#Aside from those gemstones in the lyrics

[callmepyrus]

What’s it this time!? >▾<

[otherworldlybooksgoddess]

Five Exceptional Fantasy Books Based in Non-European Myth

Photo by Josh Hild

Don’t misunderstand me: I love reading well-written fantasy with roots in the familiar Celtic and English folklore of my childhood, but with the vast majority of High Fantasy being set in worlds closely akin to Medieval Europe, and a large amount of of Mythic Fiction drawing on legends of similar origin, sometimes the ground begins to feel too well trodden.  There is, after all, an entire world of lore out there to draw from.  That’s why I’m always thrilled to find excellent works of what I call “the Realistic Sub-Genres of Fantasy” based in or inspired by myths from other cultures.  Such books not only support inclusiveness, but also expand readers’ experiences with lore and provide a wide range of new, exciting realities to explore. So, if you are looking for something different in the realm of Fantasy, the following novels will provide a breath of fresh air.

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wrecker

In this beautifully written novel, Wrecker draws on both Middle-Eastern and Jewish mythology to tell the stories of two unwilling immigrants in Edwardian New York and the unlikely friendship that springs up between them.  Chava, an unusually lifelike golem created for peculiar purposes, has only days worth of memories and is practically childlike in her innocence.  Ahmad the Jinni has lived for centuries, but is trying to reclaim his forgotten past. The former is as steady and calm as the earth she’s made from while the latter is as volatile and free-spirited as the fire within him.  Both must learn to live in an unfamiliar new culture and find their places in a city too modern for myths even as they hide their true natures.  It’s a wonderful metaphor for the experiences of immigrants everywhere, who often find themselves feeling like outsiders—isolated and even overwhelmed— as they struggle to adapt to life in an alien society.  

Full of memorable characters, vivid descriptions, and interesting twists, The Golem and the Jinni takes readers on a journey that is driven as much by internal conflict as external action.  The setting of 1900’s Manhattan is well-researched and spectacular in its detail.  Wrecker blends two old-world mythologies into the relatively modern Edwardian world with a deft hand.  The result is not only fascinating, but also serves to illustrate the common early-twentieth-century experience of an immigrant past colliding with an American future.

The Tail of the Blue Bird by Nii Ayikwei Parkes

One part Detective Mystery and one part Magical Realism, this novel invites readers to experience modern-day Ghana in a way that is both authentic and profound.  When Kayo, a forensic pathologist just beginning his career, is pushed into investigating a suspected murder in the rural village of Sonokrom, the last thing he expects is to have a life-changing experience.  Soon, however, he gets the acute sense that the villagers may know more than they’re letting on. When all of the latest scientific and investigative techniques fail him, even as odd occurrences keep dogging his steps, Kayo is finally forced to accept that there is something stranger than he thought about this case.  Solving the crime will require more than intelligence and deduction; it will require setting his disbelief aside and taking the traditional tales and folklore of an old hunter seriously.  Because whatever is happening in Sonokrom, it isn’t entirely natural.  

This novel is brilliant not only because of its deep understanding of Ghanaian society and realistic setting, but also because of Parkes writing style.  The narrative is gorgeously lyrical and everything within it is described with a keen, insightful eye.  The dialogue is full of local color, and while some may find the pidgin English and native colloquialisms difficult to follow, I found that the context was usually enough to explain any unfamiliar terms. Sometimes the narrative feels a little dreamlike, but that is exactly the way great Magical Realism should be.  The Tail of the Blue Bird insistently tugs readers to a place where reality intertwines with myth and magic, all while providing an authentic taste of Ghanaian culture.

The Deer and the Cauldron by Jin Yong

During the reign of Manchu Emperor Kang Xi, China is in a state of barely-controlled sociopolitical unrest.  Many of the older generation remember the previous dynasty, and there still remain vestiges of a resistance movement hidden among the populace.  As his forces continue to hunt down the malefactors, called the Triad Societies, the boy-emperor turns to his unlikely friend and ally: a young rascal known only as Trinket.  This protagonist is a study in contrasts: lazy yet ambitious, cunning yet humorous, roguish yet likable, foul-mouthed yet persuasive. Born in a brothel, Trinket has made his way by his wits alone.  At age twelve, he accidentally sneaked into the Forbidden City—a bizarre occurrence in itself—afterward befriending Kang Xi.  Now, rising quickly through the ranks, he is on a mission to (ostensibly) find and weed out the Triad Societies, and he uses the opportunity to infiltrate various organizations, playing their leaders against one another for his own gain. With a dangerous conspiracy brewing in the Forbidden City itself, however, he is forced to choose sides and decide what is most important to him: friendship, fortune, or freedom.   Supernatural occurrences, daring escapades, and moments of deep introspection abound as Trinket struggles to navigate the perilous maze his life has become.

This novel is like a gemstone: bright, alluring, and many faceted.  At times it may seem somewhat simple on the surface, but looking closer reveals new depths and multiple layers.  Full of intrigue, action, horror, and even laughs, The Deer and the Cauldron mirrors not only the complexities of its setting, but those of the China the author himself knew during the Communist revolution. By blending together history, fantasy, realism, humor, and subtle political commentary, Yong not only beautifully captures these social intricacies but also creates a narrative that is as thoroughly engaging as it is unapologetically unique.

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel

Magical realism related to food has almost become a movement in itself, with novels like Aimee Bender’s The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, Joanne Harris’ Chocolat, and Sarah Addison Allen’s Garden Spells all finding their places in readers’ hearts.  Originally published in 1992, Like Water for Chocolate helped create this fascinating trend, and it has become something of a modern classic in the fantasy genre.  

The narrative centers around Tita de la Garza, a mid-twentieth century Mexican woman possessing deep sensitivity, a strong will, and a special talent for cooking.  Born prematurely, Tita arrived in her family’s kitchen, tears already in her eyes.  It is in that room where she spends most of her childhood, being nurtured and taught by the elderly cook, Nacha.  The relationship that flourishes between Tita and her caregiver is a special gift, as it provides the girl not only with the compassion and support her own mother denies, but also with a passion and skill for creating incredible, mouth-watering dishes.  At Nacha’s side, Tita learns the secrets of life and cookery, but she also learns one terrible fact: thanks to a family tradition, she is destined never to have love, marriage, or a child of her own.  Her fate, rather, is to care for her tyrannical widowed mother, Mama Elena, until the day the older woman dies.  With a vibrant, independent spirit, sixteen-year-old Tita flouts this rule, falling deeply in love with a man named Pedro who asks for, and is denied, her hand in marriage.  Undaunted, the young man agrees to wed one of Tita’s older sisters, Rosaura, instead, as he believes this to be the only way he can be close to the woman he loves.  Thus begins a life-long struggle between freedom and tradition, love and duty, which is peppered throughout with supernatural events and delicious cuisine.  So great is her skill in cooking that the meals Tita prepares take on magical qualities all their own, reflecting and amplifying her emotions upon everyone who enjoys them.  Controlled and confined for much of her existence, food becomes her outlet for all the things she cannot say or do.  The narrative itself echoes this, by turns as spicy, sweet, and bitter as the flavors Tita combines.  At its heart, this is as much a tale about how important the simple things, like a good meal, can be as it is a story about a woman determined to be her own person and choose her own fate.

Cuisine is fundamental to this novel, with recipes woven throughout the narrative, but that is only a part of its charm.  In the English translation, the language is beautiful in its simplicity.  The characters often reveal hidden depths, especially as Tita grows up and is able to better understand the people around her.  Heartfelt in its joys and sorrows, Like Water for Chocolate glows with cultural flavor and a sense of wonder.  It’s a feast for the spirit, and like an exquisite meal, it never fails to surprise those who enjoy it.

The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty

When I first read this novel, I found the early chapters enjoyable and engaging, but felt the story was no more than a typical, if especially well-written, work of mythic fiction.  The deeper I got into the narrative, however, the more wrong I was proven.  The City of Brass is anything but ordinary. While basing her work in Middle-Eastern lore and history, Chakraborty nonetheless manages to create a setting and story that are both wonderfully unique. Lush, detailed, and bursting with magic and intrigue, this book spans the lines between several sub-genres of fantasy without ever losing its balance.  

Beginning in eighteenth-century Egypt, the narrative follows a quick-witted antiheroine. Nahri doesn’t live by the rules of her society.  She doesn’t believe in magic or fate or even religion.  Orphaned for most of her life, survival has required her to become a con artist and a thief.  As a result, she is practical and pragmatic, a realist who has never even considered donning rose-colored glasses, and the last person who would ever expect anything supernatural to occur. Which, of course, means that it does, but the way in which it is handled is intricate and interesting enough not to feel trite. When Nahri’s latest con—a ceremony she is pretending to perform and doesn’t believe in even slightly—goes awry, and the cynical young woman finds herself face to face with a Daeva.  Magical beings, it transpires, are real after all, and this one is furious.  To both of their dismay, he’s also bound to Nahri, who soon realizes that he has an agenda of his own.  In return for rescuing her (and refraining from killing her himself) Dara, the Daeva warrior Nahri accidentally summoned, wants her to pull of the biggest con of her life: pretending to be the half-human heir to the throne of his people.  Worse still, she soon realizes that Dara, whose mentality sometimes seems a little less-than-stable, actually believes she may be exactly who he claims.  He has something planned, and his intentions may not be in her best interest.  Dragged unwillingly into a strange world of court intrigue, danger, social upheaval, and magic, Nahri quickly discovers that some things remain familiar.  People are ruled by prejudices, the strong prey on the weak, and she can’t fully trust anyone.  The stakes, however, are higher than ever, and Nahri will need all of her wits, cunning, and audacity if she wants to survive.

This novel was thoroughly enjoyable, and in fact prompted me to buy the following books in the trilogy as they became available. Chakraborty’s style is lyrical, her world building is superb, her plot is intricate, and her characters are well-developed.  She not only frames unfamiliar words and ideas is easily-comprehensible contexts, but weaves those explanations smoothly into the narrative. The culture, mythology, and history surrounding her tale are all carefully researched, but the tale itself is nonetheless unique. What begins feeling like a fairly ordinary mythic fiction novel will pleasantly exceed readers’ expectations.

So, while we, as fantasy readers, love the works of authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and Charles de Lint, there is also a plethora of other enchanting books to enjoy.  Exploring magical realism and mythic fiction based in cultures and folklore from all around the globe ensures that our to-read lists will always hold something unexpected and exciting to surprise us.  So, if you’re starting to feel like you’re in a bit of a reading rut, or if you’re simply looking to expand your horizons, open up new realms of imagination by opening up one of the novels above.  Who knows see where it will lead you?  You may just discover a new favorite to add to your bookshelf.  Happy reading!

[damienthepious]

pride! week! pride week! let’s have some fluff

Day 4 - Polyamory [Day 1] [Day 3] 

Each Day You’d Rise With Me

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Lord Arum, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Penumbra Pride Week, Penumbra Pride Week Day 4, Established Relationship, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Lazy Mornings,

Summary:  Mornings in the Keep, together and in love.

Notes: My offering for Penumbra Pride Week Day 4 - Polyamory. Just… pretend with me that I don’t exclusively write these three anyway, okay? Title from the song Sunlight, by Hozier. (please lord do NOT keep track of how many of my songs are named via Hozier lyrics)

***

It is difficult to choose from all of the new, fascinating wonders of their relationship, but Damien thinks that the mornings when they are all together are almost certainly his favorite part.

Damien slips from bed early (when his lovers do not wake to his movements, when Rilla does not fling an arm across his chest and climb half on top of him to mutter and sigh herself back to sleep, when Arum does not slit a violet eye open and tug him back with a tail around his waist for a few more moments of heat and touch, when his waking is not so lovingly delayed). His ingrained habit and duty and infatuation with the rising sun send him to run through his exercises on one of Arum’s high balconies, eyes closed and drinking in the red-gone-amber light as it burns through the haze above the swamp. He bathes afterward under the cool, controlled waterfall in the Keep’s washroom (sometimes Arum is awake by then, sometimes the lizard joins him, sometimes there are gentle, careful claws to help work the soap through his hair), and then, if Rilla did not overexert herself on experiments the night before, he wakes her for breakfast.

Some days Arum will cook. Some days he wakes even earlier than Damien, to put together a fruit-filled galette, or - when he feels like spoiling the humans - to bake the loaf of sourdough he lets rise in a cool spot through the night, and when they join him in the kitchen he cuts slices from the warm bread for them to smother with honey and preserves. Sometimes, if Rilla slept well (or not at all), she makes rava umpa with as many vegetables as she can fit in the skillet, or she whips together densely stuffed omelets for all three of them. If the others sleep late and Damien has the kitchen to himself, he might even attempt a souffle.

Rilla boils water before she does anything else. She watches the pot, knuckling at her eyes and impatient, perhaps tolerating Damien wrapping his arms around her from behind to press a kiss to her neck, and only when she pours water over grounds does she come fully awake, almost more from the smell of the coffee than the taste or the caffeine. Damien uses the rest of the hot water to make tea for Arum and himself, the former left pure and bitter, the latter dolloped with honey.

As they eat together, the world waits.

Sometimes they bounce quiet, uncomplicated thoughts between them over the table, or Damien will recite something to make Rilla grace him with her soft, fond smile, something that will make Arum feign annoyed indulgence while he listens, as enraptured as the herbalist. Sometimes there is silence instead, aside from the subtle creaking of the Keep, and the muffled sounds of the swamp in the distance, and that is treasured as well.

Damien has written an ode, four sonnets, two ghazals, and a chant on the subject of the joy he takes in their mornings together. With love surrounding him, with the outside world and Damien’s uncertain place in it muffled by the embrace of the Keep, his thoughts run easy and untroubled, if only for an hour or so. The mingled smell of coffee and tea, the taste of honey and fresh baked bread, the feel of a scaled hand casually brushing his shoulder in passing, dark hair loose and soft and tumbling in front of sleepy eyes before it is wrangled into the usual braid; Damien gathers all of these shining gemstone memories and weaves them into the tapestries of his talent, into assonance and rhyme and metaphor that he attempts to make as beautiful as the memories themselves.

Midday hangs in the eaves, of course, and breakfast ends sooner than any of them would like, but Damien does not begrudge a beautiful thing that passes in its proper time. It is easier to face the waiting day with sanctuary at his back, and Damien knows such moments are a rhyme themselves; variations on a love echoed, repeated, and the in-between is protected by what he leaves, and to what he will, in time, return.

The sun will rise, the sun will rise, the sun will rise, and Damien glories in the knowledge that there are countless numbers of those sunrises yet to come that he will be so blessed as to spend by their sides.

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 1K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter summary: In which all Greg wants is some damn sleep.

First | Last chapter

While I’m cross posting all of these to tumblr, I’d love to have your support over on AO3 too! Plus, it’s easier to subscribe there. A win-win, I’d say. Enjoy a breather chapter.

Chapter 3: Restless

Perhaps it’s mostly due to the fact that his son is mixed species and frequently galavants on magical and oft dangerous adventures with the three alien guardians who have over time become just as much of a family to the boy as he is, but whether he blames it on the fourteen plus years of anxiety progressively gnawing away at him or his chronically poor sleep habits, it’s as clear as the ache in his spine that Greg Universe is far from being the poster child of a good night’s rest.

He’s spent the last hour or so drifting in and out of awareness. Sometimes what rouses him is the subtle ticks of a rickety car driving past on the road outside, a sound his wandering mind has long associated with the dollar signs of potential business. (Not that he’s actually dependent on the car wash to support himself and Steven anymore, but hey, old habits die hard.) In other cases it’s simply... the ocean. He’s never been much of a fan of white noise, and even though he’s lived by the shore for a solid two decades now, the rushing ebb and flow has a nasty knack of keeping him awake. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and splurge for earplugs again. Overwhelmingly though, the main reason sleep tends to be such a stranger to him is because his brain simply refuses to shut up. Snippets of awkward social interactions from the day, worries about the faint stress hidden within his son’s smiles, song lyric rejects, the grocery list he forgot to write before retiring to the cozy, well-worn mattress set up on the van’s floor— just when he thinks he’s reached the end of things to obsess over and can finally slip into the blissful embrace of REM, something else claws out of the very mud of the Earth to bully him awake once more. It’s a vicious cycle.

Greg rolls on his side, and kicks the edge of his downy comforter until it fully covers his cold toes. The nightly temperature is beginning to drop, steadily paving the way for the height of the fall season. It’s not too bad so far, but soon enough the coastal winds will pick up. Delmarva nights get cold this time of year. Steven is warm enough in his bed, isn’t he? He’s got plenty of extra blankets if he needs them? And does he still need to pay the heating bill for this month or did he already—

He chuckles to himself, realizing all the proof he needs of that lays in his meticulously kept checkbook ledger safely tucked away in the glovebox. As always, he’s fussing over nothing. Oh, the woes of parenthood. But his fatherly worries aside, there’s no denying Steven’s genuinely happy living with the Gems. Despite the occasional adrenaline pumping encounter, with Pearl, Garnet, and Amethyst’s constant protection there’s really no safer place he could be.

A faint smile lifts his cheeks as his turbulent mind settles and he begins to doze off again.

Just as he’s about to cross that final canyon into unconsciousness, something raps against the door from outside. He promptly rolls over and groans into his pillow.

“I swear if this is another one of those gulls,” he mutters, out loud but more to himself than anything.

“Greg! Yo G-man, get your butt out here!”

He purses his lips. Nope. No such luck. Looks like it’s gonna be Gem business tonight. He shifts to sit up, rolling his shoulders back with an audible pop and brushing his long hair out of his face before finally shuffling across the van’s floor to crack open the back door.

He peers blankly at the short purple Gem standing ready to knock rapid-fire outside, his body filled with such exhaustion that his eye bags probably have luggage of their own.

“Amethyst,” he begins slowly. “It’s long past midnight, and right now the only thing I give a single damn about is how cozy my mattress is, so unless the world’s literally ending again I’m—“

“Steven’s hurt,” she says rapidly, and it’s only then he’s awake enough to notice the panic jittering through her stout frame.

His heart stutters.

“Wait, what?”

At first he swears he’s going senile prematurely. Surely none of this is happening, surely this is no more but a worryingly realistic nightmare, but no. No. Everything is too real. The way the cold salt air tousles through his beard, the faint scent of fish wafting from the docks... In the end it’s the glossiness of her eyes that convinces him. He’d never make dream Amethyst cry, because she rarely does.

Her explanation spills forth in a breathless rush.

“Steven, his gem got cracked, and none of us get how but he’s like, somehow split apart, and- and everyone’s at Rose’s fountain and you gotta come with me right now!”

She’s tugging at his arm by the end, and he has no time to slip on sandals or even lock the door before she yanks him out of the van and under the mask of night. He’s already breathing heavy by the time they near the boardwalk.

“Hurry!” she urges, the moonlight shimmering off the quartz gem embedded in her chest.

“But what even happened?” he asks, voice high with hysteria, huffing to keep up with her pace. “How did he—“

“I already said, I don’t know! None of us do.”

“What do you mean you don’t—“

“Hey, it’s not our fault! She wouldn’t tell us everything,” Amethyst snaps.

“She?”

They race past Fish Stew Pizza. Greg’s stomach gurgles on automatic, (did he really forget to eat dinner again?), but he pays it no attention. Not now, not when his son is hurt, not when he needs him, not when he—

“This new Gem who popped up out of nowhere today! Bismuth. She’s apparently like one of Garnet and Pearl’s old Crystal Gem buddies, and I thought she was pretty okay for a bit, but then Steven just up and disappears, and when he comes back he’s with her and he’s split apart, and one of them is cracked, a—“

“Wait, wait, wait- hold on, you keeping saying that, that he’s split apart?”

She nods in confirmation. Greg can practically feel the age weighing on his body as his bare feet leave the boardwalk and scurry through the sand. His pace doubles, the mere thought of his son injured and (dying??) in pain thrumming in his mind like a rocker’s drumbeat.

“W-what does that even- is there blood, is he still breathing??” he cries, yanking at his hair.

Realization dawns on her face in a wide mouthed ‘o’ when met with his near-meltdown. “Oh. OH, no I didn’t mean like, ‘cut in half’ split apart, I mean that he’s literally fallen apart! There’s squishy organic Steven, and then there’s this creepy pink Steven that’s entirely projected by his gem!”

“His gem fell out of his body!?”

“Dude,” she says, motioning sharply towards the cliffside, “we ain’t got no time to discuss the nitty gritty of this, we gotta hurry!”

With that, she pushes steadily ahead of him, leaving him in the dust- er, sand.

“No time to- Amethyst,” he shouts after her, “for all I‘m aware my son could be dying ‘cause of that, I need to know!!”

Amethyst doesn’t listen, though. Her gemstone glows bright purple, and then she disappears completely into a sphere of white light that rips across the shore at the speed of a stock-car racer. Or faster, maybe— he genuinely doesn’t know. He swears he could hear a mini sonic boom.

“Wait! WAIT!” he yells, throwing his hand in the air as he pushes himself even faster. A sharp pull in his calves causes him to slow to a stop. He doubles over, heaving for breath as he rests his hands on his knees. “I’m not a young man anymore!“

A distant, disembodied voice shoots his way from somewhere on the other side of the cliff. “Just run faster, you’re only like, 40 or somethin’.”

“I can’t!” he says, his voice practically cracking. “That’s the problem!”

Notes:

A bit of a short breather chapter, here- for both you and me.

I imagine Amethyst was holding back her panic last chapter, because she didn't want to further upset Steven. It's only now- apart from him- that she allows herself to finally break down a little.

Greg is so, so fun to write. I think it should worry me that I relate so much to this poor anxiety man.

[katsitting]

Hey are you in the mood to write a tomarry new years eve drabble/prompt thingy? If not it's okay tho

AN: I am not taking prompts, but I was just so enamored by this idea that I decided to write something for you. I hope you enjoy, it is definitely lighter than my typical stuff. Anon, if you would like to bookmark this, you may find it here on AO3.

Rating: M

Warnings: Frottage, Flirting, Possessive Tom, Mild Sexual Content, Humor, Slight Fluff, Alternate Universe - Modern/Muggles, and Open Ending/Ambiguous Ending.

Harry was drunk.

There was no denying this fact. No way of going around it. After he’d had his second shot of tequila, Harry was seeing double. The face of the bartender had become murkier than it had already been--the faint outlines of his face, that had once been difficult to discern without his glasses, splotches of color.

A kaleidoscope that was only made worse by the pulsing lights of the bar and the low thrum of chatter in the background.

It was New Years Eve, and he didn’t know why he was there at all. Why he had decided to come to a dingy bar rather than have a couple drinks with friends and their families…

Oh right. He wasn’t anywhere near London. He wasn’t even in the same country, no less. His studies had taken him elsewhere, and he would admit that spending a lonely New Years wasn’t helping matters.

It was what forced him out of his shite apartment. It was what had him sitting at this bar, shotgunning alcohol as if the he’d die without it.

It was a pathetic existence. One that Harry was certain his friends would hound him for if they knew. But they weren’t here right now.

It was just Harry, sitting at the bar, with a bartender that refused to give him any more drinks. How the man knew that Harry was shitfaced, he couldn’t even begin to guess, but that was it. It certainly sucked that this bartender took his duties so seriously. At this rate, he’d never get as plastered as he aimed for.

He could just hit the bar next door, if anything else. He hadn’t just chosen any random bar, after all. If he was going to do this; if he was going to drink himself into a coma, then he’d do it right.

And if that meant bouncing from bar to bar, uncaring of where he went, well. That was his problem and no one else's.

He wasn’t planning on driving. He had taken an Uber from his flat to downtown. A city he still didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t until he had least lived there for more than a few months.

Harry slurred for the bartender to close his tab, and the man, now just a splotch of blonde hair and pale skin, obeyed. He faintly understood Ben--was his name even Ben?-- state his acquiescence and then Harry was standing.

The world swayed around him, but Harry managed to stand without moving along with it. The buzz of the alcohol made his head pulse, but it was a pleasant feeling. It could almost even replace the warmth of his friend’s company, of their laughter and their jokes.

Harry missed them greatly, and before he knew it, he was stumbling past the throng of people milling about the bar. He didn’t stop until cold air slapped against his cheeks, until the bitter stench of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne melted into clean air.

I wonder what he would say if he saw me now?

It was an an intrusive thought, and it cut through the dense thicket of Harry’s alcoholic stupor. He didn’t want to think of that. Not now, and possibly not ever if he had a say in the matter.

Tom Marvolo Riddle could go fuck himself. Harry was beyond him. Millions of miles away from his sardonic laughter, his sharp gaze, and twisted lips.

Riddle was in London. Harry was in America. The distance couldn’t be more readily apparent.

But the thought came unbidden. The memories of someone so irksome; the literal bane of his existence, too much for him to handle. Even with several shots of Tequila and a couple of pints of beer sitting warmly in his belly, Harry couldn’t stop the vicious anger that seized him at just the thought of Riddle’s stupid face.

Though, it shouldn’t have surprised him that, as drunk as he was, his nostalgia would summon the memory of Tom bloody Riddle. The man had consumed Harry’s life back in Britain; his presence in Harry’s affairs and his insistence in sticking his nose into Harry’s business, oppressive and unwanted. Though, that hadn’t always been the case; it hadn’t always been awful. Their relationship hadn’t always been tumultous, but that was then.

So it shouldn’t be shocking that he’d think of him now, in America. Loneliness and alcohol did strange things to people, after all. It drew out memories that Harry buried deep, that he refused to acknowledge because of just how painful they could be, and in fact, were.

Ron had told him more than enough embarrassing stories of how he’d drunk dialed Hermione. Thought, it was certainly funny, in a way, that it was in one of his drunken calls that their relationship even came to be in the first place. Harry wouldn’t have believed it had he not been there with him, listening to him slur and sputter his confession with an exasperated Hermione on the line.

Fondness quickly replaced his anger, and a slow smile broke on his face.

God, I miss those two.

Harry glanced around his surroundings, watching couples and groups of people walking across the sidewalk. Some walked past him, heading into the bar he had just exited. Some moved to his left, to a bar playing foreign music he didn’t have the mind to decipher the lyrics of. Others, moved to his right to another bar with bright, neon colors flashing “HAPPY HOUR SPECIALS” to a rhythm he couldn’t quite make sense of.

And then, then down the street, past another throng of people, Harry stopped. There was a warehouse down the end, but it had comparably less people on that end. There were perhaps one or two groups of men at the front.

Music pounded rapidly, and Harry’s teeth nearly vibrated from the intensity of the pulsing beat. He couldn’t recognize the tune, but something about it sounded familiar. Almost like the pubs Ron and his friends would take him to back in London, dulcet voices and gyrating bodies manifesting before his very eyes.

Harry was moving before he could stop himself. He pushed past a couple, a girl with dark hair and pale skin and a boy with blonde strands that brushed past his shoulders, and followed the beat. He didn’t know what it was about it that called to him. Didn’t care when an angry driver honked at him when he threw himself in front of his fancy luxury car.

He needed to go there, and so he went.

Love and pain go hand in hand…

His shoulders bumped into men gyrating against other men at the front of the bar, and Harry did not pay it any mind. His head was stuffed with cotton, his mouth thick with the taste of alcohol as he slid to the front, stopping only when a burly man pressed a hand to his chest.

Oh, say what they want, I'm still thinking it's worth it…

Harry fished out his ID without thinking and flashed the man with it, uncaring of the fact that his fingers were shaking and that his skin was clammy with sweat. He wanted to get inside, he wanted to know what was it about this bar that drew him in.

And then man moved aside, a flash of recognition lighting in the man’s gaze, before waving Harry inside.

The bouncer spoke, said something that Harry vaguely understood as “have fun,” but he couldn’t be sure. His ears were ringing with the bass thrumming with the music, and his eyes were barely open, unable to make out the colors inside. Nothing made sense to him aside from the warmth flooding his stomach, for the strange feeling of recognition that swirled in his brain that screamed for him to follow.

Oh, little bit drunk, tell my heart you won't hurt it…

The warehouse was massive and packed with more people than Harry had anticipated. There were men in tight pants, the outline of their thighs and calves so obvious that Harry could make them out without needing to focus through the drunk haze. Some were topless, their skin glittering like brilliant gemstones beneath the neon lights flashing above them all.

There was fog, percolating between the bodies. The smoke assaulted his nose, the smell cloyingly sweet as Harry forced himself into the crowd, uncaring of who he touched and who touched him in turn.

I love your lies in the dark…

Then he was swaying to the beat, his feet taking him to the center of the crowd, where they refused to converge. Harry fit into the space readily, consumed it with his presence, uncaring that he was being watched by everyone as he began to move to the beat. It called to him, made him feel more alive than he had in months since leaving.

He forgot his friends, their laughter ringing in the back of his head. He forgot that he was in a foreign country, that he had only completed his first semester in school. He forgot that this was New Year's Eve, a time where he should be returning back home and celebrating the birth of a new year with friends and family.

Harry lost himself to the music, felt it twist inside him like a writhing serpent that he did not mind in the least. Let it come, he thought. Let me forget.

Love tearing a broken heart…

Hips moved, undulating in perfect sync with the beat. He dropped low when the song called for him, lifted his hands above his head when he imagined warm fingers tracing along his wrists and down to his forearms.

Harry saw it all in perfect technicolor, even if he couldn’t identify the faces of the men dancing around him…

If he closed his eyes, he could even imagine their hungry stares touching his bare skin. Could even imagine his gaze on him...watching him unravel on the dance-floor like he’d never had the courage to.

The alcohol made him bold, made him feel alive. He didn’t stop his feet and threw his head back, hair brushing along the nape of his neck, not when the music flowed through him endlessly.

Harry didn’t know how long he danced until a warm palm pressed against his chest, when hips suddenly pressed against the swell of his arse, a hard bulge pressed against him. He didn’t fight the heat, didn’t resist when that hand splayed across his chest and dropped to his groin.

A hiss fled his parted mouth, and Harry was caught between leaning in to that hand and pushing against the hips moving flawlessly with his.

“...Harry,” the voice sounded familiar, and yet not. It was deep and husky, the notes of it flowing along his spine like melted chocolate on the flat of his tongue. It was sweet and indulgent, and everything Harry needed in that moment.

How the man knew his name, Harry didn’t care in the least. He only wanted to be touched, to dance.

Harry pressed up closer, the man’s chest against his back, those hips rubbing against his arse, and it took everything within him in that moment not to moan. Not to purr like a content kitten while drunk as he was.

Despite his inebriation, he hadn’t lost all of his inhibitions. He may have been dancing with a stranger that had a voice like the one that niggled at him in the back of his mind, but that didn’t mean he’d come undone in the middle of this bar.

When the hand squeezed him more firmly, when lips grazed the lobe of his ear, Harry forgot completely why he had tried to stifle his moans. The music would drown them out anyway.

The beat was loud and he was drunk off the feeling of the man’s skin pressed to his, off the alcohol he had indulged in, and the music that stole all thoughts from his head.

“You reek of alcohol, Harry…” the voice said, and Harry whined when another hand, one that Harry had not noticed before, slipped under his shirt and trailed along his quivering stomach. It burned like alcohol on the back of his throat, the familiarity of it making him dizzy when they continued to move, slower now, but those hands.

They teased along his clothed cock, while the other traced his rib cage, as if counting each breath it could rip from his parted mouth.

Harry’s throat was tight with want and something else. Maybe the alcohol? Maybe the urge to vomit everything that he’d drank that night? Harry didn’t know and he didn’t care, not when those hands felt so good and that voice.

“P-please,” Harry whimpered, hands shooting up to wrap around the taller man’s neck. Short hairs tickled his fingertips, and felt so familiar that he didn’t know where he had touched hair as short as that before.

He tried to card his fingers through it, but whatever hair products the man was wearing prevented him from doing so. It caught against his hands, trapped them more than the hands robbing him of his ability to speak, burning heat lighting up his insides in ways that Harry had never experienced before.

“Do you know who I am, Harry? Who you’re begging so sweetly to?” He sounded amused, but Harry hardly cared for that. He wanted to be touched, wanted to sate the hunger that tore at him from the inside out. The heat, the fire that had lit up his insides like a pyre, Harry wanted to both drown in it and escape from it.

It was the same feeling before plunging into dark waters...the same feeling of elation and recklessness that seized him when Riddle would stare at him with knowing eyes...would curl his lips into a frightening smile before--

Realization seized him, and Harry let out a choked gasp.

No.

Harry abruptly stopped dancing, and the man--Riddle, oh god--followed suit. His hands did not fall away from his skin, his touch still pressed against his body. Mapping and questing, as if trying to memorize parts of Harry that Riddle had never before been privy to.

A wet tongue licked the shell of Harry’s ear, and a deep shudder wracked through Harry’s body. The haze he had been so pleasantly drunk on, the one that made the world around him melt into nothing, was cut immediately.

Everything became clearer, at once. The familiarity of this voice, the almost visceral way he responded immediately to the press of those fingers against his bare flesh…

“W-what are you doing here?”

Harry didn’t know if Riddle heard him, but considering how intimately pressed they were to one another, Riddle had to have heard him, or at least caught the almost panicked sound of his words, slurred from drinking.

Even with the shock twisting around inside him like a wild beast, nothing could erase just how much he’d drunk.

“Business,” Riddle murmured into his ear, and Harry groaned when the hand tracing shapes against his bare chest suddenly tweaked his nipple.

He didn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed that Riddle was doing this in public. Not when the person touching him was the last person he’d expected to find in a dingy bar in America. He was supposed to be in Britain, doing god knows what.

Riddle hadn’t had the decency to even say goodbye when Harry had left. Not that Harry had wanted him to. Their relationship was rocky on the best of times and outright hostile at the worst. Whatever good feelings had existed between them had died a vicious death. Harry had made sure of it.

So it was incredible, really. That Riddle would be here, feeling him up as if he couldn’t get enough of him. As if this was a perfectly normal thing to do with someone you hated. A friendship that was hardly a friendship; not after catastrophic fight over Riddle’s unsavory business habits.

“Business?” Harry scoffed, and made to rip himself away from Riddle’s touch, ripping his arms away from the man’s neck as if burned.

But Riddle did not allow him to move, let alone escape his suffocating confinement. His hold became tight, his hands stopping their teasing touches to wrap more tightly around him.

Harry gritted his teeth, and twisted his head to tell him exactly what’d he do to him if he continued to touch him, but his vision suddenly warped.

Riddle twisted him around, faster than Harry could have expected. A leg slipped between his quivering thighs, an arm wound tightly around his hips. They were unyielding, and Harry nearly vomited on the man with how rapidly his vision spun.

He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, and then Riddle was all that he saw, all that he could breathe. His mouth was pressed to his, his dark eyes locked on his. It took everything within him not to flinch and pull away, to close his eyes and pretend that Riddle was not digging his knee against his hard cock with lips against his in the middle of the bar.

God, this was not how I wanted New Years Eve to go.

“I heard that you were not coming back to Britain for the festivities…” Riddle drawled, a devious glimmer settling over his gaze when Harry tried to pull away once more. His hands made their way to Riddle’s biceps and he applied as much force as he could despite the anxious energy thrumming along his veins.

Harry’s stomach was in knots, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from the alcohol or Riddle’s proximity. It could easily have been both, but Harry wasn’t going to admit to that.

“So what? It’s not like I can afford to make trips around the bloody world like you can,” Harry spat, shuddering when Riddle’s free hand--the one that wasn’t bloody caging him into his body--smoothed across his cheek.

It was oddly tender. Harry did not think about what that touch could entail.

“Harry, no need to be rude. You know I’d gladly have paid for a plane ticket back had you asked.”

Harry laughed dryly, disbelief coloring his cheeks a bright red.

The nerve of him, Harry thought. He’d sooner bite off his own tongue and drop out of school than ask Riddle for anything.

Harry did not trust his money, did not want anything to do with it. Riddle had his fingers in some dark shite. It was the only explanation to the luxurious lifestyle he lived.

Riddle’s money was endless, his connections in the political world in Britain, extensive. Harry didn’t want to be a part of that; He’d said as much when Harry had confronted Riddle after he had bloody Bellatrix Lestrange in his home, drinking tea.

Whatever good will Harry had felt for this man, had died a rather tragic death when Riddle had the nerve to tell him that yes, he was sticking his nose in shady business.

It was unacceptable. It went contrary to everything Harry believed. He was studying to become a bloody investigator. To become a criminal profiler.

How could he be friends with someone that would gladly exploit others for his own gain? Had done so for years before Riddle had told him, offhand, about his business.

“You can take your money and shove it up your--”

Harry did not finish. Couldn’t finish, not when Riddle took that precise moment to kiss him. His tongue licked at the seam of his mouth, and his fingers--god, his fingers-- lowered to knead at his arse.

His cock swelled within his jeans, and he couldn’t stop himself from gasping into the kiss, allowing Riddle ample opportunity to deepen the kiss.

His tongue ran from his gums to his own tongue. It coaxed and teased, practically incited him to respond. Riddle’s eyes were wide open, looking into his own with a heated gaze Harry could not even begin to fathom, and Harry wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. To avoid the smoldering heat in the abyss, lest he find himself trapped in that moment as well.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten lost in them, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if Harry didn’t look away.

But he couldn’t. Riddle squeezed his arse, and Harry arched his spine, saliva running down his chin when Riddle continued to kiss him. It was rough and wet, teeth clacking and digging into his bottom lip.

It was violent, and Harry’s toes curled at the promise within Riddle’s eyes; not at all as frightened or disgusted as Harry should have been. Not even angry, only confused, his insides writhing with desire as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

We shouldn’t be doing this.

Harry moaned when Riddle sucked his tongue into his mouth, when teeth bit teasingly at the flesh. A spark of heat bolted up Harry’s spine, and he squeezed Riddle’s arms tightly, grip bruising and nails biting into the delicate skin to ground himself somehow.

And then Riddle pulled away, a long string of saliva still connecting their lips. Harry didn’t have the presence of mind to even be embarrassed, the haze of his alcoholic stupor and arousal nothing compared to the myriad of emotions pulling and twisting inside him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that. To do this.”

Riddle squeezed Harry’s arse and rutted against Harry’s hard cock in emphasis. As if to prove to Harry right then just what Riddle had meant; what he had wanted to do for lord knows how long.

“To watch you unravel before my eyes…”

Harry barely heard Riddle over the rush of blood pooling to his ears. His cheeks burned hotly, and his breaths were coming in haggard and short. It sounded like Harry was about to go through cardiac arrest, like at any moment he would just drop dead in Riddle’s arms because this couldn’t be happening.

Riddle kissed me. He bloody--

“W-what?” Harry croaked, fingers shaking nervously because Riddle wasn’t supposed to kiss him. He wasn’t supposed to touch him, wasn’t supposed to find him in the middle of New York City. He was supposed to drink himself into a pitiful state, to suffer through the worst hangover of his life the next morning for his poorly-made decisions.

None of his plans had Riddle factored in.

It was made worse by the rapid beating of his heart, by the rush of adrenaline and desire that trickled down to his cock. He shouldn’t want Riddle. He shouldn’t delight in him, he shouldn’t--

Fucking care.

But he did. He absolutely did.

Hatred swelled within Harry like hot air. All of it, directed at himself.

“Harry…” Riddle said, but Harry refused to listen. He pushed back, and Riddle, seemingly not expecting it, let Harry go.

Stumbling back, Harry turned around to flee. He couldn’t do this. One thing was to get into a fight with Riddle, to cut ties and forget that they had ever been friends at all, but it was entirely another for Harry to entertain the idea that he--

Don’t think about it, Harry. Don’t go there.

Harry heard Riddle shout through the pulsing beat of the music, his senses woefully attuned to the man. Still, he didn’t stop. He rushed and moved, shoved past the bodies of men and woman dancing in the dance-floor.

Nothing could hold him back, not even the glowers and angry shouts of the people he elbowed away from his path.

Harry had to leave and get to his flat as soon as possible before he did something stupid. Before he entertained the idea that Riddle might--

Ignore it, Harry.

He didn’t hear the sound of people shouting loudly. All that registered was the sound of blood rushing through his ears. All that made sense to him was his need to flee, to forget about the surge of conflicting emotions inside him.

Then, he burst through a doorway into the night air. It chilled him to the bone, more than the tight ring of black in Riddle’s eyes, than the desire he had seen in that face.

Harry ignored the sound of people laughing and shoved his hands down his pants to grab his phone. It was slippery within his grip, and shook more than he liked within his hand, but Harry didn’t have time to complain.

He needed to get as far away as possible and get an Uber.

“Harry!”

The sound of Riddle’s shout was enough to startle him. He dropped his phone, and Harry considered for a brief second just leaving it there and hailing a cab. He could simply order a new phone, if necessary.

But Riddle tore that option away from him. A hand clamped tightly around his shoulder, the sound of a familiar voice speaking his name, the only one Harry understood, before Harry was spinning.

Nausea rushed up Harry’s stomach. The familiar burn of bile and anxiety like a toxin that needed to be released.

Harry threw up. Riddle’s shoes took the brunt of it, but Riddle did not move away.

Tears burned hotly down his cheeks, unbidden and unwanted as he continued to expel everything he’d eaten and drank that evening.

The dark pavement beneath his feet became a bright yellow in a matter of seconds. The smell of clean air became marred with the stench of bile and alcohol. It was endless, the convulsions of his stomach merciless as Riddle rubbed his shoulders patiently.

There was a gentleness to it that made his insides turn more fiercely than the alcohol in his stomach did.

Why?

Harry didn’t know how much time passed, how long it took for the convulsions and the trembling of his shoulders to abate, but it certainly felt like an eternity. Riddle had not left his side, not once. He held him by the shoulders, rubbing soothing circles against his back.

“Better?” Riddle whispered, and Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

His throat hurt like hell and his head ached fiercely. It felt like he’d gone several rounds against a heavyweight wrestler and lost. It was awful, the situation made even worse by the fact that Riddle had to witness it all.

Embarrassment made his stomach flip uncomfortably, and Harry wondered idly if he needed to throw up again just to get rid of the terrible feeling that had lodged itself in his windpipe.

“Did you take a car over here?” Riddle asked, and Harry shook his head in the negative.

“I’ll take you back to your place.”

Harry shook his head once more, shoulders trembling when Riddle slipped an arm around his waist and settled over his shoulders for support.

There was no way Harry would tell the man where he lived. There was no way he would let him take him back home. He’d sooner sleep on the damn pavement in the middle of the street than permit it.

But his body was weak and his legs unsteady beneath him. So it was no surprise that Riddle did not listen to him at all. Instead, he began leading him back to the parking lot that Harry had not noticed when he’d first crossed the street.

There weren’t many cars, to be fair. Though that wasn’t a good excuse, and he knew it. He had been too drunk to notice a single thing about the place he had gone to, and that was perhaps how he stumbled into Riddle in the last place he’d expected him.

They walked for several moments before they stopped in front of a sleek luxury car, one that looked oddly like the one he’d almost--

Harry stopped breathing.

No.

That was the same car that had almost hit him when he’d been trying to get to the club. Harry, even as drunk as he had been then, could easily recognize it.

Well, that certainly explained how Riddle had found him.

“Y-you almost ran me over earlier,” Harry gasped out, wheezing uncomfortably when Riddle pressed him against the car for a moment to fish his keys from his pocket.

The crowd of people that had milled about the street were gone. The street was empty. It seemed like everyone had either left or had gone inside the different bars around the strip.

It made him nervous to know that they were alone. Riddle hadn’t pulled any punches when they were in the middle of a crowded bar, so there was no telling what Riddle might do while they were alone.

Harry winced when sharp sound cut through the silence, coming directly from the car pressed uncomfortably to his side.

“I’m aware,” Riddle replied, before pulling Harry away from the car and opening the car door.

“Not your brightest decision thus far. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Harry shot Riddle a glower, but did not fight him when he gently lowered Harry on the car. After all, the last thing Harry needed was for the man to drop him. He may not have been willing; would rather leap in front of oncoming traffic than spend another moment with Riddle, but that was beside the point.

Riddle wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and so Harry, to avoid the fruitless argument, let him sit him in the front seat.

“Just s-shut up and take me home,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes for a moment to stave off the strange feeling in his stomach. It churned relentlessly, and Harry wondered idly if he was going to throw up in the middle of Riddle’s car.

It’d serve Riddle right if he did. Harry wouldn’t have felt as awful as he did if Riddle hadn’t followed him into the bar in the first place.

“G-god, this is not how I wanted to spend New Years Eve…” Harry groaned, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to ease the pounding headache that worsened the longer he remained conscious.

Nothing would be better than just passing right there in Riddle’s car. As much as he didn’t want to let the man do as he pleased with him, the more sober Harry became, the more certain he was that he needed to fall into a coma.

Anything would be better than having to deal with Riddle.

The door slammed shut beside him, and then Harry was left alone to think about how to get himself out of his mess.

Harry was still slightly drunk, of that he had little doubt. He was nauseous as all hell, and stuck with Riddle. A man that had pressed up against him and had practically fondled him in the middle of the dance floor.

It really couldn’t get much worse.

The silence shattered when Riddle opened the door, settled inside the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

They sat there for lord knows how long, neither of them speaking. It was the most awkward thing Harry had ever had to experience, and he prayed for something to just knock him out. For the alcohol to somehow take effect, for something to help make the unease winding around his spine ease.

“Say something!” Harry muttered, turning to glance at Riddle when he had yet to say anything.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath when he found Riddle staring at him in precisely the same manner as he had at the club. Except now, Riddle was not shadowed by the shadows in the dimly lit club.

Here, Harry could see all of him. Though, that could mostly be attributed to his new found lucidity. In the bar, he’d been sloshed and barely cognizant of his surroundings. He’d only been aware of the addictive sound of the music and the heat of Riddle’s body bleeding into his skin, through the thin layer of his jumper.

There was nothing clouding his senses now. He was too sober to miss the devious look in Riddle’s face.

“You look exquisite sitting in my car,” Riddle said silkily before reaching out to touch Harry’s clammy cheek and trace the exposed skin.

Gooseflesh rippled across Harry’s arms, and it took everything within him not to flinch. The memory of what that hand had done, how it had made him feel in that club, like a shot of adrenaline through his veins.

“You’d look even better in my flat, stripped bare so that my eyes may drink their fill.”

Harry swallowed, noticing the way Riddle’s eyes flickered from his eyes down to his lips and back again.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t flirt with me, Tom,” Harry sighed, too tired to even fight him when that hand trailed from his cheek down to his throat. It made his stomach quiver pleasantly, his nausea forgotten when Riddle was practically consuming all of his senses.

It was ridiculous, just how easily Riddle could derail even basic urges such as those. It wasn’t fair.

“Liar…” Riddle teased, before lightly tracing a finger from his neck to his shoulder, the collar of his shirt exposing the skin readily to Riddle’s hungry gaze.

“It’s because I’m flirting with you that you’re a complete mess right now.”

Harry sighed heavily, swatting the man’s hand away from his neck.

“I swear if you don’t take me home right now, I’ll--”

“I’ll need an address for that,” Riddle interrupted smoothly.

Harry’s lips thinned in irritation, and his gaze narrowed into slits at Riddle’s amused expression.

Wanker.

“709 Honey Creek Dr. New York, NY 10028,” Harry bit out, ignoring the victorious smile that curved Riddle’s lips.

It was unnerving, how Riddle could make something as innocent as that seem dangerous. How, with practiced ease, Riddle could twist Harry’s insides into pretzels with the memory of what those very lips had done back at the bar...at what his hands had felt like kneading at his arse beneath flashing lights.

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to drop you off at your flat tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.”

Harry jerked so quickly that his vision swam.

What?

“Did you think I was going to take you home right after? That I was going to leave you as you are?”

Riddle tutted at him, expression dangerous as he leaned in so closely that Harry could smell his breath: chocolate and coffee so tightly wound together that Harry couldn’t discern whether that was normal in Riddle or if this was something he indulged in occasionally.

“Harry, you’ve been gone for several months. You left without a goodbye and you made sure I couldn’t follow after you,” Riddle continued, tone suspiciously casual.

Harry didn’t trust it in the least.

“And just when I had given up searching, here you are. In the last place I had expected.”

Harry wanted to tell him exactly just how unexpected running into Riddle was, but didn’t. Not when Riddle was touching him lightly, lips slowly growing into a sharp smile.

An expression Riddle had only ever worn once in Harry’s presence. A time Harry did not wish to recall, considering that was the night they’d had their argument. The night he had learned that Riddle was a fucking crime lord.

“What a lovely start to the new year,” Riddle purred, and Harry slumped with relief when Riddle finally pulled away to start the car.

No, Harry thought as Riddle’s eyes flickered to his before pulling out of the parking lot, it was the makings of a nightmare.

All wrapped up in a beautiful package named Tom Marvolo Riddle.

[lightning-and-lavender-fire]

“Y’all Playa Haters You Should Love Yourself!”

A BTS song-inspired self care thingy :)

The guidelines are very loose and up to your interpretation, but the intention is simple—boosting confidence and pushing aside the stuff that’s holding you down.

What you’re gonna need:

The song Cypher PT. 4

Two index cards

A pen or pencil

Any other “bolster items” (Gemstones? Paint? BTS merch? Honestly, you could work almost anything into this.)

Here are the steps:

Before starting, I’d look through the translated lyrics to the song. Know what the lines mean, so that your intention can be all the more focused.

Make sure you feel comfortable and ready where you are. You could straighten up the room a bit—nothing crazy, just a bit—and if you want you can wear something different that you feel fits.

Get out those index cards and your writing implement of choice. Title one card “I Love Myself,” and on that card write down all the things that you can think of that make you happy, that you like about yourself, and that support you. Write as many things as you can think of and be specific!

Title the other card “Y’all Playa Haters.” Here’s where you’ll write anything that holds you back, whether that’s individuals, groups of people, ideologies, negative self-talk, or anything else that doesn’t get you. Try to stay away from listing things you don’t like about yourself—that’s just the inner “playa haters” talking.

Get the song playing and do whatever you feel moved to do. Some suggestions are:

Do something to the cards. Maybe paint your favorite colors on the I Love Myself card (try not to cover the words--you’ll see why), and not so pretty colors on the Y’all Playa Haters card. Surround one with gemstones and step on the other one repeatedly.

Talk to the cards. Maybe attach them to drawings of people or stuffed animals and confront them, thus confronting the things you’ve written on them. Tell the things on the I Love Myself card how much you love and appreciate them, and tell the things on the Y’all Playa Haters card that you’re done with them and they should love themselves.

If you feel like it, you could even get the lyrics out and lipsync along to the song, using those words as a message.

Imagine everything on the I Love Myself card standing next to you and around you like an army (ARMY? Geddit?) and everything on the Y’all Playa Haters card standing across from you, and just annihilate the Playa Haters. 

Aggressively throw BTS merch at the Y’all Playa Haters card until you feel satisfied.

Alternatively, lovingly surround the I Love Myself card with BTS merch until you feel satisfied.

Forget the cards and just dance around if you wanna! 

Do anything else you feel like doing. Combine these or come up with your own. Use your creativity!

Once the song ends, take the Y’all Playa Haters card and find a trashcan. Rip the card up and throw it away, focusing not on how much you hate these things, but on how little hateful attention you need to give them. These things are not worth your time, and you wish them the very best as you let go of them.

Take the I Love Myself card, fold it up, and hide it somewhere you’ll probably look back at in a couple of months or more. That way, when you look there next, you’ll be reminded of all these wonderful things :)

I hope you find this helpful, and don’t forget to love yourself!

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for monday, August 3 of 2020 with Proverbs 3 and Psalm 3 accompanied by Psalm 45 for the 45th day of Summer and Psalm 66 for day 216 of the year

[Proverbs 3]

My child, if you truly want a long and satisfying life,

never forget the things that I’ve taught you.

Follow closely every truth that I’ve given you.

Then you will have a full, rewarding life.

Hold on to loyal love and don’t let go,

and be faithful to all that you’ve been taught.

Let your life be shaped by integrity,

with truth written upon your heart.

That’s how you will find favor and understanding

with both God and men—

you will gain the reputation of living life well.

[Wisdom’s Guidance]

Trust in the Lord completely,

and do not rely on your own opinions.

With all your heart rely on him to guide you,

and he will lead you in every decision you make.

Become intimate with him in whatever you do,

and he will lead you wherever you go.

Don’t think for a moment that you know it all,

for wisdom comes when you adore him with undivided devotion

and avoid everything that’s wrong.

Then you will find the healing refreshment

your body and spirit long for.

Glorify God with all your wealth,

honoring him with your very best,

with every increase that comes to you.

Then every dimension of your life will overflow with blessings

from an uncontainable source of inner joy!

[Wisdom’s Correction]

My child, when the Lord God speaks to you,

never take his words lightly,

and never be upset when he corrects you.

For the Father’s discipline comes only

from his passionate love and pleasure for you.

Even when it seems like his correction is harsh,

it’s still better than any father on earth gives to his child.

Those who find true wisdom obtain the tools for understanding,

the proper way to live,

for they will have a fountain of blessing pouring into their lives.

To gain the riches of wisdom is far greater

than gaining the wealth of the world.

As wisdom increases, a great treasure is imparted,

greater than many bars of refined gold.

It is a more valuable commodity than gold and gemstones,

for there is nothing you desire that could compare to her.

Wisdom extends to you long life in one hand

and wealth and promotion in the other.

Out of her mouth flows righteousness,

and her words release both law and mercy.

The ways of wisdom are sweet,

always drawing you into the place of wholeness.

Seeking for her brings the discovery of untold blessings,

for she is the healing tree of life to those who taste her fruits.

[Wisdom’s Blueprints]

The Lord laid the earth’s foundations with wisdom’s blueprints.

By his living-understanding all the universe came into being.

By his divine revelation he broke open

the hidden fountains of the deep,

bringing secret springs to the surface

as the mist of the night dripped down from heaven.

[Wisdom, Our Hiding Place]

My child, never drift off course from these two goals for your life:

to walk in wisdom and to discover discernment.

Don’t ever forget how they empower you.

For they strengthen you inside and out

and inspire you to do what’s right;

you will be energized and refreshed by the healing they bring.

They give you living hope to guide you,

and not one of life’s tests will cause you to stumble.

You will sleep like a baby, safe and sound—

your rest will be sweet and secure.

You will not be subject to terror, for it will not terrify you.

Nor will the disrespectful be able to push you aside,

because God is your confidence in times of crisis,

keeping your heart at rest in every situation.

[Wisdom in Relationships]

Why would you withhold payment on your debt

when you have the ability to pay? Just do it!

When your friend comes to ask you for a favor,

why would you say, “Perhaps tomorrow,”

when you have the money right there in your pocket?

Help him today!

Why would you hold a grudge in your heart

toward your neighbor who lives right next door?

And why would you quarrel with those

who have done nothing wrong to you?

Is that a chip on your shoulder?

Don’t act like those bullies or learn their ways.

Every violent thug is despised by the Lord,

but every tender lover finds friendship with God

and will hear his intimate secrets.

The wicked walk under God’s constant curse,

but godly lovers walk under a stream of his blessing,

for they seek to do what is right.

If you walk with the mockers you will learn to mock,

but God’s grace and favor flow to the meek.

Stubborn fools fill their lives with disgrace,

but glory and honor rest upon the wise.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 3 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 3]

A song of David composed while fleeing from his son Absalom.

Eternal One, my adversaries are many, too many to count.

Now they have taken a stand against me!

Right to my face they say,

“God will not save you!”

[pause]

But You, Eternal One, wrap around me like an impenetrable shield.

You give me glory and lift my eyes up to the heavens.

I lift my voice to You, Eternal One,

and You answer me from Your sacred heights.

[pause]

I lie down at night and fall asleep.

I awake in the morning—healthy, strong, vibrant—because the Eternal supports me.

No longer will I fear my tens of thousands of enemies

who have surrounded me!

Rise up, O Eternal One!

Rescue me, O God!

For You have dealt my enemies a strong blow to the jaw!

You have shattered their teeth! Do so again.

Liberation truly comes from the Eternal.

Let Your blessings shower down upon Your people.

[pause]

The Book of Psalms, Poem 3 (The Voice)

[Psalm 45]

The Wedding Song

For the Pure and Shining One, by the prophetic singers of Korah’s clan

A contemplative song of instruction for the Loved One

To the melody of “Lilies”

My heart is on fire, boiling over with passion.

Bubbling up within me are these beautiful lyrics

as a lovely poem to be sung for the King.

Like a river bursting its banks, I’m overflowing with words,

spilling out into this sacred story.

His Royal Majesty

Beautiful! Beautiful! Beyond the sons of men!

Elegant grace pours out through every word you speak.

Truly God has anointed you, his favored one, for eternity!

Now strap your lightning-sword of judgment upon your side,

O mighty warrior, so majestic!

You are full of beauty and splendor as you go out to war!

In your glory and grandeur go forth in victory!

Through your faithfulness and meekness

the cause of truth and justice will stand.

Awe-inspiring miracles are accomplished by your power,

leaving everyone dazed and astonished!

Your wounding leaves men’s hearts defeated

as they fall before you broken.

Your glory-kingdom, O God, endures forever,

for you are enthroned to rule with a justice-scepter in your hand!

You are passionate for righteousness and you hate lawlessness.

This is why God, your God,

crowns you with bliss above your fellow kings.

He has anointed you, more than any other,

with his oil of fervent joy,

the very fragrance of heaven’s gladness.

Your royal robes release the scent of suffering love for your bride;

the odor of aromatic incense is upon you.

From the pure and shining place, lovely music

that makes you glad is played for your pleasure.

[Her Royal Majesty]

The daughters of kings, women of honor,

are maidens in your courts.

And standing beside you,

glistening in your pure and golden glory,

is the beautiful bride-to-be!

Now listen, daughter, pay attention, and forget about your past.

Put behind you every attachment to the familiar,

even those who once were close to you!

For your royal Bridegroom is ravished by your beautiful brightness.

Bow in reverence before him, for he is your Lord!

Wedding presents pour in from those of great wealth.

The royal friends of the Bridegroom shower you with gifts.

As the princess bride enters the palace,

how glorious she appears within the holy chamber,

robed with a wedding dress embroidered with pure gold!

Lovely and stunning she leads the procession with all her bridesmaids

as they come before you, her Bridegroom King.

What a grand, majestic entrance!

A joyful, glad procession as they enter the palace gates!

Your many sons will one day be kings, just like their Father.

They will sit on royal thrones all around the world.

I will make sure the fame of your name

is honored in every generation as all the people praise you,

giving you thanks forever and ever!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 45 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 66]

Thank You, Lord

For the Pure and Shining One

A song of awakening

Everyone everywhere, lift up your joyful shout to God!

Sing your songs tuned to his glory!

Tell the world how wonderful he is.

For he’s the awe-inspiring God, great and glorious in power!

We’ve never seen anything like him!

Mighty in miracles, you cause your enemies to tremble.

No wonder they all surrender and bow before you!

All the earth will bow down to worship;

all the earth will sing your glories forever!

Pause in his presence

Everyone will say, “Come and see the incredible things God has done;

it will take your breath away!

He multiplies miracles for his people!”

He made a highway going right through the Red Sea

as the Hebrews passed through on dry ground,

exploding with joyous excitement over the miracles of God.

In his great and mighty power he rules forever,

watching over every movement of every nation.

So beware, rebel lands; he knows how to humble you!

Pause in his presence

Praise God, all you peoples.

Praise him everywhere and let everyone know you love him!

There’s no doubt about it; God holds our lives safely in his hands.

He’s the one who keeps us faithfully following him.

O Lord, we have passed through your fire;

like precious metal made pure,

you’ve proved us, perfected us, and made us holy.

You’ve captured us, ensnared us in your net.

Then, like prisoners, you placed chains around our necks.

You’ve allowed our enemies to prevail against us.

We’ve passed through fire and flood,

yet in the end you always bring us out better than we were before,

saturated with your goodness.

I come before your presence with my sacrifice.

I’ll give you all that I’ve promised, everything I have.

When I was overcome in my anguish,

I promised to give you my sacrifice.

Here it is! All that I said I would offer you is yours.

The best I have to bring, I’ll throw it all into the fire

as the fragrance of my sacrifice ascends unto you.

Pause in his presence

All you lovers of God who want to please him,

come and listen, and I’ll tell you what he did for me.

I cried aloud to him with all my heart and he answered me!

Now my mouth overflows with the highest praise.

Yet if I had closed my eyes to my sin,

the Lord God would have closed his ears to my prayer.

But praises rise to God,

for he paid attention to my prayer and answered my cry to him!

I will forever praise this God who didn’t close his heart when I prayed

and never said no when I asked him for help.

He never once refused to show me his tender love.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 66 (The Passion Translation)

[emmashappylittleworld]

“This is Manchester, we do things differently here.” Tony Wilson

If you have no idea what 80 days of summer is all about, then where have you been!? Don’t worry you can catch up here. But basically for 80 days, I am going to make sure I do something every single day that makes the most of summer, some things will be new some won’t. This challenge is to show that life is really made for living, no excuses, no wasting days! Just happiness every single day!

Days 45 and 46 were my birthday weekend and the weekend I turned the big 34!  It was also the Bee in the City weekend.

“A colony of giant Bee sculptures is winging its way to the streets of Manchester this summer…

Wild in Art and Manchester City Council are bringing all of Manchester’s communities together for Bee in the City, one of the most spectacular public art events the city has ever seen. Over 100 Bees are waiting to be discovered on this free, family-fun trail, taking in the city’s landmarks and undiscovered gems. Each Bee has been designed by a different artist and celebrates the unique buzz of Manchester, from its industrial heritage to its vibrant music scene”

The bees will be in Manchester until the 23rd of September, you can find out more here.

Aimee is my biggest blogger fan and my biggest fan in life full stop. Forever sending me links for places o visit and things to do for my blog and to make sure I have a life outside work. She is also the one person who looks after my health even more so than myself. Forever telling me off about how much I do, what I eat and how much I sleep she really is the best friend you could have. To start my birthday celebrations we headed to Manchester to celebrate the start of the Bee in the city events (an instagrammers dream) to celebrate my birthday and to drink lots of delicious cocktails and for some tipsy shopping.

She also bagged us some tickets to see the hives on top of the printworks. Who the hell knew there were beehives on top of the printworks! After getting trapped in a lift for 10 minutes we finally made it to the roof, unfortunately, the roof area is closed off so no views (gutting I know). We had a little talk for 30 minutes and discovered they actually sell the honey f=taht is made up there. It has made me realise what the hell goes on, on the rooftops of Manchester!

Rock N Roll

“This Bee is covered in spiky-looking musical soundwaves which create a feeling of chaos and sudden change. The flight paths of bees may look equally random to us but bees are actually great navigators, constantly finding the most efficient routes to take. We reckon that everybody will set their ��flight paths’ to Liam Gallagher’s cool Bee, featuring his signature and his Rock n Roll insignia.”

The Bee of Hope, Community & Respect.

“This bee features the design ideas of students Laiba Qureshi, Laiba Asif, Emma Whittaker, Hadia Arain, Lukhman Miah and Salman Khan. The cogs and binary patterns pay homage to Oldham’s industry and the flames feature in the school’s emblem, The Torch of Knowledge and Skills. They also symbolise reflections on the Manchester Arena attack. Ariana Grande’s lyrics are on the wings and 22 flowers represent those who lost their lives. The message from the Radclyffe students is ultimately one of hope, and the belief that love, community and respect for all will rise from the ashes.”

By far the prettiest and most meaningful of all the bees.

Manchester has always been in my favourite city in the UK and possibly one of my favourite cities in the world. It holds so many memories for me from childhood, love, breakups and just general life. I have literally been visiting Manchester weekly for the last 20 years and have never gotten bored of it, I am still finding new places and rediscovering old places. There are places in the city that I always return to and places that are now off limits as they are too painful. I feel like my whole life has been built around this beautiful city.

Bee a rainbow!

“This Bee is a symbol of hope perched upon a sky of dreams. In her bright rainbow hues, she celebrates the diverse worker bees of Manchester. She is a cheerful explorer, always looking for her next adventure. Her energetic colours and whimsical character will inspire happiness and hope in all who meet her.”

Cheeky little cocktail stop, well it is my birthday, after all, would be rude not too!

Hilda Bugden

“Lee – a Liverpool art teacher and illustrator – has taken his inspiration from Manchester’s most iconic street, with a design based on one of its most famous characters (someone who was always buzzing about!). The art celebrates strong Northern women that we can all relate to, whether it is family members or some of the residents of television’s favourite street.”

Rubee

“This Bee is inspired by the famed and fabled gemstone – ruby. Asides from its bright colour, it is a desirable gem due to its hardness, durability, lustre and rarity. Rubee has been ‘transformed’ and shows how the worker bee, one of the best known symbols of Manchester, is precious to the hearts of Mancunians. The design is depicted as a geometric pattern.”

This is Manchester!

“Taking inspiration from Manchester, the design celebrates the cityscape under a rainbow bee: silver eyes reflect those who look at it and the surroundings of the sculpture (and nod towards the Manchester nightlife!). The rainbow references an inclusive and welcoming city and its communities, whilst the skyline’s iconic buildings connect today with the Gothic architecture of the past.”

Can we just take a moment to talk about this dress, I got it a couple of weeks ago from Primark for the bargain price of £15, could possibly be my new favourite dree although the sizing isn’t great on it so I had to get a large size but still, how pretty is it! I am very tempted to go buy a second one for when this one dies a clothes death!

The Birds and the Bees

“Manchester is a warm and welcoming city and people from all over the world have made it their home. This witty Bee, disguised as a bird, celebrates the fact that peregrine falcons have also decided to make Manchester city centre their home. The falcon’s feathers and markings inspired all the patterns and colours that are featured.”

Colourfull Manchester Skyline Bee

“Originally from Kenya, Meha is now based in Manchester. Her colourful, illustrative Bee takes inspiration from Manchester’s ever-changing skyline. It tells a story about the bustling city and the worker ‘bees’ that have shaped it, and incorporates aspects of the city’s architecture, music scene, street art, sporting background, sculptures and industrial past, along with the individuals that make the city.”

I promise no more bees, I could literally share them all with you, they are all so beautiful and such a fun way to celebrate Manchester. But I don’t want to ruin it for you, I highly recommend a trip to Manchester to do the Bee Trail. There is an app you can download and add all the bee codes too. Each code unlocks something including free drinks and discounts off food.

Is there a more perfect food on this earth than ice cream!

One last drink before a bit of shopping and heading home, the day was utterly perfect and an amazing way to celebrate my birthday with my babe Aimee. I am a lucky little ducky and luckily I woke up on my birthday without a hangover, total win!

Day 46: 

Was my actual birthday and a day I decided to keep private. Over the weekend my family received some bad news that will change all our lives so we decided to have a day all together as a family and share as much love as possible. Although the news wasn’t great we are all staying positive and decided that celebrating my birthday was the best thing to do. It is extremely rare that our whole family gets together, in fact, I can’t remember the last time we did. Every year I duck out of Christmas day so it literally could have been years. The day was lovely I got lots of cuddles off this little one and to be honest it was nice to take a break from my phone. It is safe to say already that year 34 is going to be the best one yet, I have lots of adventures planned and ready to start a new chapter. I remember saying in December that I wanted 2018 to be the year that didn’t have any change in (i needed a break from all the changes). Well, that’s not gone to plan, maybe 2019 will be that year!

    80 DAYS OF SUMMER – DAY 45 & 46 “This is Manchester, we do things differently here.” Tony Wilson If you have no idea what 80 days of summer is all about, then where have you been!?