokens could only be gathered if the lover could overcome the elements of all four Faery Realm Trials.

The Trials were dangerous, deadly even. But for Harry, Louis would risk it all.

💎 And Then, You by @all-these-larrythings --- [fic post]

larry | 26k | mature

The last place Harry wants to spend part of her summer is in the middle of nowhere prepping for some stupid, age-old tradition she never asked to be part of. Debutante balls are so ridiculous that Harry would give anything to get out of hers. That is, until she meets Louis, and suddenly, she's wishing to never leave.

💎 Only You by @bitter-leaf --- [fic post]

larry, shiall, ziam | 19k | teen and up

Yesterday's history. Tomorrow's the future. Tonight's the party.

School's out and Harry was one last chance to tell Louis how he feels.

💎 if my heart was a compass, you'd be north by @wallstagram --- [fic post]

larry | 11k | mature

Louis is a famous travel vlogger, and Harry is a famous vlogging food critic. They travel the world with their best friends and fall more in love with every continent they step foot on. When Louis' love declaration threatens Harry's dreams of giving Louis the perfect proposal, craziness ensues.

filling the prompt: harry uses videos or pictures from each country they go to to propose to louis

💎 And if you want me too by goseaward

stylinshaw | 8k | explicit

When Louis had asked if he could stay, Harry hadn't mentioned Nick would be here. By the time he did say something, Louis felt like it would be admitting defeat to stay away. He can make nice with Harry's boyfriend. All the rest of it is just--water under the bridge.

💎 5+x=7, solve for x by @paperandkink --- [fic post]

ot5 | 7k | mature

Dads. They’re going to be dads. Niall is going to be a dad.

Oh god, he thinks. I’m absolutely going to fuck this up.

💎 Your secret's safe with me by @lightwoodsmagic --- [fic post]

larry | 7k | mature

when Louis' favourite singer comes back and announces he's performing again, him and the rest of his group chat decide to go. When Haz, the man Louis' fallen in love with without meeting him, says that he can't, Louis tries his best to convince him with a drunken phone call, hearing his voice for the first time. It's not until he's at Royal Variety that he swears he can hear it again.

💎 I Try To Picture Me Without You But I Can't by @estrella30 --- [fic post]

ot5 | 6k | teen and up

They stand together, the five of them curled into each other in a way that Liam’s not sure whose hand he’s holding, or whose breath he can feel on his cheek. He tips his head down and kisses Harry’s hair, leans into Zayn’s lips when he feels them on the back of his neck and grins when Niall rocks up on his toes to kiss Louis square on the mouth.

OR - how the OT5 became the OT5 from finish to start

💎 touching me, touching you by @disgruntledkittenface --- [fic post]

larry | 6k | explicit

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” Louis says, lightly bumping his shoulder against Harry’s. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but I don’t know where it’s been, do I?”

A loud squawk of laughter, almost a honk, escapes Harry, and he claps a hand over his mouth. He chances a glance at Louis, who looks more delighted than judgmental, his curved brows raised and a wide smile on his face. And his offer is tempting even though the news recommends social distancing right now. Harry’s been going through a bit of a dry spell, and he’s getting tired of his own hand. Even though they’ve just met, he’s got a good feeling about Louis. He can’t explain it, he just likes this guy.

But does he like him enough to risk catching coronavirus?

💎 a heavy leaf to turn by @niallspringsteen --- [fic post]

narry | 5k | general audiences

it only takes them ten years to get it right.

💎 Roaming The Greenwood by @writsgrimmyblog --- [fic post]

gryles | 5k | mature

Nick’s plans for a quiet night in the country take an unexpected turn when he meets hotel gardener and topiary enthusiast, Harry Styles.

💎 Fuck It, I Love You by @illbefineline --- [fic post]

zarry | 5k | teen and up

Meeting his boyfriend's parents turns out a bit differently than Harry expected. He had no idea prior to the evening that they live in a manor house, among other things. And just like that, Harry feels like his life has turned into a shitty The Prince & Me sequel.

💎 I'm Falling Again by @jaerie --- [fic post]

larry | 3k | mature

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, looked down at the screen of his phone and pressed call once again. The bright smiling faces of Louis’ contact photo stared up at him, his own cheek pressed up against Louis’, the tips of their noses burned a rosy red from the hot Jamaican sun. Just like the last three times, his call went straight to voicemail, driving home the fact of just how badly he’d fucked up.

💎 Relaxation Techniques by @star55 --- [fic post]

lirry | 2k | general audiences

Liam likes to box to relax when her life as a budding pop-star gets to be too much.

💎 Swerve the Handshake by @lululawrence --- [fic post]

tomlinshaw | 2k | not rated

There's a pandemic afoot and social distancing is being recommended for everyone, but what is to be done to still greet people with respect whilst avoiding the handshake?

Scott and Chris have ideas, and Grimmy becomes attached to a particular suggestion.

💎 social distance psychic by @jaerie

larry | 2k | not rated

Louis is a psychic who has taken his little shop virtual, most of his appointments now done by phone. He's been very busy, so many people calling in with fears about the unknown, about themselves, about loved ones. He likes that at least he's able to ease people's fears, calm people down, give them hope for their future. It's the one thing he feels like he can do in such uncertain and stressful times. That is until one teary appointment has Louis struggling to deliver the bad news. At least the question isn't related to the virus and maybe he can end the call with some sense of hope anyway.

💎 Lost and Found by Laziam

ziam | 1k | general audiences

A day at the office turns out more interesting than Liam could have imagined.

[lyrathesecondprincessofcorona]

Lyra the Second Princess of Corona: Prologue

Lyra is the second princess of Corona

Her birth was a surprised to her parents

She was born about 4 years after Rapunzel was taken

Lyra definitely took more after her father, with her dark brown hair and her blue eyes

She was also always dressed in light shades of blues

She also took after him personality wise

Lyra was an introvert through and through

She was very shy when she would first meet somebody, but open up to them after a while

Partly due to how her parents raised her

Fredrick and Arianna were so worried that whoever took Rupunzel would come back for their second child so they made sure they wouldn't lose her as well

Lyra wasn't alone for a second for the first 7 years of her life

At least one gaurd was stationed with her at all times

Her main gaurd was named Thomas Dupen

He was a good gaurd, who had 2 kids of his own that were Lyra's age, his twins Marnie and Mason

The twins were the spitting image of their father with bright red hair and deep green eyes

They were a bit more rambunctious than Lyra but they became fast friends when Thomas suggested to the King that it would do some good for Lyra to have friends her own age

The three soon became best friends getting into all kinds of mischief around the castle and in the town under the watchful eyes of Thomas of course

As Lyra grew she developed a love for legends leading her to forming a close friendship with Xaiver who never tired of telling the young princess different legends from around the world

Lyra's favorite was called Song of the Sea about a young selkie who by learning about her powers helps free the spirits of the faeries

Spending so much time with Xaiver sparked Lyra's interest in the art of blacksmithing and soon she was learning how to be a blacksmith much to her mother's glee and father's worry

When Lyra turned 7 her parents gave her a golden retriever puppy trained by the guards to protect Lyra and to come get the closest gaurd if she should ever be captured

Lyra named her new K-9 companion Knight and with Knight Lyra was given a little more freedom

Guards were not following her 24/7 anymore and she got to hang out in the village a lot more with Mason and Marnie with Knight tagging along wherever they went

To celebrate her birthday Fredrick and Arianna started a new festival called the Day of Stories

It was a day to tell stories old and new in honor of Lyra who loved stories of all kinds

The day was celebrated throughout Corona with plays, special foods based on stories, and other festivities

Lyra's life fell into a routine after awhile

She would get up, have breakfast with her family, attend her lessons, take Knight for a walk, go to Xavier's and blacksmith until Marnie and Mason were done with school and homework, then the trio would roam the town stopping for a snack from Monty's Sweet Shop, before heading back home to have dinner with her parents

But as Lyra stepped put onto the balcony the day after the 18th year of her sister being taken to see her long missing sister standing there Lyra could tell that her life was going to change

The return of Rupunzel made her family whole again and though Lyra didn't know it yet her life was forever going to change

She was going to go on adventures, face evils, and even fall in love all thanks to her sister Rupunzel

And this is that story

[kate-embershield]

Where would the Skydancers be sold?? Would they have some lore to them??? MAYBE AN ENTIRE AREA. You know, to fit their aesthetic!!

Ok so technically Skydancer is a term used in Flight Rising, so I have no claim on that nor the dragons look because I was drawing one of my dragons when I saw the ask so, for now, let's just call them Dragons

Maybe a new area for the dragons could be in the more mountainy areas of Jorvic. there are a few high peaks that, if tunnelled into, could make a good spot for a new dragon based area. Or, I know there are people behind the ice gate, maybe they could have the dragons. 

Regarding the lore for the Mountain area idea, maybe something happened to make the dragons go into hiding, and so they, and a few selected ‘Riders’ fled to the mountains, where they had already set up a city based on the premise of dragons and their ability to fly. Then, Jon shows up, everything happens and the dragons and their citadel in the mountains fade into legend, then, when the game takes place, a lost/injured/curious dragon finds its way down the mountain and the player has to hide them while getting them home, unlocking the area, rideable dragon mounts and the usual stuff that comes with a new area. And perhaps with this new mountain area, the team could introduce ‘Gliding’. the dragon's special ability. So long as nothing is in the way, the Dragon can jump off a high place and glide down to the ground. 

For the general theme of the area, it could be very colourful and cavernous, banners and strings of light decorating entire man mad caves and massive domed spaces carved inside hollowed-out mountains. The area could be layered like the mall, piles and piles of shops and houses and stables carved into little knolls in the rock. the whole area echoing when you walk or make a sound, distant drumming music and the neigh of horses and screech of dragons and scream of claws and hoves as someone skids to a stop. massive gaping tunnels could lead to cliffs where dragons can take off, leaping into the sky to get to lower parts of the area that is still accessible on horseback but the way there is through a maze of tunnels and spiralling staircases roughly mined out. the whole area doesn't feel cold like the light mountain air would have you believe, but instead, it's warm and lit brightly with Dragonfire, people bustling around and dragons roaring. the whole thing a beautiful mess of life and culture and when your there, time seems to pass differently as you ignore responsibility as you focus solely on the feeling of weightlessness when you take the leap off one of those balconies, feeling the wind roar in your ears and toy with your hair as you plummet before those wings snap open.

Then there's the ice gate and the people behind it. Not much is known about them, so maybe they could be harbouring the dragons. Lore wise, it could be the same premise, but instead of flying to the mountains, they could have fled to the valley because they were under attack, and what better place to hide than somewhere no one would think to look. And they could look more fluffy and warm, with a large body like a Clydesdale or pony, more suited for the cold environment while the mountain-based ones could be as drawn, scaly and feathery, with much more streamline and aerodynamic body. 

Maybe the area is a small village or bustling icicle city, with dragons roaming freely as their human companions go about there day. Maybe the dragons have perch’s on rooftops or stables carved from ice. maybe the dragon's breath ice or fire, ice being used to build and reinforce while the fire is used to warm. Maybe the basic structures are wood with ice frozen over like nordic mound homes. Or maybe its igloos. massive ones serving as stables. pr maybe past the ice gate is green and lush, a paradise from fantasy where the people are more fae than human. maybe it's a winter wonderland from the wildest of fable or its a faery world like no other. but the dragons and humans coexist, trusting and believing in one another through means unknown and magical. maybe its underground tunnel networks forming labyrinthian city or even an entrance to pandora where people have made their homes in the world of pink and magic, making the people not all human nor pandorian, but something else entirely. or maybe it's not even pandora, maybe, like Gallopers keep, its another plane of existence entirely. A void on which civilisation build itself from the ground up. maybe they sp[eak of the magician and his tricks like a benevolent god, or they speak of a new force in itself, a creature both feared and loved, granting the inhabitants of its plane anything they could want and need. 

I had fun with these like holy damn writey Kate kicked her way in with a bat and refused to leave and maybe new tack and clothes for both areas could be more on the armour side or even festive parade tack with gems and metal carved in incredibly intricate ways. 

Maybe the whole thing is even eastern centred, great serpentine loong dragons weaving through the air like ribbons, vibrant reds and golds and stunning blues and silvers making up the majority of there colours. 

I don't know where to end this so here

[disenchantedhq]

The weeks since Queen Belle‘s Ball and the Princess’s Grand Fête rolled on in a dizzying splendor, April coming to a rapid close. Cool, spring weather gave way to warmer, humid temperatures, the threat of a blistering hot Summer looming on the horizon. It had come as a surprise to the citizens of Auradon that the first full month with their Shadow Realm visitors had gone by without incident. Aside from the festivities at the Queen’s Chateau (with some minor displays here and there) it appeared the season was off to a charming (and irritatingly slow) start, the printers of Lady Chattermore’s Society Papers sighing indignantly at the lack of exciting drama to report on.

While the papers spoke of a heated argument between the Young Genie and the visiting Sehzade Sultan, clandestine dances between Her Royal Highness and the Neverlandian Gentleman, a Sea Captain and his Prydanian Rumored Intended gallivanting by the garden, the Diamond of the Season poked and prodded for conversation from every angle by many a suitor, and a Shadow Realm Vagrant seen sneaking about the halls far after curfew, among other less interesting reporting, it seemed that Princess Emma’s first attempt at merging the fresh arrivals into Auradon’s high society came with little problem. The only genuine attempt at stirring up controversy being the lack of invite for the visiting Faerie Prince and his entourage the evening of the fête.

Despite this fact, all was transpiring beautifully in Auradon City as the season carried on in a satisfying slow haze.

Among those that promenaded through the Ton on a daily basis, seemingly carefree and swept up in the elegant charm of the city, was one Faerilyth Moor. Day by day, the daughter of Maleficent roamed the twisting avenues and cobbled ways, often attended by one of the readily available chaperones or her tall and intimidating brother. At first her presence caused a nervous pause in the Ton, wary glances passed her way as she meandered through the shops on Rue de Magasins, or stopped into the Benbow Inn for a meal. No one had known quite what to expect with the arrival of the Shadowborn, but there was particular nervousness where the children of the Horned Ones were involved. Though they all appeared as normal as the next passerby in Auradon, there was something about their countenance that always caused pause. But as the month strolled by with little incident, and saccharine Faerilyth made her docile self more known to the shop owners and common folk in the Districts, the lingering fear of something sinister hiding behind the charming faces of the trio became less and less a bother until it seemed that it no longer existed.

There were those among the throng, however, that knew better than to assume innocence behind those well glamoured grins. Lurking in dark alleyways, or huddled in the corners of the pubs and inns, they sat with their cloaks on tight. Some were travelers from far and wide, arrived to the big city seeking employment or to peddle their wares at the docks and markets. Others were more established members of the lower crust, shouldering the burdens of day to day life that the lofty nobles could never imagine. And some even were higher up, among those in gilded carriages and most impressive refinery. They covered all types of people one could find in the bustling streets of Auradon City, each one distinguishable from the last save for one thing which linked them.

When given the opportunity, in the presence of either Faerilyth or her companions Nikolai Chernov or Mercedes Reyes, in discreet view where no one could lay witness, they would pull back their sleeves or collars, hike up their hems or trousers just so to reveal the black smudge of ink on their skin. Most were faded after 25 years. Some bore burned marks from when officers of the law attempted to scorch them away, and a fair few were fresh obsidian upon their fleshes. The marking of the followers, an intricate tattoo, flashed swiftly to the children of their masters long gone from this realm. A call of fealty, that when the moment arose they would come marching in on their side. A promise to wreak havoc upon the polite and genteel society of Auradon.

Acknowledgement was minimal. Faerilyth had an intention — to lay low until the time was right. It was so early in their time in Auradon, she had no desire to jeopardize what was decades in the making. Patience, she preached to followers that dared come too close. Just rewards for those who waited. She kept her secrets close, not even allowing her dear Nikolai to know the extent of the plans. Not yet. Not when their positions were still so delicate. But a restlessness gripped their followers, who quickly grew tired of waiting. They demanded answers, demanded some sort of relief from their wondering. Walpurgis Night, she’d said, I will give you clarity on the Witches’ Sabbath. As the night of April 30th loomed before them, the good hearted nobles funneled into Notre Dame for mass, excited for the morning and the May Day festivities to take place in the Enchanted Park. But on the fringes of society, cloaked in shadow and smoke, those loyal followers to the dark rushed through the empty streets of Auradon City, to the docks of Low Town. Fewer guards roamed the streets that night, not privy to the men and women gathering in the shadows.

In the southwestern most point of the district, on the border of the city’s vast and sparse outskirts, lay an abandoned mansion. Decrepit and run down, with full walls blown out and large holes in the decaying roof. The front yard had a broken down gate, patches of dead grass, and a small graveyard where the forgotten family was laid to rest was left forgotten with overgrowth. No eyes were on the mansion, save the groups slowly descending upon it. They snuck in through the openings in the old stone walls, walking through the rotting house and making way to the only still intact place within — the cellar. Climbing down what felt like miles of spiraling stone steps, they eventually found themselves in a large and damp space, looking much like the chapel where the honourable now met on the opposite side of the city. The air was thick and musky with mildew and dust, moist and heavy around them. But not a single one shed their cloaks, not daring to reveal themselves beneath their hoods.

Before them all stood an altar, drenched in a rusted bronze, sitting low before an intricate dais which housed a red velvet bejeweled throne. Flanking either side of the dais stood the son of Chernabog and the daughter of the Horned King, eyes passively scanning the room as swiftly the pews were filled with seated cloaked followers. So many arrived that they filled in all the spaces surrounding, standing along the perimeter and filling in the center aisle. They were packed so close together they could no longer move, none daring to stand so close to the magnificent display at the head of the room. There was a low rumble of whispers among the throng, nervous and excited for what was to come.

At the sound of a heavy door creaking open and then slamming shut, a deaf silence fell upon the crowd, all eyes turning to the far side as a figure descended upon the chapel from a side room. There were silent gasps as the blonde maiden, so small and innocent looking, crossed the path towards the others, vivid blue eyes glowing even there in the dim underground. As she neared the front there was a buzz in the air, a magical release as slowly the glamour around her faded and her true face was revealed. White blonde locks gave way to a gray brown, pink and warm skin going colder and paler than the dead. Her cheek bones more accentuated, her ears more pointed, and curling high and away from her flat forehead were two onyx horns, glimmering in the torchlight. Her robes, flowing and black, trailed behind her as they suspected her wings would have should they not have been taken from her. With a passive face she stopped before the altar, turning her full attention to the silent crowd assembled before her.

“Greetings,” she began in a soft but commanding voice which echoed off the stone walls, “And welcome. Each of you has, over the past month, reached out to myself or my comrades, sharing symbols of fealty and devotion to our beloved parents that came before us. Those who, once upon a time, had desired to take this world, so docile and magical, and turn it on its head. To bring a change and reign in a different era for the people of Auradon. Disappointingly, their vision had never come to fruition. Their stories came to an abrupt end, and even from the redemption of the cauldron they could never see their plan through. I thank you heartily for showing yourselves in a time where our legacy, our great power, is no longer feared or respected. It is because of you that at long last we may see the day where dark overpowers light, night overturns day, and ‘evil’ may have its glory.”

A rumble of agreement, claps and shouts of joy in response to Faerilyth’s words which almost caused a smile to appear on her ruby red lips. She held out a hand, long and clawed, demanding their silence. Her eyes flashed over the crowd. “Twenty Five years ago my mother and father, and their closest comrade the Horned King, had joined their dark magicks together to create so fearsome a curse it took all the might of every noble, faerie and wizard to join together and stomp out their dreams. Their imprisonment was brought on because of an enchantment so fierce and dangerous, the nobles could not allow their resurrection to threaten it back to existence. What they didn’t count on was our parents’ cleverness. Maleficent knew that if she could not finish the task, then another would rise to her place and finally be able to bring all she designed to fruition.

“That is why I am here, why I live and breathe. My purpose is to see my mother’s genius through. To bring about the end of this ‘Happily Ever After’ which the nobles of Auradon claimed for themselves and no one else. Look at you, look at thy neighbor, and ask yourself — who prospered from the unification of this land? Who is it that reaps the spoils of ‘good deeds’? Is it you, my brethren? Or you, my sisters? Do any of you truly live in the blissful peace rewarded to the King and Queen and their coconspirators?” Waves of angry shouts and boos traveled the room, the group becoming riled up. Faerilyth spared a glance to her Nikolai and Mercedes, a delighted smirk on her face, as the throng cursed the royals and aristocracy which lived in decadence and splendor while they squabbled in the sewage. “Be merry, my friends, for the age of princesses and princes, of fairy godmothers and ‘good’, it will all come to an end soon enough and you — you my beloved friends — will finally have your time in the sun. Because I am here now to usher in the new age. The Age of No Happily Ever Afters, not lest it be for all! For those dying in the gutter! For those desperately seeking the help of these passive and kind nobles, who do nothing to end your suffering! No. I will be your champion, and I will uplift you. And my journey will begin here, with this—”

A gasp rang through the room as from within her robes Faerilyth retrieved a broken piece of wood, sawed off a spinning wheel and held aloft for all to see. In the flickering torchlight it was plain to see, the sharpened spindle imbued with dark magic held above them all. “Behold — The Cursed Spindle! The work of my mother, returned to Auradon and it’s purpose. The curse which my mother designed, remnants of its power lingers here in this land. Imbued in items held in the hands of the noble class. Small pieces of the puzzle to who I am and what I was built to do... my beloveds, it is up to us now to scavenge for these items, pillage them from the corrupt ones, and bring them together—” Her words were drowned out as a commotion rang from the front pews, a single dark figure rising to its feet and calling out angrily.

“The only corruption in this land is you, filthy creature!” A man wailed out above Farrilyth’s rambling. She stopped, shooting a hand out to pause the others which moved to silence the nay sayer. “You come here, to our splendid Auradon, and you speak poison into our ears. We, who have nothing but gratitude and thanks for our just rulers. Hard times existed back when you and your cursed lot roamed our lands freely. And now you return, daring to say that you will be our savior?” He spat onto the stone ground between them, his hood falling back to reveal the wrinkled face of an old man. A priest of her demon father, a face she and Nikolai surely recognized from beyond the mirrors when their father told them who to seek out upon their arrival. Faerilyth’s expression stayed cool and blank, not betraying emotion at the outburst, while others shouted for the man’s death. “I’ve made my peace, I’m free of you’s, but I’ll be damned if I allow you to poison more innocent souls with your empty promises and lies. Curse you, and damn you all!”

He’d brandished a silver blade, throwing himself onto the stone between the crowd and Faerilyth, Nikolai and Mercedes. Others clambered forward to grab him, to pull him away from the trio they adored. But the icy gaze of the young Horned ones caused pause. A silence fell in the room again, the only sounds being the ragged breathing of the priest. And then suddenly a melodic laughter filled the space, peeling from the stone cold faerie that had stood passively before them. The laughter rang for a moment, her hand falling dismissively at her side. “Oh, you’ll be damned you say?” She chortled, turning her gaze to Nikolai and Mercedes behind her. A silent message passed between the trio, a glint of something mischievous and sinister in their eyes. Slowly she moved forward, closing the space between herself and the old man. Her stature seemed to grow, a menacing shadow overwhelming her and making her appear almost giant in the room. An illusion, a gift from her demonic father. As her eyes flashed between blue and yellow, her features growing more demonic and frightening, she leaned over the cowering elderly man. When she spoke again, her voice had an echo of a thousand distorted voices laced with her own, as though the creatures of hell spoke simultaneously with her.

“You’ll be damned? Then so be it,” she said, and her eyes turned into endless pools of blackness, obsidian orbs glaring back at him from a white face. He was trapped by her gaze, whimpering and pleading for his life as he involuntarily stood at his full height. Gaze leveled with her demonic one, the man begged to be spared once again, a feeble effort. Faerilyth did not speak, she simply leaned her head inhumanly to the side in a swift motion. The sharp snap that echoed through the room caused a volley of startled gasps and cries, as instantly the man fell to the stone ground, blood leaking from every crevice in his face and his head seemingky unhinged from his neck in an unnatural fashion “Anyone else wish to interrupt?” She called out in that demonic voice, laced in the legions of hell. When she was met with silence, she smirked, returning to her former faerie state. “I thought so.”

Her voice returned to its saccharine state as she carried on, “As I was saying, in order for the task set by our parents to be completed we must gather these objects which are held by the noble houses and bring them together. With the magic that lives within them, myself and the two behind me will finally be able to awaken the curse our parents created. Once they are obtained, we will make a pilgrimage to the Forbidden Mountains and gather upon the summit of Bald Mountain where my father had once slumbered, and we will combine our powers to bring about the end of the nobles’ era and the dawning of our time. We have one piece of the puzzle,” she retrieved the spindle she held earlier, “already in our grasp. We need only fourteen other magically imbued relics to finish the task.”

Faerilyth motioned behind her to Nikolai and Mercedes who unraveled a long tapestry before the dais, colored with imagery depicting the spindle and fourteen other objects. The crowd instantly recognized some of the iconography. Glass Slippers. Enchanted Roses. A Magic Lamp, among many others. They began whispering amongst themselves. Who had the courage to defy not just the nobles but all law and reason to steal items such as these? It seemed an impossible feat which had many crying out in negative. “Don’t worry, my pets, though it appears a big undertaking, we will not fail to gather these items.” She moved to the tapestry and ran a finger over one of the shimmering images. “Tomorrow is May Day, the beginning to the fifth month. And all of Auradon will celebrate. And following the day time festivities there will be another event, one more elite but an opportunity nonetheless. The Faerie Prince has arrived in Auradon for the season, and he will hold a party for the society members and visiting shadowborn. And, more obviously, for his faerie companions.“ She traced the image of pixie dust weaved into the tapestry. “It is at this event that our first chance presents itself — for our first heist we will steal pixie dust, an important necessity for the curse casting. A small and simple task, easy for the unsuspecting beginning. Slowly over time we will gather all these things and hide them here until the day comes to travel north. Following tonight we will meet sparingly until we are ready to begin preparations for the journey.

“‘Tis only the beginning but know this — our plan will not fail. Unlike our fathers before us, we are suspect of nothing. And we will continue to play our parts to earn the respect of our peers.” Her glamour formed again and she stood before them all once more as a docile blonde dressed in white muslin and lace. “They will never see what is coming, and as long as you succeed in assisting us then my darlings you will be blessed in the new age. It is a promise that I make to you now, that you have my word that you will all be justly rewarded for your hard work in the coming months. Let me leave you with this: my full commitment to bring an end to your sorrowful suffering at the hand of those greedy fat cats upon their gilded thrones. You will be exemplified in my eyes. I will raise you to godhood so long as you play your part. Now carry on, my friends, discreetly return to your homes and speak none of this to anyone. Or be warned,” Faerilyth toed the corpse which still lay on the floor between her and her followers. “You will be punished accordingly.”

With that, the meeting of Walpurgis Night came to a swift close. One by one the followers fanned out from the abandoned mansion, running off to their homes in the city and storing their memories of that night away from the prying eyes of outsiders. In the cellar, the trio were cutting up the corpse, laying his remains upon the altar as an offering to Chernabog. Faerilyth silently prayed that he would feel the sacrifice made in his name from behind the mirror world and be satiated. “Listen well, my friends,” she spoke in a low voice to Nikolai and Mercedes, “We’ve secured invitations to the Faerie Prince’s gathering tomorrow evening. I suspect you two will continue to charm the masses into trusting us, but it is far more imperative that we each leave with a handful of pixie dust, concealed in these little bags.” She offered a small burlap sack to each of them. “While it is true that Neverlandian faeries secrete it more, any wing bearing fop at that engagement can give it to us. Whether it be forced or by other coerced means, you mustn’t leave until you have the pixie dust in your hand, understood?” With affirmative declaration the trio cleaned up and disbanded from there, returning undetected to their boarding homes.

A dark and grim silence fell upon the city of Auradon that night, none the wiser to what was brewing in secret, of the dark promises whispered in the night.

—

When the dewy morning had come, the dark atmosphere of the prior night‘s events dissipated, replaced with a light and exciting feeling. The Ton was of course none the wiser to any evil doing afoot and all eyes were turned towards the Enchanted Park where the May Day festivities picked up almost immediately. The manicured greens were outfitted that day with stalls and tents full of savory and sweet foods and confections, holiday themed wares and items to peddle to the attendees with coin to spare. Glittering toy wands with ribbons dangling from the tips for children to wave about, wax wrapped bouquets for gentlemen to present to their sweethearts. Boxes of carefully crafted chocolates, toffees and treats, tied with pastel ribbons, sat upon tables for families to purchase and gift to one another. And of course the May Day Pole was installed in the center of the green, colorful ribbons dancing in the morning wind alerting everyone to its installation. The faeries of Auradon sprinkled their magic in the dawn across the entire park allowing for all bushes, hedges, plants and trees to spontaneously bloom, their colorful glory adding a fresh new glow to the surroundings.

As the Auradonians awoke, they put on their springtime best and migrated to the Enchanted Hills to join in music and merriment. Carriages were deployed to take passengers on guided tours through the flowered archways in the vast park, spectator tents and shaded areas for lounging on cotton blankets and enjoying the seasonably warm weather set out across the green. A wooden plank dance floor set up at the base of a stage where the royal orchestra played merry jogs for line dancing, and stalls for the tenant farmers living on the outskirts of town or the traveled farmers from the other providences to bring their livestock to be judged by the royal family, fishermen to bring in their sea harvests. Then when the sky darkened and night fell upon them, colorful fireworks from the imperial southern lands would be released into the night sky high above the city and a bonfire in the midst of the party would be built to commemorate the end of a dark half of the year and the beginning of long sunny days ahead.

You have more than just these daytime plans lined up. As rumors have persisted, the visiting faerie dignitary has announced a soirée at the prince’s lavish mansion in the Fey Burrough. It’s a rare occasion — faerie homes are for those in need of help, not for socializing, but it appears the visiting royal is interested in partaking in the season and its traditions. And it seems only right as a visiting member to court to host an extravagant event for all to attend. The invitation quite literally flies through your window, sparkling from pixie dust left over from the winged messengers that brought it to you. The iridescent paper has bold script and gold leaf filigree which expressly invite you and your household members to attend that evening’s party at the mansion. From the prince’s back garden and courtyard, and many balconies, he promises the best views of the fire works. There will be an abundance of faerie foods as well as Auradon’s most charming confections, the sweetest wine either realm has ever tasted, and music to dance your hearts to. Every faerie from Auradon will likely be there, which means seeing some of the most dazzling creatures up close.

For reasons you don’t understand, the invitation states that formal Auradonian wear is ‘very much optional’ but the meaning becomes clearer to you when you arrive to the large mint colored mansion at the center of the Fey Burrough. Faeries do make up the majority of the crowd lounging about the lawns and exquisite rooms of the mansion, wearing light and flowing robes made of breezy fabrics you’ve never seen, crowns of ornate flowers, and glittering from the magic flowing in their blood. They look more like the Olympians depicted in paintings than like the stuffy members of society you’d spent most of the day with. It becomes apparent to you why they swapped their refinery for these robes and togas — their shimmery wings now free to stretch out behind them.

The Prince appears before you, wearing black breeches and loose fabric over his torso, his gold iridescent wings beating excitedly behind him. Upon his russet locks he wears a crown made of colorful springtime flowers and greenery, lopsided from how often he has taken it off and replaced it. He greets you with kisses upon both cheeks and shoves a glass of crimson colored wine into your hand. One sip and you swear you’ve never had anything quite as decadent and sweet. You question what it is and he simply says it’s a delicacy from his realm. You question no further. With an arm lazily draped over your shoulders he and courtiers beckon you further into the shimmering haze. You find more foods — squares of confections you’ve never seen before — and you take trepid bites. Each tastes better than the last, and your mouth bursts from the magical flavors. Above and around you lithe faeries hang in rings or suspended on curtains, spinning around and contorting their bodies into impossible knots and positions. The music is odd and different from the elegance you’re used to, played on lyres and sitars by pointy eared faeries with long smoking pipes sticking out of their mouths, a soprano accompanying them in a language you’ve never heard. It’s slow and dizzying, and you feel as though you’re drunk from the wine. But you only had one sip didn’t you?

As you dance lightly, the hot May air attacks your senses and you find yourself shedding off your overcoat and upper layers. Oddly enough you wish to be free of everything, to let the moonlight touch your bare skin. At least that’s what some of the faeries want, and if you’re not careful you may find yourself in such a predicament. Faeries are tricksters by nature and it stands to reason that some of them are planning to play with the prince’s many illustrious guests. Could you fall pray to the truth serum sprinkled in gilded goblets? Or the spelled berries and sweets which cause passionate and fleeting infatuation with the first person you lay your eyes upon? Or will you dance naked and carefree in the back gardens under the watchful eye of a moon high above you?

How magical might your May Day go?

—

And now after all of that I’m proud to announce our Second Group Wide Event: THE MAY DAY FESTIVITIES AND FAERIE BACCHANAL. As highlighted above, this dual event takes place over the course of May 1st, 1825 and in two particular settings: The Enchanted Park where a setting appropriate, charming daytime festival is being held and then at the Faerie Prince’s Mansion in the Fey Burrough, where a potentially more raucous party is to take place. You have the option to participate in either or both festivities for this event. When we get close to the start date of the event, a listing of enchanted faerie foods and beverages at the party and their unique side effects will be posted. This portion of the event is not mandatory but can be used as a fun plot device and is encouraged to generate interesting situations. The party itself is somewhat of a scandalous affair, with the odd and peculiar culture of the faerie people on display. Circus performers and musicians playing unknown instruments provide entertainment, and there’s plenty of odd things on display. While nsfw threads can be a product of the party event and the enchanted foods, please remember the rules on how to handle nsfw material on the dash. Refer to the discord if you need a reminder. Discord may be used to roleplay elements of either festivity and will be determined at a different time.

The event itself will begin Wednesday May 26th, 2021 and carry on for two weeks. We will wrap up the evening of June 9th at 11:59 PST. Shortly afterwards our first officially written Lady Chattermore’s Society Papers will go live, highlighting any dramatic mischief that may occur. If your characters end up in anything you are okay with being reported on, please submit this information to the main by June 13th so it can be accounted for.

As always, should you have any questions about the event or story depicted in this plot drop, don’t hesitate to reach out! More details regarding this event will become available over the next couple days.

Thank you guys and happy roleplaying!

[thesurielships]

the perp II

note: I am practically making up laws in this. I have no idea how police and justice work in the US, nor in my country tbh, so please hold your disbelief. This is inspired by Brooklyn 99. If you haven’t watched it, you should.

note 2: I’m trying to write as much as possible, and to stop obsessing over the small details and just let the story flow. Which means that this will probably have a lot of imperfections, but a part 3 will be coming soon :))

Word count: 1.6k

Part 1 | Masterlist

An insistent knock startled Feyre out of her creative trance. She looked up to her boss’s usual stoic face.

“Captain Azriel,” she nodded in acknowledgement, trying to calm her panic down. He had only knocked once on her desk and folded his arms behind his back. That was never a good sign.

“My office. Now.”

Feyre blinked at his retreating figure. He hadn’t returned her acknowledgement. That was a terrible sign. She quickly followed him to his office as there was nothing he hated more than tardiness.

“Yes, Captain?”

He was already in his seat, hands steepled on his desk. “Close the door, detective.”

She did, noticing the keen gaze Lucien kept directed their way. She smiled and closed the blinds, too.

“Take a seat.”

She did, and then looked at the captain expectantly.

“Did you threaten a fellow officer with a gun?”

Feyre’s blood froze. “Captain, I - ”

“I have just received an official complaint from Detective Rosetool stating that you twisted his arm behind his back, pressed him against a wall and put a gun to his head.”

“It wasn’t to his head,” Feyre couldn’t help arguing. “It was to his spine.”

The captain leaned back in his seat, his expression unchanging.

“I didn’t want to kill him, only paralyse him.” Even she knew she sounded bratty.

“So you would have willingly maimed a fellow officer?”

“I didn’t actually do it, now did I? Besides, if we’re at the stage of filing official complaints, I might as well present one myself. Detective Rosetool is a sexist asshole who thinks that our past relationship gives him the right to get involved in my cases, to ask about my comings and goings, to follow me home and threaten other male fellow officers who dare speak to me. He has abused me multiple times prior to our break up, and I have several scars and medical reports to prove it.”

Feyre was breathing hard. She had stood up at some point during her tirade, and was ready to submit her resignation and storm off this Cauldron damned precinct if she had to. Why she hadn’t reported Tamlin before, or left all of it behind, she didn’t know. Her throat was starting to close up, tears pricking her eyes. But she would not break down in front of her superior officer. She. Would. Not.

“Alright.”

Feyre blinked. “Alright?”

The captain’s gaze was steady, either oblivious to the storm of emotions coursing through her or wisely choosing not to comment on it. “I will submit your formal complaint.”

“What about Tamlin’s?”

“As it is not entirely truthful, I have the right to refuse to forward it.”

Feyre could not believe her ears. “Why are you doing this?”

“Yours is not the first complaint I have received about detective Rosetool. Many others have spoken up about his inappropriate behavior before, and his record is not as clean as he would like it to be.”

“Sir,” her voice was shaky with unshed tears. “You do realize that his dad is the former NYPD commissioner, right? This could get you in trouble.”

Captain Azriel’s smile was small and full of menace as he said, “Do not worry about it, detective Archeron. I have my ways.”

***

The day after her intriguing conversation with the hairdressers at Dora’s, and her sob fest following her talk with Captain Azriel, Feyre went around the shops in that neighborhood looking for eye witnesses. She did not use her sketch, however, as that would have been a little unprofessional. And embarrassing, she thought as she remembered the powerful body, the sexy smirk and the violet eyes she had drawn the previous night in the privacy of her own apartment. Then her thoughts drifted to the dream she’d had of being pressed against a tattooed chest and cocooned in huge membranous wings.

And touched in places she hadn’t been touched in a while.

“… gone home by then. Detective?”

She nodded absently. If she hadn’t been so focused on hiding her flushed face behind her hair as she pretended to write something down in her notebook, she would have noticed the nervousness radiating off the owner of the sea food restaurant. He kept wringing his hands, his forehead shone with sweat and his feet were shifting constantly.

“Detective, actually…”

Feyre’s head snapped up at the careful tone. “Yes?”

“There is one more bit of information that might help you, but I don’t know if I can…” he trailed off with a wince.

“No one will know you told me, Mr. Varian.”

He swallowed audibly, then seemed to steel himself. “It’s about Dora, the owner of the salon.”

She nodded.

He hesitated, glancing at the salon behind her. Feyre tried her best to look reassuring.

“Her boyfriend is in the mafia.”

She held her breath. “Do you know which one?”

He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. “Actually… he’s the head of Hybern.”

Feyre felt like she went fishing for eels and caught a shark instead. “Are you certain?”

“I see him leaving her salon at 11:15 every night.”

She wanted to whoop and jump around in joy. David Hybern was just the kind of big fish she needed to catch to get her a promotion, hopefully away from the flower tool. “Thank you, Mr. Varian. You’re doing this city a great favor.”

And me, she thought, giggling internally, before mentally scolding herself for her selfishness.

“Just get him off these streets,” the chef answered wearily. “He strikes terror in everyone’s hearts. My kids can’t even sleep these days.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Varian. We will try our best to put this criminal behind bars.”

***

“So I heard our perp is quite the hunk.”

Feyre snorted. “They said he had violet eyes and blue hair.”

“Maybe he’s not human. Maybe he’s a vampire,” her partner, Suriel, speculated. “Or a faerie. My chaman told me those are on quite the rampage lately.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.

“What? A thief who doesn’t steal anything, who is so hot he charmed the pants off his victims, and who disappears into the night. Doesn’t this sound fantastical to you?”

“One, maybe he was just there to gather intel, and he’s planning his heist for later. Two, there is such a thing as Stockholm’s syndrome. And three, at least half of our perps disappear into the night.”

“Why would someone plan a heist on a hairdressing salon?” Suriel’s tone was dismissive. “It’s not even that fancy.”

Feyre kept silent, her eyes fixed on said salon.

“You know something, don’t you? There is more to this case that you’re not telling me.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve been there, Suriel. Next time, don’t leave me to interrogate moonstruck women alone.”

“It was a bad day for Pisces! I couldn’t get out of the house.”

“There is no such thing as astrologically impaired days, Suriel.”

Suriel glowered. She hated when her partner dismissed her beliefs, and Feyre let her rant about astrology more often than not; but when it got in the way of their job, she drew the line.

“So, why are we on watch duty?”

Feyre’s eyes roamed the street, lingering on the dark corners and on the roofs surrounding Dora’s. “I told you he might be planning a heist.”

“Cut the crap.”

“Dora is dating David Hybern.”

Suriel gasped.

“He supposedly leaves the salon every night at 11:15pm.”

Detective Pisces, as she liked to call herself, was now bouncing in her seat. “So we’re here for Hybern, not the faerie hunk?”

“I don’t know. The robbery is weird. Maybe it’s linked to Hybern. Maybe our perp is in a rival gang and wanted to use Hybern’s girlfriend as leverage.”

“But he didn’t do anything to Dora. You said he even apologised.”

“Maybe he was looking for drugs? I mean Hybern is one of the biggest Fairy Wine suppliers in Velaris.” She ignored Suriel’s meaningful glance at the drug she mentioned.

“But why would he look for it in Dora’s purse?”

Feyre was spared from admitting her lack of ideas as she saw a silhouette pass near the window.

“Did you see that?” Suriel asked.

They were out the car and halfway to the salon before Feyre could answer. When they were five meters away from the front door, the lights were turned on. Feyre could just make out three silhouettes in Dora’s office. Suriel gestured for her to go in first, signaling that she’d come in through the back door, as was their usual modus operandi. Feyre nodded, grabbed her gun, and hurried in the salon. The main room was dark, but she could see enough to tell that nothing was amiss. The office was quiet. Feyre stuck to the wall, carefully nudging the door open with her foot.

“Who’s there?” asked a gruff male voice.

She held her breath.

“Do come in, officer. We were awaiting your arrival.” This time, the voice was deep and husky and caused a shiver to run down Feyre’s spine.

She braced herself, then burst into the room, gun cocked in her hands. She shifted it between the three people.

“NYPD, freeze!”

“If your strategy was to scare us into a heartattack, detective, it only worked on me,” Dora stated dryly from where she was held at gunpoint by none other than David Hybern himself. Feyre fixed her gun in his direction.

“Pointing your gun at the first person you see. Not a smart tactic, detective,” mused the husky voice from her right.

She slowly turned her head, almost dropping the gun she kept pointed at Hybern as her eyes beheld the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was tall and tanned like he just got back from a vacation in Malibu. His muscled, shirtless chest bore an intricate tattoo. She hated to admit it, but his black hair did gleam blue. And the eyes that were studying her as meticulously as she had him were indeed violet.

There was only one small detail that ruined the wonderful portrait.

The faerie hunk had a gun pointed at her head.

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