#the stones one had a curling rink

[trek-tracks]

When I say I was shouting at the screen when nobody got this...

[laheyxlover]

could you do a fic about the reader being a singer and she goes to one of luke's NHL hockey games and she is spotted there like Taylor swift was and than she writes a whole love album about her and luke

Luke Hughes x Reader.

1k

(Warnings: mentions of injuries and slight angst with fluff ending)

(I was really stoned when I wrote this so feel free to tell me if this sucks!)

Summary: When you go to one of Luke Hughes games, not knowing he was a famous hockey player. You suddenly find out more about your bumble match than you had over the last month.

Pls request!!

“Could you do a fic about the reader being a singer and she goes to one of luke's NHL hockey games and she is spotted there like Taylor swift was and then she writes a whole love album about her and luke”.

You were at a hockey game where your best friend begged you to go with her. Rachel’s boyfriend, Dawson played for the New Jersey Devils. He had even texted her a copy of two tickets so that Rachel, your friend, didn't have to ditch you during your last night in jersey. 

You weren’t a huge fan of hockey, having grown up in Oregon. The sport was not very popular in the small town she was located in. The huge Jumbo-tron started playing one of your songs from the upcoming album. 

Your friend, Rachel couldn’t help but giggle knowing you had just released the ep only a few days ago.

Suddenly the Jumbo-tron showed a picture of you. The feed was live and caused you to laugh when you notice they are still playing your song. 

The camera pointed to Rachel who was holding onto you dramatically, as she sang your new song, ‘Sweet’. 

It then panned to you singing to Rachel, as if she was the reason you wrote the song. The truth was, you met this cute guy on bumble a month ago. He was tall, with the soft curls that you loved to play with. The only red flag you had was that he was pretty secretive. Which is saying something coming from a popstar. 

Once the Jumbo-tron faded, you turned to watch as they panned over to the New Jersey Devils newest player of the year. His face was bright red as he stared at the Jumbo-tron with the cutest look before ducking his head down once he noticed the Camera on him. 

“Luke?” you gasped seeing the boy who was currently your celebrity crush. He was also the boy she met a month ago on bumble. 

Rachel looked just as confused until she saw the contact photo you had for him. It was a rare photo of him giving you a genuine smile. 

Rachel had met Luke at one of Dawson’s parties. She however, didn’t know that Luke even had a girlfriend. Rachel also didn’t know much about the mysterious boy in your life either. 

You looked down at your phone,

L: “You didn’t tell you we were going to a hockey game tonight..” 

Y: “You didn’t tell me you were a hockey player..”

You rolled your eyes as you looked up to see the panicked look on his face from across the ice. 

L: “I am sorry, I was too nervous to ask your pr team to meet mine..” 

Y: “I am not mad, I am upset you didn’t feel like you should tell me..”

L: “I was going to tell you soon!”

Y: “I don’t want excuses..”

Flipping your phone around on your lap, your eyes locked with his across the ice rink. Luke sent you an apologetic look that made your frown slightly turn into a smile. 

Luke always knew how to make you smile. When your ep got leaked a day before release. When the paparazzi caught the back of him as you kissed in the street. 

You sent him a glare before slowly turning your lips into a soft smile once Luke rolled his eyes. He just really paid attention to your body language too. 

Once the game started it was intense, the devils had previously lost against the rangers. So now the game was even more stressful for you and Rachel. 

During the third period, Luke was hit into the wall so hard his helmet fell off. You stood up and started screaming at the ranger who had hit him. The ranger looked over and was surprised to see you, a new yorker. Screaming bloody murder at him for hitting a devil. 

In truth, if you had to pick a sport. It would be baseball, you just grew up with it. So you weren’t known for being a ranger, but most of the world just assumed you were.

Apparently having the guy you really like get hurt, immediately washes away the anger from him lying to you. 

Once Luke was given the ‘ok’ from the medics team, he rushed into the locker room before quickly changing. Jack had taken his place in the game, not wanting his brother to risk stressing out his body any further. 

As you kept spamming his phone to see how he was doing, Luke slid in the empty chair next to you. Not many of the local fans cared enough to buy glass tickets for a pre-season game. So he felt fine not alerting the security that he was sitting in the stands. 

Once you saw him you let out a gasp of relief. Wrapping your arms around him, your neck pressing against his. 

“Oh my- I am so mad at you right now..” You mumbled into his ear as he wrapped his arms around you. 

“I know, pretty girl. I am sorry” Luke cooed, pulling you closer to him. 

“Don’t ever lie to me again.” You said sternly pulling your face away from him. You meant business, and he knew it. 

“I won’t.” Luke replied breathly, like he couldn’t believe you weren’t way madder than he had envisioned previously. 

“And be careful, because I don’t wanna have to worry about you like that again..” You said hitting his arms lightly. 

“Ow!” Luke said, rubbing his arms. The look on your face was priceless as you realized he could’ve hurt worse than you thought. 

Luke chuckled softly as he raised his arms in defense. 

“I was kidding-..” Luke tries before you lightly start cursing at him.  

“You little brat! You scared the crap out of me..” You said frowning at him, you both knew he could stop you. But Luke preferred the way you looked at him.

[zapreportsblog]

Helloo.....it's me....

Can I request the poly!volturi kings x reader that does figureskating? And maybe she falls? How would they react?

Love ya byeee❤️❤️❤️

I love that you keep coming back lol, well here goes nothing!

↱ im not easily impressed but when I am then im impressed ↰

➘ summary : the volturi kings knew their mate was good at figureskating, but this good?! Damn aren’t they lucky

➘ the volturi x reader ; twilight x reader ; aro x reader x marcus x caius

Beneath the veil of night, the Volturi gardens were alive with a tranquility that contrasted with the kings' formidable reputation. Amongst the flora and moonlight, (Y/N) found herself in the company of Aro, Caius, and Marcus, the very embodiment of immortal power and allure.

Seated on an elegant stone bench, (Y/N) felt a contented sigh escape her lips as she gazed up at the stars. The bonds she shared with the Volturi kings were unlike any other, a symphony of emotions that surged through her immortal veins. And it was in these serene moments that she felt most alive, even though the world around her had ceased its heartbeat.

With a tender smile gracing her lips, (Y/N) turned her gaze toward her mates. "You know," she began, her voice soft like the rustling leaves, "before I became a vampire, I was a figure skater."

Her words, gentle as they were, caught the attention of the kings. Aro's inquisitive eyes locked onto her, Caius tilted his head ever so slightly, and Marcus, always the quiet observer, seemed to focus a fraction more on her words.

"You were a figure skater?" Aro mused, his lips curling into an intrigued smile. "How delightful! Please, do share your stories with us."

(Y/N)'s eyes lit up with a mixture of excitement and nostalgia. The memories of her human life as a figure skater were vivid, etched into her consciousness like a beautifully choreographed routine. "I spent hours gliding across the ice," she began, her voice carrying the cadence of a storyteller. "The rink was my sanctuary, and the ice felt like an extension of my being."

Caius leaned forward, his crimson eyes fixed on her with newfound interest. "Tell us more," he urged, his tone softer than usual.

As she recounted her stories, (Y/N) painted pictures with her words. She described the early morning frost that embraced the rink, the way the sunlight danced off the ice, and the sheer joy of pushing herself to perfect each spin and jump. She spoke of the ethereal connection she felt with the music, how it dictated her movements and evoked emotions she couldn't express otherwise.

Marcus, his eyes a storm of emotions, seemed to be captivated by her tales. For a man accustomed to the burden of centuries, her stories were a refreshing gust of wind that swept away the cobwebs of his thoughts.

Aro, true to his nature, interjected with curiosity. "Were there any particular moments that stood out to you?"

(Y/N) nodded, a fond smile gracing her lips. "There was one performance in particular. It was during a competition, and everything aligned perfectly. The music, the routine, and my movements—it was as if I had become one with the ice. I'll never forget the exhilaration of that moment."

Her mates listened intently, hanging onto her every word. They were drawn into the magic of her stories, experiencing the echoes of her past as if they were their own memories.

And as the night wore on, (Y/N) continued to share her experiences, laughter and wonder intertwining with the night breeze. With each tale, the bond between them deepened, as if the stories themselves were threads stitching their souls together.

Underneath the stars, the Volturi kings and their enchanting mate were no longer just rulers of the night. They were a constellation of beings, connected by the tapestry of past and present, each thread woven into the fabric of their eternity.

Several years had passed since the tumultuous days of (Y/N)'s transformation. The frenzied hunger of the newborn vampire had given way to control, her movements fluid and measured, her presence a serene echo in the hallowed halls of the Volturi castle. The bond between (Y/N) and the Volturi kings had deepened into an unbreakable connection, an intricately woven tapestry of love and shared experiences.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow across the castle grounds, (Y/N) found herself wandering through the gardens. She often sought solace in these quiet moments, allowing her thoughts to drift like petals on the breeze.

As if guided by an unseen force, her steps led her to the edge of the ornate fountain where Aro often meditated. His presence was a calming one, and she found herself drawn to him, the years etching lines of wisdom on his immortal visage.

"(Y/N)," Aro's melodious voice greeted her as he sensed her approach. He looked up from his contemplation, his dark eyes fixing on her with curiosity. "What thoughts occupy your mind today?"

(Y/N) took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the water's surface. "I've been considering something," she began, her voice a soft melody in the twilight. "I've regained a measure of control over my thirst and instincts. And I've been thinking about something I used to love in my human life."

Aro's expression held a mixture of intrigue and encouragement. "Pray, do share."

With a steadying breath, (Y/N) spoke of her past as a figure skater, her words a gentle current in the conversation. She explained her desire to rekindle that passion, to once again glide on the ice, to feel the rush of the wind against her skin as she twirled and spun. And most of all, to share that part of her existence with the world.

"It's a competition, a figure skating contest," she added. "I believe I can blend in with humans, showcase my skills, and perhaps even win."

Caius, who had approached silently, folded his arms as he listened. "And you believe you can maintain control?" he inquired, his voice a deep rumble.

"I've practiced restraint for years now," (Y/N) replied with unwavering conviction. "I'm certain I can handle it."

Marcus, leaning against a nearby column, gazed at her with a quiet intensity. "Do you yearn for this, (Y/N)? Does your heart burn with the desire to step onto the ice once more?"

Her gaze met his, a shimmering pool of determination. "Yes," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "More than anything."

Aro's lips curled into a fond smile. "Then you have our support, dear (Y/N)."

Caius nodded in agreement. "If your heart drives you toward this, then you should pursue it."

Their words were a chorus of encouragement, a testament to the depth of their connection. As the sun dipped below the horizon, (Y/N) felt a surge of gratitude and determination. The Volturi kings, whose lives spanned centuries, understood the value of seizing the moment, even in their immortal existence.

"Thank you," (Y/N) said, her voice filled with sincerity. "Having your support means the world to me."

Underneath the fading light, in the heart of the Volturi's domain, a pact was forged. The echoes of past lives mingled with the present, and (Y/N) knew that her decision to chase her dreams would forever be intertwined with the love she shared with the kings who had stolen her heart.

The day of the figure skating contest dawned bright and crisp. The arena buzzed with excitement as the crowd settled into their seats, waiting for the event to begin. Backstage, (Y/N) stood amidst the hubbub, her heart a mixture of anticipation and nervous energy. Dressed in a shimmering costume that caught the light like a cascade of stars, she took a steadying breath.

The announcer's voice cut through the chatter, amplified by the speakers, "Is that (Y/N) (L/N) I spot in the crowd?"

Time seemed to freeze as all eyes turned towards her. The spotlight found her, bathing her in a gentle glow. Her heart raced, and a mix of emotions swirled within her: a touch of vulnerability, a hint of excitement, and a surge of determination.

"Holy shit, it is her!" The announcer's voice rang out, carrying the astonishment of the moment. "She's been missing from the spotlight for eight years now, but it seems our world-renowned star is back. This year's competition just got all that more interesting."

(Y/N)'s eyes met the spotlight, her resolve hardening. This was her moment, a chance to embrace her past and let her vampiric grace shine. As the music swelled, she stepped onto the ice, her skates gliding with an elegance that was both mesmerizing and supernatural.

With every twist and turn, (Y/N) moved with an otherworldly grace. Her body flowed like water, each movement executed with a precision that defied the bounds of human capability. As she twirled and spun, the audience held its breath, captivated by the ethereal performance unfolding before them.

And then, in a breathtaking moment, (Y/N) tapped into her vampire abilities. She spun faster, her form blurring as if time itself had lost its grip. Her body contorted with impossible flexibility, and she transitioned into moves that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Gasps of awe and wonder echoed through the arena, mingling with the soft strains of the music.

Among the audience, (Y/N)'s mates, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, stood hidden amidst the crowd. Their eyes were locked onto her, their pride and love evident in the unspoken connection they shared. As she moved with a combination of elegance and supernatural skill, their hearts swelled with a mixture of emotions.

As the final notes of the music faded into silence, (Y/N) came to a graceful stop, her arms outstretched. The arena erupted in a thunderous ovation, the applause echoing off the walls in a symphony of admiration.

Backstage, her heart soared. She had poured her heart and soul into this performance, and the audience's reaction was a testament to the connection she had forged with them. The judges, too, rose to their feet, their expressions a mix of awe and appreciation.

When the results were announced, the tension was palpable. And then, with bated breath, the announcer declared, "First place goes to (Y/N) (L/N)!"

A tidal wave of cheers erupted as (Y/N) stood on the podium, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. The victory was sweet, but it was more than just winning a competition. It was a triumph over adversity, a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit and the infinite possibilities of an immortal existence.

As the cheers washed over her, (Y/N) felt a warmth deep within her soul. She had reclaimed her place in the spotlight, not as a mere figure skater, but as an embodiment of her journey, her past, and her future. And as her mates emerged from the crowd to congratulate her, their eyes shining with pride, she knew that this moment would forever be etched into their shared history.

(Y/N) had instantly thrown thrown herself back into practicing figure skating with an intensity that matched the fire that had driven her throughout her life. Her graceful movements and daring spins had only grown more intricate and breathtaking with time. Her mates, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, watched with pride as she embraced this passion with the same fervor she had approached her immortal life.

One morning, the sun painted the sky in shades of rose and gold, (Y/N) found herself on the rink, the cool air kissing her skin as she spun with unparalleled grace. Lost in the rhythm of her movements, she didn't notice the small figure that darted onto the ice, their footsteps barely audible against the smooth surface.

"Mommy!” the child's voice rang out, filled with a mix of excitement and joy. With eyes wide and filled with wonder, they watched as their mother spun, one foot outstretched in a daring maneuver.

Startled by the voice, (Y/N) quickly stopped her spin, the momentum causing her to lose her balance. With a gasp, she stumbled, and her ankle twisted in an awkward angle. Pain shot through her leg, and she crumpled to the ice with a cry of discomfort.

Before she could even process what had happened, her mates were there, their presence swift and unwavering. Aro and Caius carefully lifted her, while Marcus scooped up their child, whose eyes were wide with concern.

"Mommy, are you okay?" the child asked, their voice trembling.

(Y/N) managed a reassuring smile through the pain. "I'm going to be alright, sweetheart," she replied, her voice gentle and soothing.

Marcus knelt down, his calm presence radiating comfort. "Your mommy is strong, little one. She'll heal in no time."

Aro's gaze was filled with worry, but he masked it with a gentle smile. "Let's get her inside and tend to her injuries."

Caius, always the pragmatic one, nodded in agreement. "We'll have you up and moving again soon."

With the utmost care, they carried (Y/N) back to the castle, her child walking alongside them, their small hand gripping Marcus's fingers tightly. As they settled (Y/N) on a comfortable couch, her ankle already swelling, she offered her child a reassuring smile.

"You know what, sweetheart?" she said softly. "Mommy's different from others, and that means I heal quickly. I'll be back on my feet before you know it."

“Like a superhero?!” asked her child.

“Just like a superhero.” She replied.

Hours passed, and true to her words, (Y/N)'s ankle mended at an astonishing rate. Her mates took turns hovering around her, fussing over her well-being. And just as she had promised, she was soon back on her feet, albeit gingerly.

The child watched with wide eyes, their amazement evident. "Mommy, you really healed so fast!"

(Y/N) chuckled, pulling them into a warm embrace. "Yes, darling, that's the magic of being a superhero.”

“Well I wanna be just like you when I’m grown up mommy!”

As the day drew to a close, (Y/N) found herself surrounded by her loving family, her mates and their adopted child. The incident served as a reminder that even in the midst of the extraordinary, they were bound by love and the simple joys of life. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold once more, (Y/N) held her family close, grateful for the journey that had led her to this moment of shared happiness.

[piedpiperslists]

hi!! i was wondering if you knew/had any suggestions for hockey player jungkook? thank you!!

Hi. Here are some that I know.

* s - contains smut

Dense Ice by breadoffoxy - drabble / hockey player!Jungkook, bookworm!reader Summary: You’re at the rink waiting for Namjoon to finish practice, but two Players won’t let you study in peace.

Head Over Skates by mercurygguk - drabble / ice hockey player!Jungkook, college au Summary: Jungkook doesn’t get jealous but here you are, bringing out new sides of him.

Hotshot by jungxk - drabble / hockey player!Jungkook

Ice Me Out by taeshobipop - drabble / ice hockey player!Jungkook, childhood friends to lovers, college au Summary: The last way you expected this night to end was to have Jeon Jungkook, captain of the ice hockey team and number one hindrance in your oh-so-great life, trail after you as you leave his Christmas party.

Cold as Ice by ughseoks - one shot / wc~8.5k / enemies to lovers, ice hockey au Summary: Although you and Jungkook are teammates, you’re also sworn enemies, both on and off the ice. But when you’re seriously injured during one of your matches, Jungkook realizes that maybe the emotion he feels for you isn’t hate– it’s love.

Ego Season by sparklingchim - one shot (s) / wc~6.3k / hockey player!Jungkook, brother's best friend, college au Summary: POV: You make ur secret fuck buddy jealous. Number 7 by sparklingchim - one shot (s) / wc~3k / hockey player!Jungkook, brother's best friend, college au Summary: POV: Your jealous fuck buddy pounds you in his jersey.

Ruin the Friendship by kpopfanfictrash - one shot (s) / wc~8k / hockey player!Jungkook, friends to lovers, college au Summary: Your drunk ass best friend keeps calling you to take care of him and it wouldn’t be so awful, if it weren’t for the feelings. Over the Edge by kpopfanfictrash - one shot (s) / wc~9.1k / hockey player!Jungkook, established relationship, college au Summary: So, you’re dating. Everything is dandy, the sex is knocking your socks off, but what happens when you get in the first real fight?

The Art of War More by kpopfanfictrash - one shot (s) / wc~42.4 / hockey player!Jungkook, enemies to lovers, college au Summary: Jeon Jungkook had messed with you for the last time. That was what you thought when the hockey team – led by the insufferable Jungkook – kicked your dance team out again from your reserved room at the gym. In retaliation, you planned a prank of epic proportions and were caught in the act by none other than Jungkook himself. Before the rift between you could grow any deeper, you accidentally overheard something you were not meant to hear. Something which overshadowed even your heated rivalry. Faced with the choice between obvious wrong and teaming up with your worst enemy – you reluctantly chose the latter. But what will you do when feelings you once thought of as hatred become something decidedly… not?

There is also this, but this has Jungkook as an ex-hockey player.

Chess of Ice by jimlingss - series / ex-hockey player!Jungkook, curling player!reader Summary: Jeon Jungkook is a rising star, aka. hockey captain of a team heading for the Olympics. The last thing he expects is to begin a whole ‘nother sport, holding a broomstick in his hand, sweeping the ice and throwing dumb stones towards a target. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his love life is about to turn into a game of chess as well….and you’re his opponent.

I have this general list for more athlete/sports au in case I missed some.

[scotianostra]

On January 17th 1795 Duddingston Curling Society became formally organised, one of the earliest in the history of curling.

A wee bit of a contentious one this, because Kilsyth lays claim to a date of 1716, however Kilsyth never pops up in my history alerts that I check every day,“what you don’t remember all these anniversaries” I hear you say? Sadly not! So anyway back to Duddingston…..

In the hard winters of the 18th century, many citizens of Edinburgh liked to skate and curl on the frozen Nor’Loch, immediately to the north of the Castle Rock. As the New Town began to take shape in the 1780s it was decided to drain the Nor’ Loch, and a new curling venue became necessary. In 1795 a group of gentlemen formed the Duddingston Curling Society, and erected a small building on the edge of the loch to house their stones.

By the 1820s efforts to enlarge and repair this building proving unsuccessful, it was decided to start again, and the fashionable architect WH Playfair was asked to draw up a design. This new building, most probably on the site of the old one, was completed in 1825. It is octagonal in plan and has two compartments, one above the other. The lower one stored the stones, and, though secured with bars, was open to the elements, so that the stones when required would be at the right temperature.

The upper room, accessed separately, was furnished with glazed windows and a fireplace, and there the members could go to warm themselves, to watch the game and, no doubt, to enjoy a wee dram.

The importance of the Duddingston Curling Society lies in their approach to the rules of the game. First they wrote down their version of the rules, recorded in the Minutes of the Society, and then about 1803, they had the rules printed and copies were distributed to every member. These printed copies, easy to refer to and completely portable, spread quickly throughout Scotland and became the standard form nationally. The Duddingston rules still form the basis of the international rules today.

Today in Scotland there is very little outdoor curling, and certainly none on Duddingston Loch. Edinburgh curlers play at Murrayfield Ice Rink.

You can visit the Curling Clubs’ building, called Thomson’s Tower, at Dr Neil’s Gardens in Duddingston, a great wee place to have a wander, it is free to see and there is a wee cafeteria you go through on entering.

[sunflowernyx]

Chapter 1 I Newest chapter

He’s halfway up the stairs, patting his pockets for his keys, when he finds the note. A folded, plain sheet of paper with the inscription in a familiar hand by a manicured hand:

In case you and Dr Scully would like to throw the first stone; there is more than one way to kill a god.

On the other side is an address.

He pockets it.

Mulder knows not to let Spender get in his head, but it’s difficult. He’d painted a picture that kept expanding with very little information and very few admittances on his own meddling in Scully’s life and affairs, but by the time the door opens to his home, Mulder can’t help but wonder if Dana Scully was placed in his path to create a weakness or to spy on him.

Which had been the whole point of Spender’s set-up. It’s never just a one-sided trap, and Mulder knows if he avoids it now there’s a whole minefield ahead of him.

He wants to believe her. He needs her to be who she claims to be so badly. For himself and for Emily. Because for once in his life, he wants to be able to do the right thing by the people in his life.

And it would be easy too, coming back home to the vision that greets him as he steps into the living room.

Golden light falls across bookshelves, couches and half-empty mugs of cooling cacao, warming the skin of the girl and the woman curled up sound asleep in a nest of blankets and pillows. The television flickers silently on the midpoint of a family film, keeping them company in the night without disturbing their rest.

Scully’s knees curl up and her arm goes around the little girl, whose head is nestled under her chin, her cheek rounding against Scully’s shoulder. And  it is so peaceful, so picturesque, that Mulder could easily delude himself into imagining this to have been what he came home to for many months already, that it is, has always been, and always will be the norm.

He crosses the carpet on soft feet and kneels by the two girls to brush his fingers lightly down from Scully’s temple to her chin.

The hood of her eyelids slides up, revealing the clear blue sky below, and he watches the clouds of sleep clear with momentary pleasure.

“Mulder?” She murmurs, void deep with sleep.

Her arm tightens carefully around Emily.

“‘Morning,” he greets her. “Sorry for coming back so late. I know you have work in the evening.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and he knows she means it. “How’s the case going?”

Her hand brushes over Emily’s head in a caress light enough it doesn’t wake her.

“Slow,” he admits. “Thanks for watching her for me. I know it can’t have been easy to get time off work.”

Scully hesitates, and he can see it in her face; the war between greedily wanting time with her daughter and her practicality. If he had not reminded her of work he’s sure she would’ve asked if he needed a babysitter the next day too, and the next.

It makes him want to do dumb, reckless things.

Scully has been in their lives for only a handful of weeks, and in that time she has spent every free moment she could manage getting to know Emily. It’d meant a Saturday at the zoo, and another drinking hot chocolate by an ice rink.

He’d taken a Tuesday off on an invitation to visit a lab with her at the University of Maryland, where they’d done the DNA testing assuring everyone that there was no doubt in terms of familial connection. Afterwards they’d gone for a walk in the park, below the snow covered trees and Mulder had swung Emily up on his shoulders, while Scully brought them hot churros, and not for the first time had he considered what they might look like to passers-by. How easy it would be if that image weren’t just a superficial reflection on the water, hiding a much deeper, more murky truth.

“The rest of my duties on this involve paperwork and leading meetings, though,” he says in the present. “So I’ll be home at regular times from now on.”

“Oh. That’s good,” she lies.

And Mulder, he—

He almost laughs. Sleepy and adorable and transparent, he doesn’t think Dana Scully could lie even if she tried.

“Which means I’ll have time and space for dinner,” he clarifies, unable to keep his smile to himself. “This was your first time alone with Emily tonight, and I thought we should keep the momentum going so she really gets used to you. What do you say?”

Start chapter here

[pinkliqueurs]

Obsidian eyes narrowed into slits as Major’s voice curled through the air, striking her ears like a discordant note in an otherwise frigid symphony. Of course he’d have something to say. Her gaze slid toward him, and for one fleeting second — damn him — the venom she always had ready to strike froze in her chest. He looked unfairly good tonight, carved out of shadow and stone, as though Michelangelo himself had taken his sweet time on him.

Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek, a fleeting distraction as she straightened and brushed the debris from her coat, ignoring the sharp ache that was coursing through her body. “Real cute, Major,” Liliana finally said, her voice sweetened by a syrupy sarcasm, hands reaching out to grip the rink’s divider, nails biting into the cold edge — stability, at last. A smile bloomed on her face, sharp-edged and saccharine. “I could’ve stayed in my ivory tower, you know,” she mused, tilting her chin like royalty, as though the mere idea of her presence here was an act of divine charity. “But someone had to come out here and entertain the commoners.”

The tip of her skate dragged against the ice in idle rebellion, hacking at the frost beneath her as she studied him through dark lashes. “I’ve got to say, I’m shocked they let you anywhere near a rink these days… with your track record and all.” She let the words settle, the pitiful tilt of her head enough to set the hook before she reeled it in with another smile. “Is that why you’re not skating? Still can't keep those little hands to yourself, huh?”

It's not like Major wasn't the type to go skating - oh, quite contrary! His hockey phase had seen him with blades strapped to his feet for a good 'ol chunk Middle School, before he'd been banned from the team for throwing his fists around a little too often... He'd gone to Honeycutt to skate with his aunt, and his sister. Tonight, though, Maj wasn't feeling so hot - he didn't fare himself as very lucky lately, what with everything that had been going wrong with Abilene. Somehow, he didn't think giving the fates a chance to knock his damn teeth out would be the way to roll... Still, nobody said he couldn't watch, right?

"Now, you know what's funny, Miss Lili?" Nobody asked for his opinion, but it had never stopped him before! Major's voice had mischief laced all into it; his cigarette's ash flickered along the ice as he banged out a drumroll with his fingers against the dividing wall. "Me and the boys were just askin' the same thing 'bout whoever the hell let you outta your ivory tower tonight. I mean, siccin' you out on the public?"

"Said it before, I'll say it again: fuckin 'human cruelty at its finest."

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

[naomisyamada]

P I A N O A N D M U G I C H A [self-para]

please be aware that his para contains mentions of death though no explicit descriptions.

When she thinks of her brother, Naomi thinks of the piano. It was an easy association to make. Akira used to play and was exceptionally talented, mastering all the greats from Chopin to Billy Joel, Bach to Elton John. She also thinks of the glass of mugicha he drank in the sweltering summer months, precariously balanced on the piano lid as he practiced. Naomi was always sure it would spill due to how vigorously he pounded the keys, particularly when he banged out a favorite such as Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte or No. 5 of Brahms' Hungarian Dances. And yet, it never did. It would slide closer and closer to the edge of the lid with every heavy G or C but never fell. Never even slopped over. 

What got Naomi thinking about all of this again was the pianist at the mall. She heard him playing a spirited rendition of a Prince song as she headed to her late afternoon shift at Donna's. The man at the piano looked nothing like her brother. He was white and balding, about twice the age her brother had been when he died, but there was something about how he played, the way his agile fingers curled over the keys that screamed Akira. It stole the breath from her windpipe.

Naomi had the urge to speak to this man but didn't know what she would say. Maybe something about the song he was playing. Do you know any Brahms? Have you ever balanced a cup of tea on the piano as you played? 

She kept on walking until she reached the roller rink and jangly disco drowned out the sound of the piano.

Instead of driving back to her apartment after work, Naomi went in the opposite direction. For fifteen minutes, her Oldsmobile Cutlass shot westward through a sleepy and often derelict-looking sprawl of shopping plazas and squat office buildings. Eventually, the scenery leveled out into empty lots dotted with trees that looked like shadow creatures. Crooked telephone poles lined the road, droopy power lines like strings of fate leading Naomi ever onward. She slowed the car as she turned into a neighborhood.

The community was well organized, with tidy plots in tidy rows and streets with names like Red Pepper Loop and Sugar Loaf Court. As she drove past the neat houses, that kitschy Malvina Reynolds song from the sixties sprung to mind. Little boxes made of ticky tacky, little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same... 

Naomi parked on the street and stared at her childhood home through the car window. She took it all in. The oatmeal-colored wood slating. The old oak tree reaching for the sky with its sprawling, sturdy branches. Looped around one of those branches was a swing she'd never seen before, swaying gently in a gust of evening wind. A stone path led to the front door. Naomi's lips flattened in a hard line. 

There was the wide driveway where she and Akira used to color with chalk, tracing the outlines of each other's bodies and drawing in features with stubby nubs of chalk in colors like flamingo pink and alligator green. Akira accused her of drawing him ugly on purpose, which was true. Naomi vividly remembered how the chalk dust felt between her palms. 

Naomi imagined getting out of her car and taking the stone path up to the house. Her mom opening the door for her. Saying welcome home in her yellow apron, the smell of coxinhas wafting through the whole house. She would see Akira's baseball bat leaning against the wall, the rug with its little black burn mark on the upper lefthand corner, the collection of plastic floral cups in the cupboard. This is where they laughed, where they slept. She'd see the wood post in the kitchen where they charted their heights over the years. The Sears couch they piled on in their pajamas, watching cartoons or listening to their dad tell colorful stories about his childhood in Okinawa. His description of his quaint beachside town had been so illustrative that Naomi was sure she could hear the waves, taste the salt on her lips. 

Akira would emerge from his room when he heard her walk through the door. He'd smile at her with the too-long incisors that made him look like a fox. She'd pull him into a hug and refuse to let go even when he protested, even when he called her cruel names and yelled at her for squeezing too tight. Maybe everything would be the way it used to be. The way it was supposed to be.

Even though that glass of mugicha on the piano had never tipped over, Naomi could picture it happening so clearly in her mind it was as though it was a genuine memory. She could hear the clank of plastic against tile, the puddle of brown tea next to the bench. She supposed this non-memory appeared when she learned about the car crash. Or was it after the drunk driver who killed her brother had gotten off scot-free? She couldn't remember and realized it did not matter. It wasn't a real memory, and her baby brother was still dead. 

All of a sudden, Naomi heard music. She assumed it must be the car radio but saw that it wasn't switched on. The music was distant, but she knew right away what it was: the sound of a somber piano ballad. Naomi felt like she had been punched in the gut. She put a hand over her stomach.

Naomi's parents divorced shortly after Akira's passing, their marriage unable to bear the massive weight of a dead child. Naomi alone was not enough to keep it together. She understood. Akira had been the glue that bound their family together. He'd been the talented one, the one destined for greatness. Her role as big sister had been to make way for him. Protect him. And she'd failed.

She thought again of the mugicha that had never spilled. She saw it in a floral cup at the edge of the piano lid.

Worrying at her bottom lip, she peered at the house - her family's house that was no longer theirs - and stared at it until her vision blurred with tears.

The ballad marched on.

[acciowests]

From Lorcan With Love

WORD COUNT: 1707

SUMMARY: A "From Lukov With Love" inspired ice hockey x figure skating AU featuring Lorcan Salvaterre and Elide Lochan from "Throne Of Glass"

Lorcan and Rowan arrive early for training and walk in on a figure skater finishing her session. It isn't until she falls that Lorcan rushes forward, helping up the woman he learns is called Elide and immediately begins to fall for her charms.

"You know, you didn't have to wake me up this early, right?" Rowan drawled as they pulled into the Orynth Rink parking lot. With their first game of the season taking place next Friday, Lorcan Salvaterre - Goalkeeper of the Terrasen High Hawks - had booked out the rink for three whole hours of practice. Along with being Lorcan's best friend, Rowan Whitethorn was also the captain of the Hawks, their school's ice hockey team. Despite having napped for most of their journey, Rowan's brows were furrowed in a tired frown, his lips in a thin line as he stretched in his seat.

The capital's Ice Rink mainly housed ice skating: including singles figure skating, pairs ice dancing, as well as the annual sectional competitions and sometimes the national one also. None of that meant much to Lorcan, he just knew the Orynth Rink also showcased professional Hockey Teams, such as the Orynth Stags; a team he had dreamt of being a part of since he started his ice hockey journey at seven-years-old.

"Stop complaining, old man," Lorcan chuckled, smirking at the silver-haired boy. "Get the bags from the trunk will you?"

Sticking up his middle finger noncommittally, letting it fall into his lap, Rowan climbed out of the car, rounding toward the back of the vehicle. Lorcan switched off the engine and stepped outside. Grabbing the gym bag full of their gear, Rowan hauled it over his shoulder as Lorcan locked the car, the two boys walking through the parking lot and toward the rink.

The changing room was empty, as Lorcan expected, and the two boys changed in comfortable silence. They pulled on their team jerseys: deep green with silver writing that displayed their name and number. Paired with sweatpants and their elbow and shoulder pads, as well as their shin guards, the boys shoved their bags into the lockers, along with their phones, and headed out to the rink. Walking off the ice with skates on had always felt weird, even with the skate guards that protected the blade. Heading down into the stadium, Lorcan's eyes locked onto the lone figure skater within the rink. The clock overhead told him she still had fifteen minutes left, which meant he and Rowan had fifteen minutes of waiting.

Slumping down into a seat, Lorcan set his elbows against his knees, leaning forward and watching the petite, raven-haired girl dance across the ice. Beside him, Rowan drummed his feet lazily, Lorcan ignoring him completely as he listened to the sound of her blade across the ice.

When, and if, he saw figure skaters, they were always wearing glittery costumes in shades of reds, purples and blues. And though he was sure most skaters did dress down for practice, the girl before him looked like she dressed in the dark. Which, if she had booked a three hour practise, she just might have. Ignoring the grey leggings and burgundy sweater showing a Perranth Skating Club logo, she skated as though she was in front of thousands. Each turn was sharp but smooth, each of her jumps or leaps landing perfectly - to Lorcan's untrained eye, anyway.

"I was thinking we could do some new drills. As captain, I reckon we have a good shot this season. I think we could rank high, come out on top," Rowan started, interrupting Lorcan's gaze.

"Right, yeah. If the others even get here," Lorcan sighed, not that he minded. He was much enjoying his time watching the beautiful skater.

"Chill out, Lor. There's still five minutes, they'll be here," Rowan insisted, nudging Lorcan's shoulder.

Shrugging, Lorcan turned to face the rink, just in time to watch the skater turn back into a jump. She took off from the back outside edge of her skate, using her toe pick to help her spin twice, and just as her foot hit the ice, her ankle gave way. An echoing thud rang out around them as she hit the floor, her thigh and butt slamming down onto the ice as she fell.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Lorcan stood, rushing down the rows of seats and towards the rink. Removing his skate guards and tossing them to the side, Lorcan stepped onto the ice, skating over to the girl who was now curled up, a hand against her thigh and stretching a leg out before her.

"Hey, you okay?" Lorcan called, coming to a stop beside her and offering her a hand, "That looked like a pretty nasty fall."

The girl chuckled, rubbing her thigh once more and taking his hand. Her palm was surprisingly soft, cold enough to send a shiver through him as she gripped tightly. Hoisting her up, Lorcan didn't miss the wince that slipped between her lips. Before he could say anything, she shook her head, "It's fine, it's just my ankle."

As she stood before him, Lorcan tried not to smirk at the immense height difference between them. At least a whole foot. Instead, he just nodded, "Well, that jump looked pretty hard. From what I've seen you're a pretty good skater. You shouldn't let one fall get you down."

"Not good enough. I should be able to do that jump in my sleep. There's no way I'm going to win sectionals like this," she sighed, running a hand through her hair. Her left hand, Lorcan realised, was still in his. She hadn't put her ankle back down onto the ice, instead, she rested it against her other foot, off the ground where there was no pressure on it.

"What happened? Is it just a strain?" Lorcan asked, hoping he wasn't being too curious. His eyes were drawn to the flush of her cheeks, bright red against the pale shading of the rest of her face. With her mop of black hair against glowing skin, she looked ethereal.

"I wish," she scoffed, "No, I broke it a few years ago and it never healed properly. I lost my axel completely, had to relearn my entire program and make all the moves easier. I already lost regionals, I can't afford to lose sectionals too," she explained, her chest rising and falling.

"Well, how long until sectionals? Maybe with some assistance, and physiotherapy on your ankle, you might be able to win?" Lorcan suggested, watching the girl's eyebrows slowly furrow as she looked up at him. They were thick and black, arching over her face and defining it fiercely.

"You don't know when sectionals are?" she asked, as though it was the most obvious question in the world.

Lorcan chuckled, shaking his head, "Oh, no. I'm not a skater. I play ice hockey."

The girl blinked, her eyes widening, "Oh... Oh my god, I'm so sorry. You probably have no idea what I was just talking about, do you?"

Lorcan couldn't help but laugh, loving the way the girl's lips curled into a smile as he did so, "No, but it's fine. I can tell you're very dedicated. I'm Lorcan, by the way, Terrasen High Hawks."

"Terrasen High? Wait, Lorcan as in Lorcan Salvaterre?" she asked, brows raising. Lorcan knew he recognised her. He could have sworn she was in the year below him, he would remember her face anywhere.

"The one and only. You're a junior, right?" he replied, helping her skate back across the rink and toward the entrance. She reached for her skate guards as he remained on the ice. Slipping his hand to her elbow, he helped her balance as she stepped back onto the stone ground.

"Right. Elide Lochan, Perranth skating club," she smiled, sticking her hand out. Lorcan shook it happily, loving the warmth that radiated from her like electricity.

"Perranth is lucky to have you represent them," Lorcan smirked, biting down on his bottom lip. There was something about the girl before him, something that made him feel completely giddy inside. If his teammates saw him like this...

Elide rolled her eyes. Chocolate, Lorcan noticed, the perfect shade of swirly hazelnut. "Now you're just being kind!" she laughed, a melodic sound that he wished he could capture forever, "Thanks, by the way, for helping me up. I probably would have just laid there until my session was over."

Lorcan grinned, something he didn't do too often, "Well, you're lucky I was here. Couldn't have you catching a cold, can we?  I heard hypothermia is a killer."

Pressing her lips together, Elide shook her head slowly, "No, I suppose we can't."

With an obnoxious slam, the doors to the rink swung open. The remainder of his team poured out, dressed and ready for their training session. A blur of green and silver, plus the grey, black and navy blue of Adidas sweatpants. Gavriel was at the front, the oldest on the team, his golden hair tied back in a bun and a grin on his face as he reached Rowan.

Rowan stood, patting Gavriel's shoulder and moving down the rows of chairs. "Lorcan," he called, heading toward the equipment cupboard in the corner of the rink, "Help me get the stuff out!"

They always borrowed sticks and pucks from whatever rink they were training at. Lorcan only used his own stick for final games, an object of good luck. They would also have to drag the goals out, setting them up to actually have something to shoot at.

Offering Lorcan a smile, Elide stepped back, rocking on her good foot, "So, I guess I'll see you around then?"

If he had his phone to hand, he would have asked for her number right there and then. But, he didn't. As she turned to walk up the steps toward the changing rooms, Lorcan called, "We have a game next Friday, will you be there?"

Elide stopped, looking over her shoulder and smirking, "Depends, are you inviting me?"

Pushing down the chuckle that tickled his throat, Lorcan nodded, "I am, and maybe we could hang out afterwards... Just the two of us?"

"Sure, sounds fun. See you Friday, then," Elide confirmed, turning almost immediately and rushing up the stairs.

Lorcan watched until she completely disappeared from view. He could smell the cinnamon and elderberries scent that lingered in her wake. Elide Lochan. Friday couldn't come sooner.

* * *

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[angelisverba]

ambrosia

in which y/n hopes to find a loving new home, and faeking!h has a lot of love to give. 

word count: 12k-

pairing: y/n and the Fae King, Harry

warnings: descriptions of a sheep birth (for all the queasy readers, it’s brief)

author’s notes: this was made possible by @moonchildstyles wonder work “athens” (had it not been for that and her I would not have been inspired to write this, and it wouldn’t have come until months from now). i love u linds <333

Y/n woke to the sound of cooing doves startling near her ears,  and the warm feel of sunlight on her bare skin accompanied with a wet snout prodding at her elbow. 

Eyelashes fluttering open, the girl could see beams of sun streaming in through the arching window, motes littering the light that splayed over the stone floors and on the bed where she lay. The branches extending from the tree in the corner of the room had blossomed into a dainty pink flower that oozed a calming scent throughout, and the calming trickle of the stream surrounding the castle soothed her greatly, stroking her eardrums in a therapeutic caressed that stretched all the way down to her thighs, dissolving the sore knots that had formed there from her long walks in the forest. 

She could work with three days, especially if they all started this way. In a dreamy, etheral morning daze that was sure to carry on through the rest of the day.

Beside her was Angus, squealing excitedly now that she rose up from her position, stretching her arms above her head with a satisfied groan. 

“Good morning, Angus,” she cooed at the animal, giggling when he sniffed playfully at her chin. He plopped himself on his hind legs, and lifted his chin up to the sky so y/n could see the rolled up parchment that had been strapped on his neck with a thin, flowery vine. “What’s this?” She asked him, and he only tapped her with his hoof. “This is for me?”

The pig only squealed in response and, y/n gently stroked his warm back before untucking the paper from its place, and breaking the vine with her finger-nail so it wasn’t wrapped uncomfortably around his neck. It fell on the bed, and Angus happily bent to eat it. 

She unrolled the paper, and was stunned by the intricate cursive that was embedded into the rich material. Swooping lines of dark ink taking the shape of old-fashioned script. Y/n could imagine that whoever had written it had sat with a cork-topped pot of ink, and a long, sharp quill. 

It read, 

My lady, I’ll be awaiting your presence in the Courts. Agnus will lead the way.

A small giggle bubbled on her tongue and the king’s formal language. She hadn’t quite realized the different timelines their universes’ lived on. Not to mention, it was also a reminder of the ruling government. Harry was a king, and to have him waiting on her was a… very pleasurable feeling. 

Angus nibbled on her thigh again, impatiently urging her as they had somewhere to be. 

“Alright, I’m going! You don’t have to bite me.” Y/n patted the pig’s head once more, and hopped out of the bed, the soft material of her dress feeling like cool water against her skin. Now standing in the morning light, the shape of her calves could be seen through the material, the soft curves of her hips and swell of her breasts a hidden image; teasing in the most innocent way possible.

Agnus leads her out, his head turning to make sure that she was still following him. He led her down the same path the king took her when he showed her to her room, and even though she had seen it all already, the novelty of such a grand castle still hadn’t worn off. The brightness of the new day showered the stone walls with an enchanting gleam. Flowers had blossomed in the cracks, and tendrils of swirling leaves twisted through the arched windows. 

Harry hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep that night. 

He was overcome with a strange feeling of… deja vu. Even that didn’t begin to cover what he was experiencing. The moment that his eyes had landed on the female mortal that had so foolishly begged for entrance into the Faerie realm, the intense torment of loneliness he had endured for eons had just...sated, almost... relaxing with a sigh of relief. Something inside of him had… shifted. It was something that could only be compared to the righteousness that came with the correct alignment of stars; the balance of nature restored. 

One would think that he’d sleep like a baby because everything that had once felt so wrong was now feeling so right, but no. Not Harry. Harry was amazed and confused and… tentative. All of the many overwhelming emotions barreling in on his immortal body made it impossible to sleep. Instead, he did what he always did when he could not sleep.

He went to the library. 

From dusk till dawn Harry worked himself in the library, sifting through the eons of information that had accumulated to see if he could find anything that explained what in the worlds he was feeling. What had happened. Why a mortal girl had so easily, so pleasantly, been granted access to the fae realm. Why the wings of the newly hatched butterflies had fluttered and gained flight solely for the reason of covering her modesty. Why there was a sudden drop of… warmth* in the people that were known to be so cold. 

Alas, the king found nothing in the volumes he searched through that night. If* there was an answer, he wouldn’t find it that night. Not with the amount there was to search through. His search would simply have to continue after-

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” said y/n. 

His back was turned to her, as he was knelt over a bush of forget-me-nots. “Ah, didn’t I say you were to call me something else?” 

He was dressed in similar robes as the ones from yesterday, except that they were in a lilac shade, and the sleeves cascaded all the way down to his wrists, ending with a white trim. Although his look was more roman god-esque, y/n felt a very 70’s roller rink chic-ness to it. 

“Oh!” Her lips formed a surprised ‘o’, “right. Sorry, Harry.” He then stood up and turned to face her, a soft smile playing on his lips. A cinnamon curl swirled between his eyebrows. 

“That’s right. Good morning to you as well, my lady.” He folded a hand over his abdomen, and bent over in a bow. A king, bowing to her. 

Before she even had time to fluster over his unnecessary actions, he was barreled into by Angus, who had trotted off somewhere to eat his breakfast after leaving her in the tall arch that led to the gardens. 

“And hello to you as well, old friend,” Harry chuckled, and happily scratched behind the pig’s ears, crinkled forming at the corners of his eyes from all the smiling. Y/n noticed that he has a very, very* nice smile and his eyes looked a little less lonely when he allowed himself to grin. Angus snorted happily in his arms, nipping underneath his chin with the same tenderness that he’d used to wake y/n that morning. “Thank you so much for getting our guest to me this morning, I hope you enjoyed your breakfast?” Angus seemed through reply with excessive squirming and licks to his friend’s face. 

Y/n giggled at the interaction. “He really loves you, doesn’t he?” She asked him, smiling warmly. 

“I would surely hope so. Raised him since he was a little piglet, and he’s been my loyal companion since.” He placed a tender kiss on the furry animal’s head. “Angus, my friend, I do believe that is enough love for this morning, do you agree? I have to show our guest around.” With a final scratch, Harry placed Angus on the floor, and clapped his hands together. “Shall we?”

“I would love to.”

    *                                                *              *

                                                  *                                **

They walked away from the castle and deeper into the gardens. Rows of thornless flowers on an endless field of soft grass that was a similar shade of the king’s irises. In the near distance, a river flowed and curved in a circle around the castle, separating the grounds where the people dwelled from Harry’s residence. Y/n found it odd for the king to live in isolation from his people, and she wondered if perhaps there might be conflict in the seemingly peaceful community. 

Side by side, they strolled in silence, Harry stopping every once in a while when his guest became intrigued by the constantly blooming flowers. He wanted her to take everything in at her own pace, and in that moment, silence seemed appropriate. Between the two of them, no interaction, no conversation, was present- because it was not needed. A comfortable, warm quiet atmosphere disrupted only by the soft swish of her dress and his robes against the blades of grass, the distant trickle of water, and the leisurely chirp of birds in the trees that littered the grounds. 

Eventually, they reached the halfway distance from the river and the castle grounds, where a single stone bench resided amongst a circle of sunflowers that were taller than Harry.  

Y/n gasped, “Those sunflowers are so tall!” She ran to the bench and climbed it so both her feet were planted on the smooth surface instead of her bum. 

Harry was still standing just a few steps behind the circle, hands behind his back as he watched her gawk with an amused smile on his taffy lips. He didn’t tell her that he grew those sunflowers, and tended them without the use of his fae powers, to create a private circle where he came to talk to the moon on the nights where he was most lonely. Sometimes, he would close off the open ends- then using his powers- like curtains, so none of the animals or fae people could watch him as silent tears of anguish slipped from his eyes like liquid silver. 

It was indeed, amusing, that she found joy in something that was used in acts of sadness. 

“I’ve never seen such tall sunflowers before,” she whispered, an awestruck look on her face. “They’re amazing.”

The sunflowers grew an inch at her praise, their heads tilting in her direction, like she was the sun. Their leaves stretched out to tickle her cheeks, and she giggled and squirmed at their actions. She didn’t question that it went against all laws of nature, how everything now had a touch of magic. She didn’t know that the flowers had a special connection with their birthgiver, their planter, and shared the same feelings he did. She didn’t know that they reacted because Harry saw her as his own personal source of light, as his happiness. 

Hells, the king himself didn’t know. But, the bond between the planter and his plants ran deep, and they knew the secrets that ran deep in his heart for they were nature, and Harry and y/n were natural.

“Thank you,” He mused, “I planted them myself. Though, they will grow a mighty ego at your praise.” 

Y/n giggled once more, and the leaves retreated back into the circle, and the sunflowers resumed their previous position. “I love it here,” she said to him. She was careful with her words, and her tone remained soft, dreamy. She didn’t know the king that well yet, and although he looked like the absolute gentleman, she didn’t want to say the wrong thing and test him. 

Harry sensed this, sensed her slight fear, and walked into the circle of sunflowers. He took a seat next to where she stood, and patted the place besides the hem of her robes, signaling for her to sit with him. “Take a seat besides me, m’lady,” he murmured.

Y/n pouted like a child at his formal words, and placed a hand on his shoulder as she sat herself down. She didn’t notice the way he straightened. “If I can’t say Your Majesty, then you can’t call me that, either.” 

No one beyond his mother and the water wraiths he sometimes took to bed had taken the liberty to touch him the way she did. A casual gesture, very nonchalant, and it held no underlying motive to it. She didn’t want to get into bed with him with provoking touches, and she didn’t want to get into a king’s good graces with friendly gestures either. She simply wanted to get down and not topple over. 

“Do you not like the term?” He wants to caress the side of her face, brush that single strand of hair off of her shoulder so it lays on her back. Everything and anything tender, and it is strange. Instead, he settled for placing his hands in his lap. Awkwardly. He was all around rigid and tense. 

Y/n, however, does not see to notice this, and she bumps her shoulder against his playfully. “Do you not like when I call you Your Majesty?”

All too quickly, he said, “No, I do not.”

The light air around her goes stale, and she goes stiff like him, too. A crimson shade blooms on her neck. “Oh… well… I just… didn’t want you to call me something formal if I couldn’t call you something formal.” That’s what she gets for trying to play with a king. 

“Very well. Then I shall not repeat it.” He cleared his throat. “I digress. Love, the fae realm is not what it seems.”

She tilted her head, confused. Harry continued, “Every living being residing in these lands will attempt to trick you into turning your life over to them, and my-”

“Harry, are you trying to change my mind?”

“No. I am simply trying to warn you of the dangers you will have to face every day if you decide to live here.” He was scared for her, and anxious over… something that he couldn’t put a finger on yet. The thought of her in danger roused an emotion in him that he could not name. 

“I know the dangers. Frankly, I would rather face them than going back…” There is a moment of hesitation. She is unsure what to name where she came from. It certainly was not home. 

“Was the human realm really so terrible to you?” Harry asked. He himself had only been there once, during a time when a woman by the name of Stevie Nicks had accidentally summoned him during a wiccan ritual. Had it been any other creature, Harry imagined it might have been much worse. But the woman was young, beautiful and kind. She offered Harry hospitality and apologized profusely for her mistake. She had a lovely voice, too. 

“Yes. And I really do not want to go back. When I said that by going back I would die, I meant it. Whether it’s the world that gets to me or…”

“Or what?” The king swallowed. He had a feeling that he knew what she was getting at, and the thought of her doing such a thing...

“Or my own hand.” She stared down at the dewy blades of grass, kicking up her feet so her toes slid from underneath the draping white fabric of her dress. 

Silence and nature yelled. Harry was at a loss for words at her admission. Could she possibly be in so much pain? Would she bring that fate onto herself? He was heartbroken that y/n- who had been nothing but smiles and admiration- could do something so dark and evil to an energy he saw as bright and innocent. He couldn’t- wouldn’t let her do that, whether she went back to the human realm or not. 

“I promise you, you will not meet such an end, dearest y/n.” And if there was one thing the Fae honoured, it was a promise; a bargain. 

Y/n only smiled at him sadly, as if she was merely humoring his attempts at keeping her from herself. Though, she admired the way he was so sure of himself, how he was so quickly willing to help her. It was remarkable how she had found friends in such little time; Angus and Harry. 

“Now,” he clapped his hands together rather abruptly, startling her and causing her to jolt upright from her sad slump. “Let’s bring an end to this somber talk, yes? How about I start showing you around, rather than just sit here?” 

“I’d like that.” She said. “Where will you take me?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up and extended his hand to her; an open palm, an invitation. The sunflowers around them shivered and grew another inch when she finally took his hand, and new stems shrouded from the dirt when the two shared a look. It was almost like… like an entire universe bloomed when their irises locked together, a supernova exploding in their chests in unity.

Neither of them reacted with more than a happy exhale. 

Harry led them out the other end of the sunflower ring, directly towards the river and all the while they still held hands. For Harry, it was the most intimate kind of touch he has ever experienced in the centuries that he’s been alive. He’s never had a serious platonic or non-platonic relationship with anyone other than… well, no one. The male and female beings he often took to bed to experience warmth never gave back the pleasure he offered; never stayed the night, and never caressed him back; never reciprocated the… love. It was highly embarrassing that no one respected him enough to even pretend to care or reflect his emotions in the most intimate setting, but that’s just the way it was (not to mention the fact that Harry started bedding others at the ripe age of one hundred because he wanted to learn how to be an adept lover, and the creatures that would be closely titles 'prostitutes’ in the human realm taught him well. For their own pleasure.)

For y/n, it was the most intimate kind of touch she had ever received from anyone of the opposite since ever. She’d been a neglected child, and the boys at school never felt she was adequate enough for their standards. Sure, there had been catcalls in the streets or in the bars she frequented, but those weren’t the kind of affections she wanted to give back. 

It was safe to say that the experience was electrifying for the both of them. Y/n couldn’t help but feel like a giddy school girl that had just received her first love note in her locker, and Harry wondered what kind of magic this human girl could possibly have that made tingles spread from where their palms connected all the way to his shoulder blade. Maybe, she was throwing a glamour over herself so that she appeared more beautiful than she looked, and was practicing wiccan love spells like that Nicks girl a few decades back… no. Who was he kidding. She was an innocent human girl. A beautiful human girl who had no idea of the effect she had on his ethereal existence. 

The closer they got to the river the taller the grass became and the easier it was to see the creatures that lived within it. A swan and her ducklings meandered down the stream, tadpoles and sparkling fish swam in the crystalline water. On the other side of the moving water, deer, rabbits, and squirrels scurried amongst the various shrubs and trees. It was like something out of a fairy tale book, but even then that comparison was weak. 

She slowed her steps as they reached the edge of the bank, just before her toes dipped into the water because… well, they weren’t prepared to go into the water. Harry seemed to have other plans; he only tugged her further, and did not pause like she did. 

His feet, however, did not dip into the water because the grass and dirt extended beneath their feet, lurching forward in an arch over the water to create a bridge for them to walk across. 

Astonished, she gasped, “Did you do that?” She held onto the large hand that was warm against hers and relied on it to guide her because she was too busy looking down at the bridge. 

“No, I didn’t. The ground did that itself,” he said. And it was true. The ground and nature loved him, and the amount of his magic he spent on it was minimal. 

Y/n was too surprised to say anything else. The bridge dispersed once they stepped back onto firm ground, and y/n let Harry lead their stroll on the other side. She realized that they were now in the non-isolated part of the Fae realm, which meant that any creature could pounce at them like how she experienced when she first arrived. That made her nervous. 

“The ground is- oh, hello!” 

She was about to make a comment regarding the earth’s self awareness, but something nipped at the hand that wasn’t holding Harry’s. Looking down, she sees a lamb licking and sniffing at the tips of her fingers. It was shaky on its legs, and it’s nose was a tiny pink triangle on the snow white wool of its face. The lamb jumped back when she opened her palm towards the sky so it could continue smelling. 

“It is not very nice to bite our guests, lovie.” Still holding onto her hand, he crouched down to meet the lamb and reached out to caress it’s back. “Where is your mother, little one?” 

“It’s not scared of you,” y/n noted. In fact, the lamb leaned into his touch, and similar to the upturning of Angus’ mouth, this lamb’s own lips seemed to smile. 

He shaked his head, “no, I would think not since I aided her mother during her delivery,” he gently squeezed her hand in reassurance that her actions weren’t harmful. “However, they are naturally skittish creatures.” 

The lamb’s mother skips out from behind a brush, preening for her kid to come back from any danger she might be in, until she notices that the only danger is Harry, and really he isn’t any danger. So, she quiets and scurries to his side to receive tender caresses. 

“Well, hello,” he said to her. “It’s been a long time since I have last come to see you, isn’t it? I have brought someone to meet the rest of you today,” the sheep bleated, “Oh she is no harm, I assure you.”

They seemed to understand each other, almost like they were having a conversation. It was intriguing, “You understand her?”

“Yes. As Fae King I am given certain abilities upon crowning day. One of those being the understating of all languages, and this includes all living creatures.” 

“I see.” A shiver runs through her when his thumb strokes the back of her hand. Her toes curl in the glass. It was an intimate touch.

Harry licks his bottom lick. “Would you like to meet the rest of them?”

She’s assuming that he meant the rest of the lambs and sheeps, but the sun-lit glitter of green in his eyes hypnotized her. He was a drink of spring on the last winter night. “I’d love to.” 

The mother then licked at the ear of her kid, and they trotted off into the same bush. Y/n could see that there was an archway in the brush, and through this they disappeared, even though there was no tunnel following beyond the opening. Like a portal. 

“You’ll have to crawl through m’l- love,” his eyes bounce from hers to their hands, and almost as if it saddens him to do so, he lets go of her hand. “After you.” 

She bends down and follows after the creatures through the tunneled arch. It’s a tight fit, but her size made it manageable. Harry had it worse.

His height and broad shoulders made it uncomfortable for him to get through; he nearly had to get on his forearms so his forehead didn’t smear all over the greenery. The lilac of his robes made it hard for him to move, but if he dragged them- and that meant grass stains on his knees- he could get by just as fast. Y/n, too, was experiencing the same issue but she had paused momentarily to tie to fabric in a knot above her thighs, and Harry… well, Harry was trying really hard not to look because he knew it’d be disrespectful. 

The passage twisted and turned, and it was unclear where they were going because the turns were sharp. The only thing visible ahead was the curved wall of greenery beyond the quaint trotting of the sheep and her child. Eventually, they turned one last time and a series of ‘baa’s greeted them behind a circle of opening light. 

Behind her, Harry chuckled. The heat of his breath spanned across her ankles and the soles of her feet like a blanket. She had not realized he was that close to her. 

Y/n and Harry hadn’t been in the tunnel for more than two minutes, but it was amusing to see him arch his back in a stretch and pointless try and wipe away at the dirt and grass stain on the lilac fabric covering his knees. 

Instantly he was surrounded by a flurry of white clouds that bleated and licked at him. 

“Oh my. Hello- Ladies, please! Ow, Ruby we talked about tha- okay okay,” He was protesting, sure, but he was also laughing. It was the widest Y/n had seen him smile. He was… happy.

There was an sense of home and right to the picture he presented. A gleeful king surrounded by creatures that adored him (there was no doubt why the way they licked at him, and the Angus-like smiles on their faces as they looked up at him). Harry was not isolated here. 

Here. Wherever this here was. 

It was different from the Fae realm. The ground was softer than the dirt that occupied the space between her toes before, and it was a lighter shade of green. The color of Harry’s eyes when the sunlight cut through the iris from the side. It sloped up and down like the valleys of the Fae village, but there were no homes, and it centered around a heart shaped pool of crystalline water. The sky was the closest thing to strange- out all things, this is what y/n found strange- about it all. It was a cotton candy pink color; a solid shade that didn’t suggest a fading of the sun even though there was a white spherical object in the 5’oclock position. 

They- Harry, y/n, and the few lambs that had come to greet him- stood atop one of the crests around the heart-shaped pool. 

“Welcome to the Land of Nurture.” He said, breaking her out of her dream. He held the tiniest- tinier than the one that had nipped at her palm- of the lambs she had seen yet in his arms, and it was asleep. “This is where the woodland creatures come to birth and nurture their young. I spend quite a lot of time here, helping with the births.” 

At the sound of Harry’s voice and it not being directed towards them in praise, the lambs turn to see what- or who is the object of his attention. Many of them are curious to greet the human woman, but a few stick to his side, rubbing back into his loving hands. 

Through that magical bond, Harry caught onto an unusual request. The sheep, they wanted… they wanted y/n to oversee a birth. The ‘midwife’ of the lands spoke to him,

Harry, we’ve never had a woman here before. Let her femininity bless a birth? One will birth tonight, and her hands as much as yours are needed. 

“H-harry?” Harry looks up from the wise sheep at his feet to the anxious voice that calls him name. 

The lambs at y/n’s feet had gotten a hold of the cotton at the hem of her dress with their mouths, and were tugging her, leading her to a place that she didn’t know. The fact that they were leading her away to some unknown destination wasn’t what made her nervous, no. What made her nervous was the fact that they were leading her away and Harry wasn’t with her. She was unprotected. 

She had taken a few steps with the pull of animals. “Harry?”

He was at her side in seconds, the fluffy creatures parting like the sea to allow him to get closer to y/n. “They want to take you to the birthing grounds. There is a lamb that will go into labor soon, and the rest wish for you to be there during the birth. They say they would like your… blessing.”

The lambs, like the sunflowers, knew more than the Fae King did about his feelings. 

Her jaw drops in surprise and her eyebrows furrow. “Wha- me? But what can I do?”  At her hesitation, the lambs still and wait, looking up at their king for his jurisdiction.

The lamb in Harry’s arms nuzzles into the crook of his elbow, and he saddens at the fact that he cannot take y/n’s hand without waking him up (it was the son of one of the feistiest sheep). “Your presence is all they require.” They lock eyes, and immediately her unease is dissolved. There was Harry, and with Harry everything felt… right. He smiles softly at her, his features melting because he felt it, too. 

Remembering that he had a job to do, he looks back down at the awaiting creatures, and says, “Let’s be gentle, yeah, lovies? We’re not going anywhere,” he cooed. 

A chorus of bleats responded, and the babes let go of y/n’s cotton dress. They trot away, their tails flicking and heads turning back to make sure they’re being followed by Harry and his guest, who looks around, amazed at the change of scenery. Slowly, the rosy tone of the sky was melting into a serene shade of red, and the white orb of light was dimming, it’s positions growing smaller, like a light slowly going out. 

“Is that the sun?” She asked. 

Harry laughed, “No. It acts more like a heating lamp, and it fades away to replicate the night, so the animals huddle together for warmth until it… turns back on again. The color of the sky is connected towards menstruation and placenta; blood, a symbol of females and fertility.”

“That’s a beautiful meaning,” she mumbled. The ground on which the lambs walked on was so fresh and healthy-looking, a bright shade of green, that almost looked artificial. “So, is this another… realm?” 

He had to bite on his lip to keep from shouting endearments at her. She was smart, bright, curious, and Harry loved the way that she was right on track, a few steps behind, but she understood. “I suppose you could call it that. Although, it is more like a pocket in the Fae realm, a singular realm on itself entirely. It is a space where mother’s can come to have their children safely. This pocket belongs to the sheep. There are others for other animals, and even one for the Fae.”

“Do… Do other Fae come here?”

He shook his head. “No. No, they are not trusted.” Even he, at first try, was not trusted. It took him three days of sitting underneath a large oak tree, watching and letting the sheep sniff him, in order to let him pet them. Another two months for them to let him through. Why Harry wanted to become a part of their society, Harry himself could not tell you, but in reality, he yearned for their tenderness. He watched the way the animals loved each other, and deep down, he wanted their affection, too, because it wasn't something he was getting from his people. 

“And they trust you?” They were beginning to descend the hill, when two large rectangular rocks spaced about ten-feet away from each other sprouted from the ground without so much as a rumble. The animals thought nothing of this, and walked right through the space between the rocks, the image of the grassy land rippling as if a drop of water had just hit a pond’s surface. Another portal.

Y/n is only slightly fazed, and the halt in her step lasts a second. If Harry is going through it, then she would, too.

“Yes. It took me months to get them to trust me, but I would do it all over again for their company.” 

Their company? Harry was a king and he was looking for company among animals? 

“Prepare for warmth when we pass those stones,” he said, “The cave replicates the coziness of a womb to make it easier for a newborn to transition to the world.” At this point the lamb in his arms stirred and began to bleat in his arms, to which Harry shushed quietly and patted to silence. 

Y/n subtly crept closer to Harry, the head of the lamb that laid on the bend of his elbow brushed against her arm. Walking between the stone walls was similar to the time she walked through the portal; the similar consuming sensation, only it was accompanied by immense heat, almost suffocating. Not the type that made you sweat, but the kind that put you to sleep. A blanket of warmth, just like he had described. A dull, but concentrated, heat rolled over her skin like a fitted membrane. It was comforting and hazy.

Upon first walking in she was more focused on the feeling than her surroundings. She shut her eyes and took a waking breather before opening them and noticing that, again, just like Harry said, they were in a cave. The walls were a vein-y, papery texture- like when you shine a flashlight through a chicken’s egg and can see the embryo in a shadowy red silhouette. Lambs were sleeping in curled piles on top of each other so they looked like tufts of cotton clouds. There was a crackling fire in the middle of the large cavern that added to the source of heat, and the brightness of the papery walls suggested that there was a light source coming from the outside. 

A nervous ‘baa’ called out to Harry. In the far corner there was an isolated circle of space where a sheep lay on her side, her legs stiff in pain. The only ram present was next to her, nudging his horns against her womb (not in aggression, but in concern). He must’ve been her mate.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re almost there,” Harry cooed. He put down the lamb he held in his arms into the pile of nestled clouds. “Go, on. Keep pushing, you can do it.” He’s quick to kneel at the sheep’s side, and rub down her belly in encouraging strokes. The female gives another strangled cry when Harry looks up at a horrified y/n. “Come, my dear. It’s all right.” He said, summoning her with an outstretched hand. 

“I know I’m supposed to be helping, b-but it really looks like she’s in pain,” her voice is wobbly, and she’s fidgety, not knowing what to do with herself. It’s a relief when Harry offers physical touch, almost like he knew that it put out whatever fire of anxiety burned in her heart. She took his hand and knelt besides him. 

He nodded. “She is experiencing labor, and with that comes the pain.” The sheep’s lower half contracted, and her legs stiffened, a pained bleat escaping her. “Being a mother is not an easy task, from the start.” With a soothing hand, Harry patted her belly softly. A sheen of sweat settled on his forehead, his eyes darting, assessing the animal’s pain. 

“What can I do to help?” Her hand grew sweaty in Harry’s grip, and she was worried that he would grow repulsed and let go, but he only squeezed reassuringly. There was a moment of silence, even the mother sheep took a break from labor pains and took deep breaths. 

“Nothing, yet. Your presence itself is calming. If there are issues during the labor, then we step in. Otherwise, we are only to oversee and let nature take its course.” 

Y/n nodded, and that was it for speaking until the sheep began to cry out again. Harry didn’t say anything either. He was too busy trying to comfort, trying to soothe, not at all surprised or disconcerted by the scene playing before him. She wasn’t disgusted or repulsed, but definitely in shock, having never seen such life-altering events. 

“Will she be in pain much longer?” She squeaked out. The ram besides the sheep was growing restless, huffing through his nose and stomping his hoof. The mother’s legs curled forward again, and something- the lamb or the placenta- became visible. 

“Your baby is almost here, love, keep going- not much longer. She is a brave being. Her last birth did not even last a three hours, but this one seems to be going by quick. Her time between contract- oh, I know it hurts, c’mon, keep pushing,” Harry looked up at y/n and smiled, “Her time between contractions is short.”

Y/n bobbed her jumbled head. It was safe to say that the girl was very confused. Confused and shocked, and at a loss because she knew absolutely nothing about what to do in this situation. So, she sat still with her hand in Harry’s and stayed quiet, listening to Harry murmur to the mammal in labor.  For how long she sat there, who knew, but everything past her ankles lost feeling, and the back of her neck grew damp. Although Harry told her that the mother sheep would be fierce through this experience, she was slightly hopeless in the fact that she couldn't further help the animal. Her mate- the sheep’s- was too. 

It wasn’t until there was the sound of water spilling, and the thump of something hitting the floor accompanied by several rounds of excited bleats from not just the ram, but the surrounding animals as well. They were celebrating the birth of-

“Look at you, you did it!” Harry joined in on their celebration, and y/n- still very… still very out of it- looked up to catch the most breathtaking expression on his face. Awestruck, amazed, bewildered, did not even begin to cover what was playing out on his features. There were crinkles on the edges of his gleaming, green eyes, and a breathless smile on his lips. He was so absorbed in the act of new life, that he didn’t notice the extra attention he was receiving from the person sitting next to him. Her expression nearly mirrored his, captivated by the complete consumption of himself he allowed. It was not hard to tell that every bit of his soul was consumed by what’s playing out. 

Harry extended his unoccupied hand towards the yelping baby lamb, a golden drop of light appearing on his palm and it floated towards the damp head of the newborn, spreading all over it’s- the lamb hadn’t been sexed yet- body like a sheet. The mother stopped her licking to allow this to happen. 

“What- what is that?” y/n asked. She knew that whatever was happening was not a bad thing because the source was Harry himself, but she wanted to know. 

He looked at her then, the bewilderment and drop of his guard slowly disappearing. “It is my gift. A drop of good luck.” The glow of the fire licked his jaw a warm shade.

“A gift?” Again, she was at a loss. 

“Yes.” He said it like it was obvious, and she became slightly embarrassed. Should she have.. brought something to this? She didn’t have anything to give, but still. “As a token of my gratitude.”

Gratitude… gratitude…

Suddenly, an idea came to her, and she thought of the one way she could give.

Y/n got up from her knees and leaned across Harry’s bent thighs, reaching out to smooth over damp ears (much to Harry’s loss, this mean that she had to let go of his hand). The lamb arched into her touch, and she pressed forward to kiss the place where the golden drop made contact on it’s head. 

Harry watched this, amazed that his guest had taken such initiative, and flustered because in the process, the white cotton fabric of the cloth that he had so tenderly manifested around her body had crawled up the skin of her thighs. Resting just below the curve of her bum, on top of tempting skin that Harry wished- gods, he wished they could reach that mutual understanding, that mutual agreement that didn’t require hesitation on his part if he wanted to caress her. Or, even though they were present in front of only delicate and graceful creatures, adjust her clothing to protect her modesty. What was wrong with him?

“Aren’t you a cutie?” She cooed. After a few more pats, she leaned back with a content sigh, using Harry’s thigh to push herself upright. “I’ve given my gift as well.”

“He’ll never forget it.”

“He? He’s a he?”

Harry chuckled. “Yes, he is his father’s first male descendant, and the future leader of the herd.” 

“Does he have a name?” 

“No. The sheep do not identify themselves in that sort of way. The call out to their souls.” He said. The ram walked in to harry, and bowed his head without aggression. A thank you. Harry did the same, and touched his forehead onto the ram’s horns. 

Y/n realized that it wasn’t a thank you. It was a...a moment of communication. What went on, what occurred, that was unknown to her. But the gesture between leader to leader was clear.

Harry’s knuckles supported his weight, and his biceps flexed as he leaned forward. Chocolate curls flopped over morrocan sand horns. It was a touching view. 

When the ram retreated, Harry looked on in silence at the budding family for a moment before he said, “I believe that now is the time we must go.” 

Y/n nodded. “Okay,” she said. Harry stood up, and again he offered her his hand. He did not let go when she stood up on her two feet and was steady, and neither did she. The two were content to hold the other’s hand as they sidestepped sleeping piles of sheep and lambs to eventually reach the egg-shell wall. The king knew the stop which to walk through, and led them right through.

Outside, the light had dimmed noticeably, and the sky was a deep, blood-red. 

“Is it nighttime?” asked y/n.

“For the lambs, yes. In my realm,” a smile quirked on his lips, “no.”

Y/n looked for the shrub tunnel at the top of the hill which they came through, but it was gone. The only thing visible in their ascend to the crest was the grass clearing in harsh contrast with the bloody sky. All of the sheep were gone into the cave, and an eerie silence misted across the grounds. Not even the lapping of the heart-shaped pool; the water was still. 

“Where’s the portal?” she said. 

Amused at her labeling for the entryway, Harry chuckled quietly. “It is not a portal, love. Merely a door that chooses to show itself only sometimes. Besides, I have other means of travel.” He pulled her close from an ounce of courage that had rooted in his ribcage. A strong arm around her waist; iron security. 

Y/n let out a surprised yelp, and stabilized herself with a hand on his bicep. To a human it would look like they were getting ready to dance. With their faces millimeters apart, she wanted nothing but for him to kiss her. Hold her like he was already doing, and never let her go. He was absolutely delicious. From how close she was to him- her front lining up with his side- she could see the pointed tips of his ears for the first time. The one characteristic that set him apart from being human. 

She was unable to help it. The urge to touch was too strong. In fact, there was a lot she wanted to touch so technically she was holding off on a lot. He was looking at her as she slid her hand up his bicep, leaving goosebumps behind, and delicately reached out a single finger towards the tip of his ear. 

Harry held his breath, a scalding heat trailing the path her skin left. In that moment, when every inch of his celestial self was hyper focused on her, he was convinced that there was more to the situation than he was aware of. It simply was not possible that she held no magic in her arsenal, and that she was not possessing him. 

“I’d never seen these before.” Her voice was a whisper, because she knew that it would crack under extreme stress if she tried to speak at a normal level. Being that close to him, touching him, and the way that he looked at her… it made her weak in the knees. 

“Do you like them?” Harry’s tone of voice imitated hers, his chin dipped. The tip of his nose ghosted over her forehead. His breath smelled like mint leaves. 

A shiver raked down y/n’s spine at the same pace that his breath smoked over her face. She nodded. She did like them. Very much. 

“Good.” He nodded his head, as if convincing himself that she did like them. His voice dropped again, and the only reason why she could hear what he was saying was because they were standing so close to one another. “Close your eyes for me, darling.”

 This was it. He’s going to kiss me, she thought to herself. Her eyes fluttered closed upon his instruction, and her head tipped back just the slightest bit. Taught, likes the strings on a violin is what she was, waiting to be plucked and played by Harry and his fingers.

But… that kiss never came. 

Y/n’s lips parted and her body came to rest completely onto Harry’s side, but she never felt her lips on his. Instead, the ground disappeared beneath her feet and her hair lifted from her back. She kept her eyes closed, waiting, until-

“You can open them now,” he said. He watched y/n’s eyebrows furrow, and her lips dip downwards. Her dissatisfaction was clear on her face, and even though she knew exactly what she yearned for because it was the exact same thing that he wished for as well, he didn’t make any advances. Instead, he took his thumb and smoothed over the center of her eyebrows to make the wrinkles go away.  “Don’t look so distraught, beloved. Come, come, open your eyes.”

Embarrassment, anger, sadness, disappointment, all wrapped up in one and presented to her in a box with a pretty red bow; deception. She really thought that he was going to kiss her. 

Dejected, y/n opened her eyes and immediately turned to look towards the side to avoid meeting his gaze. She wasn’t sure she wanted to attempt to read further into the situation and receive incorrect signals. They were back in the ring of tall sunflowers, besides the stone bench, though this time their petals were closed as if they were still budding blossoms, arching high towards the glittering stars in the night sky.  

She stepped away from him, and for a moment they stood there awkwardly. Y/n toed the ground, and Harry stood still. The only thing moving on his figure was the soft lilac ripples in the wind. Eons of life had taught him how to be still at times of boredom. 

He cleared his throat, and tried to strike a conversation again. “Time travels differently in the Land of Nurture, which is why I was unsure to say whether it was nightfall here.” He cleared his throat once more, “I suppose that-”

“I’m tired.” A cricket chirped somewhere in the grass. Y/n had no remorse for interrupting him. She needed to remove herself from the situation. Sleep on it, maybe. 

Had she been looking at him, she would’ve immediately kicked herself for cursing the fallen look on his face. “Of course. I’ll walk you back inside.” 

The night call of nature serenaded their stale parade through the garden. And through the halls of the castle. The bottom of her feet grew cold for the first time in the entirety of her visit in the Fae realm. When he stopped at the arch of her doorway, y/n wanted nothing more than to curl under the covers, but she knew it would be rude to bolt for a bed the king provided for her while he was standing right there, no matter her feelings. 

“I would… uhm,” he swallowed, and the harsh rasp of his voice diminished. “I would sleep soundly if I knew that you were going to bed with fresh clothing. I know that you cannot eat, and there are no bathing quarters in this room, so let me… uhm,” a pink tint blossoms on the apples of his cheeks. “Will you allow me to provide new clothes for you?”

Y/n was stunned. There was underlying symbolism to his request, this she knew. How, despite everything he was willing to make sure that she was comfortable. How he cared for a stranger he could obliterate with a flick of his wrist if he wanted to. 

He was getting flustered. His hands were behind his back, but by the way that his biceps moved it was clear that he was nervously fiddling his fingers. “I’ll take you somewhere to wash up tomorrow, but for now, clean clothes is the best I can-” 

“I’d like that,” she nodded slowly, sucking her lips into her mouth. It was her turn to feel awkward, as she stood there silently with her eyes bouncing from his, to the floor, to him, to the ceiling, to him... and he did the same.

“Stand on the pedestal for me?” He asked. 

“Okay.” She moved further into the room, and climbed up to the step. The coldness of her skin was eradicated by a heat eminating from the wood. It made her shoulders sag and her eyes shut in pleasure. It was a good feeling. 

Y/n didn’t question whether Harry would bare her naked by stripping her at the first go, but a tickling feeling of lace wrapping around and underneath her breasts told her that he would place pretty little underthings before manifesting new fabric onto her body. She was staring down at the floor, flustered because it felt as if his fingers were the one’s dressing her. 

And she was right. Soon after the feeling of feathers on her skin stopped, the white milkmaid’s dress with grass stains vanished into thin air, leaving her only in lacy pink underwear that so delicately wrapped around the curves of her breasts and the swell of her mound. They were just barely transparent, and the swirl of her areolas were a ghosting tease underneath the material. 

In a brief second, she realized she was exposed to Harry, and her head snapped up to meet his. A strange, lonely king that was looking at her- a human in a land of immortals- expectantly. “Would you like something different?”

Dazedly, she shook her head, “no. These are pretty.”

Harry’s mouth went dry, but he kept his eyes on hers. He wouldn’t look down. Not yet. He dressed her in a dress that was in similar fashion to the one before. Light, airy, and loose on her body, and in a light blue shade. The straps were thin strings on her shoulders, and pooled on the floor so her feet disappeared.

Y/n stepped down from the stump, her feet on the cold floor again. “I am most appreciative,” she whispered. Her eyes nervously dropped from his again, and he sighed in defeat.

Harry shook his head. “You can say, thank you, you know. I won’t hurt you.”

“Thank you. They’ve lovely.” A yawn ate up the last bit of her sentence.

“You should rest. We have a short walk tomorrow.” He started to walk back out the doorway, but stopped just before he turned the corner. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

She went to sleep that night thinking of the warmth that emitted from his hand against her palm, of the way his lips curled into a smile, of the way that he allowed himself to become so wholly absorbed by what was going on around him. The sticky feeling of embarrassment tried to snake in on the picture she was trying to paint to lull herself to sleep, but y/n pushed it away. 

She went to sleep that night thinking of the Fae king. 

The area where her feet lay at the end of the bed was particularly warm all through the night. 

    *                                                *              *

                                                  *                                **

The next morning was equally as glorious as the one from before, only that this time her stomach and foul mood stained the innocent sunbeams that casted across her sheets. 

After nearly a day and a half of not eating, her stomach was beginning to ache. During times when money was tight, y/n wouldn’t eat and drink only water. This was similar to that, but… she had no water. She couldn’t eat or drink because Harry wouldn’t let her. If it was up to her, she would’ve helped herself to a full course meal at breakfast because she loved food, but alas, the king wouldn’t budge. 

Angus was there again, with another note. He smelled like corn. It read,

Good morning, beloved. I will be waiting with the sunflowers for you when you are ready. 

Beloved. Y/n smiled down at the piece of paper, the swirls of ink on paper enticing butterflies to flutter in her stomach. Never having ever experienced it herself, she heard of the exhilarating feeling that came with the drop of a roller coaster. The tightening of her abdomen was strikingly the same to the description of what that felt like. 

Angus tentatively poked her thigh with his hoof, and the reminder of his presence, y/n dropped the note and scooped the animal into her arms. He squealed and wriggled with happiness. 

“Why hello, handsome. It’s been a while since I last saw you,” She pressed kisses behind his ears, and when she lifted her mouth, Angus rested his head on her shoulder. “Where’d you run off to, hmm?”  

He snorted and lifted his head, his back legs shifting on her thighs and pressing into her skin. It hurt, but she didn’t have it in her heart to say anything. “Should we go see the king now?” 

Another squeal. 

“Yeah, I think so, too. Let’s go.” Y/n set him down on the floor and placed her feet down next to him. The warmth of her soles and the cold floor was a contrast that made her hiss and lift her feet up momentarily. The piglet stopped to look back at her as if concerned, and y/n smiled. “It’s just a little cold, Angus.”

He bobbed his head, understanding, and waiting for her to get back on her feet to continue walking. The cerulean blue of her dress swished around her ankles as she followed him out and through the castle. Vines and flowers bloomed and sprouted as they passed, bees and butterflies fluttered in through the flowers. 

The curtain of foxgloves parted as she approached and she was momentarily blinded by the morning sunlight. After her eyes cleared, she could see the walkway through the garden, and in a short distance, the opening of the tall circle of sunflowers that encased a bench, where a pale yellow figure sat. It was Harry, and y/n was frozen in place when she spotted him. 

The movement caught Harry’s eyes, and he stood from the bench. Both of them watched each other, frozen in their spots like they were scared movement would blow the other away. Y/n’s lips parted and her chest twisted, the flowers around Harry shivered. 

Angus, bless his soul, bumped his head, annoyed, on y/n’s calf as if to say ‘what are you waiting for? go talk to him!’

“Alright, geez,” she said, rolling her eyes at her friend before she started walking towards Harry. He waited for her at the edge of a stone bench, and toyed with the edge of what he was wearing; a veil-like material over his chest the color of wine, and a snow-white pair of flared pants. The most non-greek outfit of his that y/n has seen. Though his shirt was still extravagant and elegant, flowing bell-caps that reached the middle of his thighs, and an open, unbuttoned collar with ruffles around his neck that exposed his smooth, taught chest. 

“Hello,” she said once she reached him. Up close she could see that there was a wreath of stained purple leaves and fuschia colored flowers with white bulbs in the middle. To her, they were just flowers. Harry knew they were horny goat weeds. He had no control over them, and they usually reflected his mood. At a certain point of his adolescence, his elders noticed that he had a knack for herbs and gardening. It was part of his magick, part of who he was and what he felt. 

One careful look at the draping white cloth of his pants, and she’d see the tenting fabric at his crotch. He was having trouble… containing his thoughts late at night. “Good morning,” his words cut off in a way that suggested there was more to come after, but nothing did.  He shot a quick glance down at Angus, who had plopped down besides his feet. 

The sunflowers around them tilted towards y/n as she dug her toes into the grass and watched Harry, blushing and trying her hardest to hold back a cheesy smile that wanted to spread on her face from just seeing him.

“Are we going swimming today?” She whispered. Whatever tenderness had settled over them, she didn’t want to disturb it with a loud voice. 

Harry understood this, but chose to poke fun at her anyways, “Why are you whispering, darling?” He was whispering, too. Angus watched, his head turning back and forth like it was a tennis match.

She couldn’t hold the smile back anymore, and the blush spread to a warmth on her ears. “I dunno,” she shrugged.

“Yes, we will go swimming today. Angus will be joining us. I believe he may have been a fish in a past life, he loves the water so much.”  He placed a kiss on the creature’s head, and nodded his head towards the river. 

Y/n laughed, and began walking with Harry, the sunflowers following her way out of the ring, and then tilting back up towards the sun when she was out of reach. They moved in silence, their strides in sync so they looked like one. 

“How did you meet him?” She threw out a question just to hear him speak.

He tilted his head to the side to see her, the ruffles of his collar tickling his chin. “Who? Angus?” 

“Mhm.” She hummed. 

“Well,” he sighed, “It was on a rainy spring day, about three years ago, I reckon. Maybe more, this fella does not like to age. He was a victim of a foul trick, and lost his mother.” Angus whined, and Harry covered his ear so he couldn’t listen, the other side of his head pressed against Harry’s chest. “To what extent ‘lost’ goes, it is knowledge I am not privy to.” He removed his hand, and Angus looked up at him. “ But he found me, and we have been friends since. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s lucky that you found each other,” she said, smiling sadly.

“Will you be leaving any friends if you decide to stay?” His interest was heavy in his question, as was the hope that maybe she might stay. That maybe they might reach that mutual understanding. 

Y/n shook her head slowly, “No, I wasn’t much of a social butterfly, and not many people take the time to get to know me. And I think you mean when.” They were beginning to reach the bank, the sound of flowing water louder as they got closer. 

“I- I don’t understand,” his eyebrows furrowed, “were they mean to you?” Right before they dipped into water, Harry wrapped an arm around her bicep to gently redirect her so that they walked alongside the stream. In his arms, Angus was looking to be sleeping. 

“When I was in school, yes. I guess that I just didn’t fit in, because everyone else turned against me, and sometimes girls would make fun of me. Once I got older, I was the outcast at work. And I didn’t go out much because I didn’t, you know, have any friends to hang out with,” she said. 

“What?” Y/n looks over at him, surprised at his outburst. His brows are deeply furrowed and his voice is heavy with hurt. “You did nothing to them and they decided to be foul over nothing? That is completely unfair.’

 Y/n shook her head. “It’s alrigh-”

“No, it is not alright, and it is not fine!” He was getting agitated, and Agnus was waking up. A vein on his neck protruded from his neck. He was shaking his head as he spoke, his distaste showing through his rigid body language; the curls that were pushed back with the flowers in his head fell out with his movements, framing his face in a chaotic way. “It should not have to be this way. It’s the same reason why my* kingdom is in ruins. I just do not understand why-”

With a comforting hand on his bicep, y/n stopped him in his tracks. “Harry, it’s okay. There’s nothing we can do about it now. That’s why-”

She stepped in front of him so that she could place her other hand on his biceps, holding him. When she came into clear view of his eyesight, Harry tilted his head to Angus, who had settled back in the crook of his arm when he noticed that y/n took initiative to comfort him. His pink lips were pressed into a firm line, his eyelashes fluttering every time he blinked. Blinked back tears. 

“I’m sorry. I know that that feels like.” He sniffled and y/n cupped his cheek with her hand, swiping away the first tear that fell. Her heart cracked in two at the wavering of his voice. “I wish it did not have to be this way.”

“I do, too,” Her own voice was watery. She was always the one to cry when she saw someone else do so as well, “but if it wasn’t that way, I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t have met you.” 

His gaze lifted at her words, and a weepy frown found its way onto his lips, “as much as I want you to stay, I fear the troubles you might face. The people here do not listen to me, and their treacherous ways are not something that I endorse.” 

Her hand dropped again, to his bicep, and she tilted her head to the side playfully, like she was thinking. “I’ll stick by your side, and-”

He smirked. “I stick by yours, yes.” He took a hand out from underneath Agnus, and bopped her on the nose. “But, that is only after the three days.”

Y/n rolled her eyes at him, and stepped away to take her place besides him. “Again with the three days? Why are you so hung up on them?”

He shrugged, proud and smug. “I stick by my word, honeybaby.” 

Y/n’s jaw dropped, and her eyes shut for a moment, “H-honeybaby?” Harry’s lips puckered like he was taking joy in her flustered state. He waited for her hands to unclench. A bird chirped in the distance.

He licked his bottom lip, “Do you like it?”

Y/n brushed it off, and cleared her throat. “Come on, I wanna go swimming,” She tried to tug on his delicate sleeve, but he wrapped a hand around her neck and pulled her close, looking down at her with fierce domination. Y/n’s eyes widened and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She was, what you could say, intimidated.

He tutted his tongue, his head cocking, “You didn’t answer me, honeybaby. Did you like the name, or no? I wouldn’t want to displease you by calling you something you don’t like.” Y/n shut her eyes, her left foot hooking around her right ankle so she could press her thigh together where a heat was building up. “So, I’ll ask you again, do you like the name, honeybaby?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, opened her eyes, and nodded. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she was frozen. He was a different person then, his eyes a darker shade of green, the smile on his lips borderline malicious with all the subliminal filth it held. “Yes, I like it.” The tent in his crotch was more noticeable then, and if he shifted his hips forward just a hair, the tip of his dick would’ve brushed her silk covering her stomach. He almost shivered at the thought. 

In a blink, he was back to the ‘regular’ Harry she knew. Bright and cheerful. “Come along now, honeybaby, we’re almost there.” An inconspicuous brush down the front of his pants fixed his dilemma. 

They walked for a few more minutes, following the river up-stream, curving around the back of the castle where it trailed off into the horizon, leaving a strip of land wide enough for five people to walk through in between the river that went, and the river that came. A loop; a fence, around Harry’s castle. Down this strip they went, encased by water and a canopy of willow trees, until they came across a fork in the river. Stepping stones rose just above the water level to their right, leading to a lake-like retention of water. A pool, if you will. 

Harry slowed just before the rocks, and y/n got close enough that the first was a step away, “is this it?” She asked. 

He nodded, and set down Angus, who shook off the last of his sleep and hopped through the rocks. Y/n followed after him and jumped right into the sparkling pool of blue water, the same color of her dress; a crystalline aquamarine. She did not care if her clothes got wet, or if she had to walk back to the castle with wet clothes. The distraction was what she needed. 

It felt good, a nice cleanse from the two days of travel and sleeping in dirt, and yesterday, when sweat from the warmth of the Land of Nurture collected and dried on her skin. A heavenly feeling. She hated going to the pool at recreational centers because she hated the smell of bleach, and she didn’t have the guts to go out into the lake by herself. y/n had learned how to swim when she was little, and this? This felt like a rebirth.

When she resurfaced, she pushed her dripping wet hair back and cheered. “Come into the water, Harry!” He was sitting on one of the stepping stones, only his feet and an inch of his pants dipping into the water. “It feels so good!” He shook his head, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “Come in! It’s not even cold!” It wasn’t, it was actually warm. 

She pleaded once more, and he finally gave in. He said, “oh alright,” and jumped into the water, a swift and graceful dive she only ever saw on TV, in the olympics.

He dove deep, just where the water got murky- though it wasn’t even that, the water just got too, too blue*- enough that she couldn’t see him. 

“Harry? Harry, where did you go?” She fumbled around the water, looking around her circle of space for his lithe body. “Harry, it’s not funn- AH!” Her kicking foot brushed against something sleek that moved away, and she shrieked. 

Harry came up in a splash besides her, shaking his wet hair in his face. “Here!” 

Y/n shrieked again, her fright so big that she swallowed a gulp of water and lost her equilibrium, her head dipping underneath the water. Immediately, Harry lunged to grab her by the waist so her head was above water. She coughed up the water that was in his lungs, and breathed raggedly. “Woah, woah, honeybaby,” Harry stroked her hair back, “tt’s alright, I’ve got you. It’s just me, ‘was-” He was breathless, “‘was playing.”

He watched her as her breathing returned to normal. Her hands were gripping his biceps fiercely, and her legs had somehow wrapped around his waist.

When she felt him clear his throat, her eyes focused on his, and her breath hitched. The look in his eyes, the stroke of heathen… it was there again. Though his lips were curled upwards, and he was watching her carefully to make sure that she was okay, there was a sliver of space from control and loss of it. 

Y/n felt it. She felt it every time his legs moved, kicking to make sure they both stayed afloat.

“Can I ask you something?” She was quivering with anticipation in his arms. Although she had faced rejection just the day before, the warmth she felt in that moment was enough for her courage to build up again. 

“Anything, my darling,” he rasped. The octave of her voice rumbled down her spine. My darling.

“Will you… will you kiss me?”

   *                                                *              *

                                                 *                                **

The third and final part has already been completed, I just wanted a clean break between the two :) It’ll be posted after a mafia!h blurb. 

[ais-for-alex]

The Scars of Our Past Chapter 20:

So Ngl I love this chapter, I am a ho for a soft LeLo moment. Hope y’all enjoy 😊 (also you don’t have to listen to the song but I feel like it adds to the moment)

Logan paced the length of his room, back and forth, back and forth wearing a hole in the carpet. He had his lower lip pulled between his teeth, biting, worrying it until it was sore and swollen, his hands clenched and unclenched unconsciously cracking the knuckles over and over again.

He had to say something, he needed to say something. But god, what the fuck was he supposed to say? He hadn’t spoken to Leo aside from the occasional meme, since he ran and hid from him, it had been what? A week? And yet Logan felt like a vital part of himself had been ripped from his body and stolen from him.

Logan huffed an exasperated breath and sat at the foot of his bed, he needed a game plan, things were always easier with a game plan. Mentally Logan began composing a list in hopes that once he had an idea of what to do he would actually do it.

Step 1: Text him and hope that he responds

Step 2: Apologize for nearly accosting him, then running away, then ghosting him (god why are there so many things here?)

Step 3: Hope he accepts the apology

Step 4: …

Then what? Logan groaned at the thought and flopped backwards, what exactly was he trying to accomplish here? Get Leo back into his life as a friend? That didn’t feel quite right and made Logan's stomach clench uncomfortably, but the alternative option filled him with anxiety, all the unanswered questions that pulled up in his brain Logan couldn’t bring himself to put it into words. Well, at least it was the start of a plan, enough to take that first step.

Logan pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans and pulled up Leo’s contact.

(You): Hey :waving emoji: whatcha up to?

The moment he hit send Logan dropped the phone face down on his chest, too nervous to watch and see if Leo would read the message let alone respond. Only a second late though it buzzed with an incoming message.

(Sunshine Giraffe): Just finishing up at practice

(Sunshine Giraffe): How about you?

Logan felt his stomach do that weird swoopy thing like it does whenever he goes on a roller coaster as he typed out his next text.

(You): Nothing much RN

(You): You want to go find something to do?

(You): Together?

There was a bit of a pause as he watched the typing bubbles pop up then disappear, in the near minute and a half it took for Leo to respond Logan nearly chucked his phone at the wall, but then he felt it buzz in his hand again.

(Sunshine Giraffe): Sure, that would be nice

(Sunshine Giraffe): You have an idea in mind?

(You): Nothing too special

(You): Meet me at the rink?

(You): We can go explore a bit; I can show you the area?

(Sunshine Giraffe): Sounds like a plan

(Sunshine Giraffe): See you in 15ish?

(You): :Thumbs up emoji:

Logan breathed in deep, step 1 done. He rolled up off his bed before snagging a pair of shoes from his closet and making his way up the stairs to the main area of the house.

“Hey Dumo?” he called out, peeking his head into the living room where Dumo and Celeste were curled up together on their couch.

“Quoi?” he asked looking up.

“Mind if I borrow your car? I’m going to meet a friend.”

“Hmm,” he hummed as if thinking hard about the request, “fine. On one condition though.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Dumo chuckled as he grabbed the keys off the coffee table in front of him, “Stop moping,” with that he tossed the keys through the air for Logan to catch.

“I have not been moping,” he spluttered, making both Dumo and Celeste laugh at his expense.

“Sorry Tremz, but you kinda have,” Celeste said with a mildly sympathetic grin, “for like the last week at least.”

“I- no- I haven’t,” he stuttered at a loss of ways to defend himself, “alright I’m leaving,” he finally said before turning to make his way to the garage.

“Remember no more moping!” Dumo called after him, still chuckling.

When Logan pulled up outside the rink, he spotted Leo sitting on the stone steps leading into the main entrance of the building. At the sight of Leo all wrapped up in his jacket and scarf, beanie pulled low against the chill of the frosty air, Logan felt an odd warmth settle in his stomach. Somehow that warmth seemed to calm the fluttering butterflies inside him as he parked and hopped out of the car.

“Leo!” he called out as he got closer, making the blond glance up and lock his baby blue eyes on Logan.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, standing up from the steps grinning widely.

Jeeze, Logan always forgot how tall he was until he was right next to him, his face tilting upwards basking in the rays of warm sunshine Leo always seemed to radiate.

“So,” Logan said, a bit lamely not entirely sure where to take this conversation. He dug his hands into his pockets just to hide his nervous fidgeting, he knew he needed to apologize but it felt weird to just jump into it right out of the blue and the words seemed to stick in his throat at the thought. “Um, I thought we could walk around for a bit. I can show you some of the best places around here if you want.”

Leo chuckled and held out his hand gesturing to the sidewalk next to them, “well, where you lead I will follow.”

Logan laughed at the little self-satisfied grin on his face, “Did you really just reference the Gilmore Girls theme?”

“What? Who me? Yes, yes I did.”

“Come on, you dork,” Logan laughed again, rolling his eyes as he grabbed the sleeve of Leo’s hoodie and tugged him forward.

Together they began wandering down the sidewalk leading away from the rink, Logan pointed out all the restaurants with the best take out, the little book shop that Finn would always drag him to after practice, the music store where he bought one of his favorite guitars. He could feel the warmth of Leo’s arm brushing against his own as they walked, Logan could feel those soft blue eyes watching him and each time he would glance up Leo would smile tenderly at him.

The sun began to sink along the horizon as they walked,painting the frosty sky in cotton candy and orange sorbet turning the swirling clouds into sugar coated ice cream cones. Eventually the sidewalk led them into a hidden courtyard, a few people resilient enough to brave the cold were sitting at wrought iron tables outside a little Italian restaurant, a makeshift stage had been set up and a typical hipster looking guy with a guitar was strumming a soft tune his voice mingling with the notes to create a soothing melody.

“Hey,” Leo said, nudging Logan, “let’s sit for a bit.”

Logan nodded and followed Leo over to sit at the edge of a stone lined fire pit, the blaze was contained behind an intricately designed wrought iron cage but the heat still bled into their backs as they sat and watched the musician.

“Hey Leo?” Logan said softly, not looking up.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed and tucked his hands under his thighs to stop himself from fidgeting.

“It’s ok,” Leo replied, his voice sounding so earnest.

“No, it’s not,” Logan said, finally looking up, Leo was watching him again with that soft look in his eyes that made something inside his heart melt just a bit. “I shouldn’t have done that, that night. I held you down, took advantage of you. And then I ran away and hid like a scared little child. And then on top of that I couldn’t even nut up enough to text you back.”

“Logan,” Leo’s voice was soft as he reached a hand out and gently brushed a bit of hair off of Logan's face, the light brush of his fingertips made his breath hitch. “Please believe me when I say, it’s ok. You didn’t take advantage of me, I liked you being there. And I mean you’re strong,” he chuckled and glanced down at Logan's body, “but if I didn’t want you on top of me, I very easily could have gotten out of your hold.” Leo let his hand settle at the side of Logan’s neck, the warmth of his palm comforting,“and as for the rest, it’s ok to be scared. It’s ok to not understand the things that you’re feeling. Believe me it’s hard and confusing but it’ll be ok,” his voice tapered to a whisper as he finished speaking.

Logan felt himself crumble at Leo’s words, his eyes fell closed and he couldn’t stop the sigh from falling from his lips. Suddenly, Logan felt like all the energy had drained out of his body, he let himself lean forward to rest his forehead on Leo’s shoulder.

“How are you always so nice?” he asked, he felt Leo chuckle at the words as his fingers tangled into the soft curls that fluffed out under the brim of his snapback.

“It’s my southern charm,” he teased, Leo let his hand wander away from Logan's neck to wrap his arm around his body and tug him just a bit closer into his side.

The two of them sat like that for a while, comfortable in each other’s presence. They let the fire's heat fight away the winter chill as night fell steadily darker and darker around them. The soft music drifted closer on the frosted breeze but with Leo’s warm arms wrapped around him Logan was content to stay right where he was.

Eventually though they did have to leave the little bubble of that hidden courtyard but Logan didn’t want to leave Leo. He had been hiding from him for the last week but after finally finding stability with him again his heart was calling out to be with him as long as possible, so Logan walked with him back in the direction of Finn’s apartment.

“Well…” Logan said softly looking up at Leo’s face when they finally made it to the entrance of the building.

“This is me…” Leo replied, his baby blue eyes watching him tenderly.

“I guess I should get going, I’ll see later Leo.” Logan turned to leave but felt Leo’s hand reach out and grab his arm.

“Wait,” he said, “um… do- do you want to come up?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Logan hesitated remembering that last conversation with Finn, him walking away. “I don’t think Finn really wants to see me right now.”

Leo huffed a soft little chuckle, “I don’t think Finn would ever object to seeing you. Come on, I’ll make dinner.”

“You’re gonna cook?” Logan laughed a bit disbelievingly.

“Why does everyone act like that’s such a surprise?” Leo said tugging Logan a bit closer to the door, “Come up. Please?”

Logan felt warmth bleed into him at the soft sound of Leo’s please , he was suddenly struck by the realization that if he asked it in that voice Logan wouldn’t be able to deny Leo anything.

“Alright, I’ll come with you.”

The smile that split Leo’s face lit up the entire street with sunlight.

Read on ao3

[smutsonian]

Memoir - What You Don’t Know Series (2/6)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: remembering your past

Warning/s: flashbacks, angst, deaths, car crash, drunk driving, not proofread

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: i added a character. im thinking of timothee chalamet as Elio. If you’ve watched Call me by your name, elio aint that young here. Y/N and Elio is in their 20s :3 this chapter is focused on what happened to y/n before she started actin up

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

For you, home doesn’t mean a house that you lived in so you can sleep, eat, shower, and whatnot. You always believed that a home was being with someone you love and loves you back. A home is with the person or people that you feel most safe and comfortable with. You only had two people for that matter. It used to be only one person but Steve happened. Home for you was with your father or with Steve. It doesn’t make any sense now because one is dead and one turned out to be a major asshole. 

Maybe that’s why you’re currently sitting on your father’s grave. Maybe that’s why you left New York so you can grieve to your father’s grave. Doesn’t matter if he’s dead. He’s always been there for you and you would never fail to believe that he’ll still be there for you even if he’s dead. 

You have always been a daddy’s girl. Your mother was the one who works for the family while your father is a house husband. The two of you were inseparable, always up to no good and your mother would always chastise the both of you but your father would calm her down and the three of you would just spend the time with each other. It was a picture-perfect family… Until it was not. A car accident. A fucking drunk driver. A guy stupid enough to drive a fucking car under the influence of alcohol. Your father was going to pick you up from a skating session at the ice rink but he never made it. The drunk bastard was going so fucking fast that the impact killed your father in an instant. Just like that. Just one blink and your father’s life is taken away from him. 

Your father has always been your rock but when he died, your life went to shit. Your relationship with your mom wasn’t there if your father isn’t in the picture. The two of you would only have the chance to interact because of the picnics that your father would prepare whenever your mom gets a day off from the hospital. Being a doctor takes a ton of your time, you guessed. But that’s it. You never had the chance to have a one on one with her until your father died. It didn’t end well...

[Flashback]

I can’t believe this. He’s dead. He’s really dead. Why? Why?!

“You need to save him!” you yelled at your mom but she only shook her head, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Y/N… He’s gone. I did my best. I want him alive as much as you do but life can be full of surprises. May it be a good one or a bad one.” She makes a move to embrace me but I slap her hands away, still not believing anything of this. Not believing the words coming out of her mouth.

“Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m one of your patients.” You hissed at her. Why isn’t she hurting like you were? Did she not care for him at all?

“Don’t talk to me like that, young lady. I’m still your mother-”

“Are you? Are you really? You never acted like one-” You couldn’t finish your sentence because of a stinging pain you felt on your right cheek. She just slapped you... 

“You don’t get to tell me that.” Her voice was raising and you could see her face contorting into an angry one.

“You don’t get to act like you're the only one here who’s affected by his death. He’s my fucking husband, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been with him longer than you have and you… You just have to fucking take those shitty ice skating classes and for what? I don’t see why he’s so keen on supporting you with that. Look what it got him. He’s fucking dead because of you and your stupid classes.” Her voice was laced with so much distaste that you almost flinched at it. She was seething and it was all directed towards you. Your mother being disgusted by you wasn’t what broke you but her words did. The idea, no. The fact that you’re the reason for your father’s death is what broke you.

You eyed your mother with surprised and guilty eyes and made a step back away from her, shaking your head as the tears escaped your eyes. Your mother’s face morphed into a guilty one and she went to reach for you but you stepped further away.

“No.” You hissed.

“Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t fucking come near me ever again. I fucking hate you!” And with that, you run out of the hospital. Leaving your parents without looking back. 

[End of the flashback]

Looking back at it now, you knew that you acted a bit out of hand and were being really selfish with your mother. You weren’t the only one who lost a family. Yeah, you lost your father but she lost her husband. She lost the guy that he fell in love with. They’ve been together for a long time and it must really suck to lose your lover. But you were a kid who’s mourning her father’s death and she definitely shouldn’t have put the blame on you. It fucked with your brain a lot. Like a lot. Having your mother tell you that you’re the reason for your father’s death deals great damage to a person. Especially a teenager.

Having your father die when you’re young also deals damage to you. You don’t know if it was your father’s death that made you crave older men’s approval or something but you know that his death gave you some kind of daddy issues. Putting yourself in situations with older men because of it, making you even more fucked up. 

Craving their approval is unhealthy and can be dangerous if you find yourself with someone who’s manipulative because they can use that to take you for granted. It doesn’t really matter anymore because every single one you dated turned out to be the same type of people. Everyone used you and threw you out after they had their fill. Every single one of them. You thought Steve would be different but that one stung like a bitch. The way he treated you like a child… Those hurtful words that he used… Maybe he’s right. If it keeps happening to you, maybe the problem is you.

Maybe you’re still that kid that liked seeing his father proud of her and the moment that you failed to do that anymore because he died… Maybe you’re just stuck at that. You’re so hung up on making your father proud that you jumped on the chance of making every single older man proud of you. Nevermind them taking you for granted. You’re too blinded by your determination to fill that empty hole inside your heart to even notice.

“Hey, graveyard neighbor!” 

Too occupied with your own thoughts, you don’t see the guy from beside your father’s grave until he calls out to you. You turned to see a young man sitting just a few feet away from you, one hand waving at you while the other was supporting his weight as he leaned back. Loose curls falling down his forehead as he smiled and nodded at you.

“I’ve never seen you around here. Though, I only ever started going here last month…” he mumbles, scratching his chin as he seems to be deep in thought.

“Is that your father?” He points towards your father’s headstone. You looked at him with a questioning look before nodding, turning your head to run your eyes over the stone. You never really got the chance to go to his funeral or to visit his grave because you ran away from your mother. You were too proud to be caught running back to her so you didn’t risk visiting your father. Come to think of it now, you’ve been really immature. You still are… According to Steve, you’re no woman. You’re just a little girl with a lot of issues.

You felt something touch your side and you were once again pulled out of your thoughts by the guy who found himself sitting beside you.

“According to your face, he seemed like a great guy.” He gives you a playful smile that you return. “He is… He was. He really was.” You nodded before hugging your knees and resting your chin on it.

“Your father?” Your voice was quiet as you pointed towards the headstone that was beside your father’s.

He nodded before standing up and slapping his father’s headstone. “Yep. The old man died last month. I always warned him about eating too much sugar but the old man never listened. Always saying shit about living what’s left of his life freely.” He chuckled before rubbing his palms on his jeans and offering you a hand.

“I’m Elio” 

You took his hands and shook it before standing up. “Y/N.” You give him a polite smile. 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. So, how come I’ve never seen you here before?” He asked with a tilt of the head and a teasing smile. 

“I’m from New York. Just visiting here for some time.” You shrugged. How long were you even planning on staying here? You don’t really have a place here. And you for sure don’t want to see your mother. Not yet, at least.

“New York, huh? I have a small job there but I’ll be staying here for some time too. Gotta mourn my pop’s death with my ma.” He chuckles at his own words before shaking his head and poking his forehead slightly and smiling wildly at you.

“How do you feel about coffee? My treat.” He grins.

Elio seems like a fun guy to hang around with and he’s been nothing but nice. He seems about someone your age too so there’s no issue there… It can be a good distraction from real life. Having a friend sounds really nice right now and Elio has one of the friendliest smiles that you can’t help but agree to his offer to get some coffee.

Steve knew he messed up. He was so scared that you would actually leave him for real but the moment he stepped foot on your shared apartment, he felt somewhat relieved. All your things were still there. He knew you didn’t have a lot so he’s confident that you would come back. You didn’t have anyone else. He knows that you need him. He knows how you’re codependent to him. As selfish as it sounds, he’s thankful for that side of you. He’s thankful that you’re somehow messed up like that because that assures him that you’ll never leave his side. No matter how bad your fight was. You’ll come back to him. You always will.

Seconds. Hours. Days. Weeks have passed but you’re still nowhere to be found. You still haven’t come home to Steve and he’s starting to think that he may actually have done it. Where would you even go without him? Have you found another old man to cling onto? Steve knows he has no right to be mad. It’s his fault. He’s so used to being the righteous Captain America that he couldn’t believe the fact that he would be able to make a mistake. He couldn’t believe that he made a mistake with you. He just wanted to help you and be there for you but he failed. His confidence is gone and the realization hits him. You were gone and you might actually not come back. 

And it’s all his fault.

[writing-the-end]

WS Chapter 46- Woodland Mansion

Previous Post

Masterpost

Some good times....and not so good times. Ecto certainly has the right idea, but which path forward is the right one? Should they wait, or charge ahead? And what does Ecto have planned? 

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland​

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Warning: some mild violence and action. 

The darkened halls stretch beyond the open mouth to the mansion, only a few torches casting dim, dying light down the corridors of dark wood. Hisses and groans echo across the wood panels and thin carpet, as well as low rumbles of distant voices. 

“Are we sure Red went in here?” Avon questions. She knows she saw Red running this way, but would he have noticed the unnerving energy of the creepy mansion? 

Ecto dares to step into the foyer, kneeling down and picking something up from the blood red carpet. She lets it dangle from her fingers so Avon can see. Rainbow beads clatter and twist around the gold chain. Such a small accessory, but both know exactly what it is. “He was here.” 

Avon flutters before Ecto, pausing to brush her wings across the carpet. Searching for traps. Ecto keeps a keen eye for enemies and for Red. The skin on her neck prickles, feeling like she’s being watched by a hundred eyes. When she turns around, she is in fact being watched. Watched by a hundred red, shimmering eyes in the darkness from the rafters. The spider crawls, intent on Avon just ahead. Ignoring Ecto, focused on the person who doesn’t see it. Massive pinchers, each as sharp as axe blades, quietly tap together. The spider coils to attack. 

Ecto throws her sword. It may not be an arrow, or a trident. She could have waited until it was on her level to fight. It’s definitely not what her weapon is meant for. But it strikes true, gutting the monster before it can attack her friend. No one attacks Avon except for Ecto. 

Avon peeks around a corner, grabbing Ecto and pushing her tight against the wall. “There’s three people ahead. All have some nasty looking axes. A skeleton in the corner as well.” 

Ecto dares to look down the hall, the pale grey skins of illagers like spirits haunting the corridors. Low, gravelly voices roll from the conversation. Something about trees, something boring. “Let’s surprise attack them.” 

Ecto slips into the room  behind them, silent footsteps across the aged wood floor. Keeping to the edges, where it’s less likely to creak. Avon’s wings beat silently, hopping and hovering along. She has no clue what Ecto is planning. She never has any clue what Ecto is planning. 

Which is why Ecto’s plans always work. In all honesty, she never has a plan. That’s her plan. No one can guess what she’s doing when she doesn’t know herself. She presses herself against the thin wood paneling, the deep voices of the vindicators just on the other side. She can practically feel the life being sapped from her, the ill aura opposite of the wood gasping for life. Ecto pulls back her sword, angling it at the aged wood. Her tongue sticks out as she takes a deep breath, then plunges her sword through the planks. 

And into the vindicator on the other side. Avon curves the throw of her trident, killing the skeleton before it can nock an arrow. The two step out, and in swift and simultaneous attacks they take out the remaining vindicators. The fight is over before the enemies even had a chance to wield their own weapons.

The duo clear rooms together. Fighting side by side. Ecto’s unusual tactics and impulsive attitude makes her a great fighter, with no fear of taking the lead into the next room. Avon’s training and agility puts her in the middle (or above) the fight. Locating the most dangerous foes and stopping them before they can get close to Ecto. Hardly a scratch befalls either one. Alone, they’re great fighters. Together, Ecto and Avon are undemisable. 

“We’ve searched every room on this floor, do you think Red went up to the second floor?” Avon pulls her trident free from the corpse of a creeper, gunpowder mixing with the blood and skin of the monster. Avon had seen wet footprints, about the size that matched their little friend, and a few rare signs of fighting- but only with water. Red is here, but they haven’t seen her yet. 

Ecto looks at the ground, but the water has dried up. The trail the two observant runaways have been following has disappeared. Gone cold. “I can only assume that-” 

“Wait- hush.” Avon holds her hand up, head and hair flicking to the side. Ecto does hold her tongue for once. And in the silence of the deep, dark woodland mansion, they hear a sniffle. Through the walls, the two don’t even dare to breathe for fear of losing the quiet noises of their friend. They circumambulate around a wall a few times, like wolves sniffing out their prey. They soon figure out that Red has to be within the wall, but neither can find how to get in. How did Red even get in? 

Ecto grows tired searching for an answer, and decides to make her own. Similar to how she dug her sword to kill the vindicator, she shoves the blade through the thin crack in between wood panels, and pries the dark oak off the wall. She peeks through the window she’s made for herself, grinning to see exactly what she hoped to. 

Red is tucked in a corner, curled up as small as she can make herself. One sleeve has been unroled, streaks of damp tears across the grey fabric. “Guys?” 

“How’d you even get in here?” Ecto questions, squeezing herself through the small hole she tore through. She gets stuck halfway through, left to devices of Avon, who opens the panel just below. Ecto crashes to the ground, but bounces to her feet just as quickly as she fell. She brushes off the dust. 

“I-I’m sorry I yelled at you guys. I-” Red voice falters as the two come closer. He shouldn’t be apologizing. He meant what he said. But he said it so harshly, he could have hurt their feelings. 

“Let’s just get out of here.” Avon whispers. Ecto nods, holding out the string of beads that Red had dropped. A glimmer, a bubble of joy ripples through Red’s puffy eyes, clasping at the lost accessory and placing back in it’s rightful place on his vest. 

Avon takes hold of Red’s hand, and pulls her to her feet. A deep, growling noise echoes off the wood of the small, enclosed room. Reverberating against the stone pillars that hold up the staircase above them. But it’s no monster, no creature of the night. Well, unless the wanderers count midnight munchies as a monster. Red pouts. “Do you think there’s food somewhere here?” 

They haven’t had the chance to eat anything good for days. They hardly even had time to rest, much less gather food. Only what they find while walking has been their source of nourishment. And at the sound of one call, the others in the pack answer. All three wanderers are hungry. Ecto grimaces. “There’ gotta be some things we can loot around here. Maybe on the next floors.” 

At first, Avon wants to disagree, but she keeps her mouth closed. She’s hungry as well, and they are low on supplies. Avon and Ecto did well enough holding back enemies on the first floor, with Red in the mix they’ll only fare better. The three tiptoe out of the cupboard, keeping silent all the way up to the second floor. More monsters and illagers roam the halls. The wanderers can only stay unseen for so long. 

An arrow whizzes past Ecto’s face, ripping through the fabric of Avon’s cloak before falling at the feet of Red. A skeleton draws back it’s bow to fire another shot, intent on not missing Ecto’s chest this time around. 

Red shoots forward, sliding in front of Ecto. All three brace upon hearing the thwip of a bowstring letting loose it’s arrow. But instead of colliding with anyone’s body, the arrow is left suspended in water. A barrier of liquid, conjured through Red’s burgeoning magic, spans as a shield around all three. Red can’t help but grin back at her friends, coy and excited. Such an expression is contagious, and equally sly grins reach Ecto and Avon. 

A vindicator charges towards Red’s barrier, iron axe raised to plunge down over his wall. Ecto takes a deep breath, and pushes through the shield. Soaked but unstoppable, she plants her foot into the illager’s chest, jumping up as her sword slashes open her enemy. A few stray locks are blown free from Ecto’s view, wingbeats as Avon scouts ahead. Her trident runs through the brittle bones of a skeleton, throwing the blade into the ceiling and slaughtering the spider waiting to kill Red. 

It becomes a system with the wanderers. Avon forges ahead, taking out creepers and skeletons- ranged dangers. Preliminary threats. Ecto charges in as the calvary, working with Avon to slaughter the illagers and zombies. Red moves in during the fight, using her water magic as support. Whether it be a shield, a trap, or a distraction, Red has an answer with water.  Room by room, they clear and cleanse the dark hallways of the dank mansion. There’s not much in the way of treasure, but the trio does manage to find enough food and other supplies to stuff Red’s bag with. Enough to keep them going for at least another week on the run. 

The wanderers are unstoppable. No evoker, no vindicator, no skeleton or creeper could slow them down. They are even smiling, working together as a team. Seeing the joyous smirk on Red’s face as she throws up a rink of ice between her friends and her foes. Avon’s pride as her trident returns to her hand, the heavy thud of the loyalty bound to her soul. Ecto’s coy grin as she surprises her enemies with swift and stunning attacks. By the time the trio reaches the top floor, they’ve perfected working together. Red’s bag is so full of food and emeralds that the treasure haul is falling loose from the rim of her bag. 

Ecto taps her foot against a small statue, something that just fell out of the robes of the last evoker. The last enemy in the entire mansion. “This kinda looks like Fred.” 

Red hobbles over, catching a potato as it falls from his bag. Avon takes the uncooked spud, biting into it with a crunch. Red shivers at the noise, and Avon’s gusto for potatoes, before looking at the metal statue. Ecto wipes blood and dust from the emerald eyes, holding it out for Red. “You’re right. Do you think Scar got Fred from one of these places then?” 

“Why did Scar give that to you in the first place? We should’ve asked him last time we were with the Hermits.” Avon adds, wiping the potato juice from her lips. 

Red takes hold of Fred, feeling that odd zing up his spine. Energy flooding through from Fred. The golden gift from Scar has been hanging on Red’s bag, a constant companion on their journey. “I don’t know, but he said not to lose it. I’m sure there’s a reason he wanted us to have it, though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s like his magic crystals?” 

Ecto snorts, tossing the spare golden totem into a dusty corner of the room. “And we all know how well those work.” 

Avon peeks into Red’s bag, one hand still clutching her trident as the other takes inventory. “We have enough to keep us going for quite some time now. We won’t have to go hungry while we travel.” 

In the corner of the room, Ecto sets down a potted allium. She nearly squeezes it to the point of breaking, but turns around to face her friends instead. “Why should we keep running? Look at what we just did. We cleared out a whole woodland mansion together, and came out with only a scratch or two.” 

Red bites his lip, looking at Ecto’s determined face. Unyielding, that’s the best way to describe Ecto. Like a cactus in the desert, she’s unmoving, resilient to anything that tries to knock her down. Which also means she’s just as tough as a cactus. “Do you really think this can be comparable to the hellspawns?” 

“When we work together, we’re unstoppable!” Ecto grins, wrapping her arms around the shoulders of both her friends. Trying to instill some sense of camaraderie. “We’re strong enough to take on the whole nether, whatever those stupid hellspawns have waiting. We don’t need to keep running, the hellspawns won’t know what hit them if we go for their throats right now.” 

“This...this isn’t anything like the nether, Ecto. Have you ever been there?” Avon’s voice rises up, and for a second Ecto swears she can hear a hint of fear in Avon’s tone. A spark of dread in her eyes. “It’s nothing like the overworld, and nothing like the End. We can’t just be unstoppable- we have to be more than that. It’s too dangerous to go.” 

“Why are you so afraid of the nether, Avon?” Ecto pulls away, looking at Red. Hoping for the last one to back her up. 

“It’s just not a good place! I don’t like it, it’s hot and there’s lava everywhere. Ghosts that scream fireballs and monsters with fire for blood. It is no place for any of us, and we don’t even have armor!” 

“I’m sorry, Ecto. I know this was an awesome show of force, but Avon’s been to the nether before. She knows what’s on the other side of those portals.” Red bites his lip. He hates to have to pick a side. He wishes there was some sort of middle ground, a way to appease both of them. “It’ll just be a little longer till Selene is back with information. Then we can take action.” 

Ecto’s shoulders drop. Once again, the others don’t see her way of thinking. Her idea, her point of view. Once again, she’s the outsider, the odd one out. Red offers her hand, but Ecto just brushes past both of her friends. She doesn’t want Red’s sympathy. 

She wants action. And if they won’t take action, then she will.

[scotianostra]

On January 17th 1795 Duddingston Curling Society became formally organised, one of the earliest in the history of curling.

A wee bit of a contentious one this, because Kilsyth lays claim to a date of 1716, however Kilsyth never pops up in my history alerts that I check every day,“what you don’t remember all these anniversaries” I hear you say? Sadly not! So anyway back to Duddingston…..

n the hard winters of the 18th century, many citizens of Edinburgh liked to skate and curl on the frozen Nor’Loch, immediately to the north of the Castle Rock. As the New Town began to take shape in the 1780s it was decided to drain the Nor’ Loch, and a new curling venue became necessary. In 1795 a group of gentlemen formed the Duddingston Curling Society, and erected a small building on the edge of the loch to house their stones.

By the 1820s efforts to enlarge and repair this building proving unsuccessful, it was decided to start again, and the fashionable architect WH Playfair was asked to draw up a design. This new building, most probably on the site of the old one, was completed in 1825. It is octagonal in plan and has two compartments, one above the other. The lower one stored the stones, and, though secured with bars, was open to the elements, so that the stones when required would be at the right temperature.

The upper room, accessed separately, was furnished with glazed windows and a fireplace, and there the members could go to warm themselves, to watch the game and, no doubt, to enjoy a wee dram.

The importance of the Duddingston Curling Society lies in their approach to the rules of the game. First they wrote down their version of the rules, recorded in the Minutes of the Society, and then about 1803, they had the rules printed and copies were distributed to every member. These printed copies, easy to refer to and completely portable, spread quickly throughout Scotland and became the standard form nationally. The Duddingston rules still form the basis of the international rules today.

Today in Scotland there is very little outdoor curling, and certainly none on Duddingston Loch. Edinburgh curlers play at Murrayfield Ice Rink.

You can visit the Curling Clubs’ building, called Thomson’s Tower, at Dr Neil’s Gardens in Duddingston, a great wee place to have a wander, it is free to see and there is a wee cafeteria you go through on entering.

The pics include some old curling stones and Thomson’s Tower. The third is an amazing scene as hundreds skate on Duddingston Loch circa 1900. painting is a watercolour of winter sports on a frozen Duddingston Loch, by Charles Altamont Doyle, 1876 which is on display at National Museum of Scotland.

[deerlyloved]

one for all, baby!

under cut: unused starter for my ocs in my universe called one for all!

A loud explosion echoed through the streets of the city, chunks of stone and metal flying outwards and hitting windows on the opposite side of the street with enough force to shatter the glass and keep going for several feet before they finally came to a rolling stop. Several people on the sidewalk were miraculously shielded and untouched from the blast, and they all turned towards the now collapsed wall in awe as a woman stepped out from the destruction, a large scythe in her hand as she waved dust away from her face.

Two short yet sharp horns extended upwards from her forehead, tinted yellow with noticeable cracks, and it was a quick give away to those walking by that this scene did not involve them-- It was demon business. Most moved on with their days, trying to rush away without drawing too much attention to themselves, though a handful lingered, watching as the woman coughed into her hand, motioning behind her for someone to follow as she hobbled down from the piles of brick on the sidewalk.

A short man in a baggy sweater, with two furry ears and a large set of curled horns, clambered after her, arms out as he walked out much more unsteadily than the demon he followed-- But then, behind him, more followed, easily a dozen people standing in the street now, each with a set of horns, some with tails and some with wings. The woman with the scythe coughed again, being careful not to smudge her lipstick as she coughed into her elbow, nose crinkled.

Her black attire was much dustier now, and a quick look at the platform boots she wore gave the question as to how she so gracefully climbed down from the mountain of rubble when the man in sneakers that stood next to her had so much trouble. She turned, looking to the group behind her, a black leathery tail flicking back and forth meticulously as she watched them and did a quick headcount.

“Eighteen, nineteen and… Twenty.” She murmured quickly, nodding to herself before she spoke louder, to the group themselves now, “Alright, I’m going to pop out now, make sure to tell the cops everything, you know the drill.” She gave a thumbs-up, her nails sharp and painted a glittery black.

“How...How can we thank you?” A demon from the crowd asked, stumbling forward.

Ebony Halls gave a very quick shrug, “Dunno, I guess do minimal dying, it’ll make my job easier.” She turned without another word, slinging an arm over the short mans’ shoulder and beginning to walk away. A few more people called after her, but she didn’t respond, just moving to the sidewalk to fall in line with the bystanders scurrying away as her hand went out, the scythe she clutched disappearing.

A minute passed in relative silence before the man spoke, “I uh… Thanks, Death. I appreciate it.”

Ebony nodded, “Yeah, ‘course Ro’. Just… Be more careful, you know how bad the demon trade’s gotten these days, ever since those assholes over in Atheism started paying well for us.” She warned.

The world they were born into was unique, to say the least. The God(s) of most major religions were all real, and so were their creation stories-- They all argued about who was the “most right”, though, and so did their followers, but most people just accepted that they followed their own God(s) and other people followed theirs, and that was that.

With the Gods, however, came those below them. Ebony and Rover were born in the Catholic mythos, two demons (well, sort of) from the good ol’ fire and brimstone Hell, and most of their friends were as well. Ebony had been to the Underworld, and she thought it was a fantastic change of pace from the whole ‘torture for eternity’ schtick, but her formal request to change it up and redo a section of the Pit was discarded.

While Rover was a lower class demon, easily overpowered and thrown into things like the demon trade, Ebony was an upper-class demon, which meant you’d be hard-pressed to beat her in a fight and more likely to die than anything.

Oh, also, Ebony was technically an upper-class angel as well. You know, one of the four potential anti-Christs and all that, both realms had to very begrudgingly accept her despite them both hating it.

Right, you might want an explanation…

See, it all started with an angel named Pahaliah. Skip through the story a few dozen millennia, and good ol’ Paha meets Barron, the soon to be father of four terrible hellspawn that made up Ebony and all her siblings. They fall in love, have a kid, then another, then twins, they break up, the kids get kidnapped by angels when Pahaliah goes to angel jail, blah blah blah, Ebony is named the latest reincarnation of the force of Death, then they break out, etcetera…

That’s a few thousand years summed up in a quick paragraph!

Look, when you lived in the nightmare of stress, political debates, and constant migraines from having death requests flooding through your head like an overpopulated instant messenger app, you would be quick to summarize things quickly too. She didn’t want to think about the decade or so she spent in Heaven, kidnapped by angels with countless eyes and forced to learn about her new gift as the literal force of Death itself, it just… added to her headache.

Speaking of, Death paused, checking the watch on her wrist as she dug in the hip bag she had, pulling out a small bottle of ibuprofen. She took two without thinking, and she heard Rover sigh in disapproval.

“You shouldn’t take them dry, they could really hurt your throat in the long run.” He told her.

“Live fast, die hard, etcetera.” Ebony replied as she put the bottle back where it was, “In my case, I think I can’t die until I hit the ripe old age of a hundred if the angels gave me any real information.” Her hand absentmindedly traces the jagged scar across her throat. Ebony had fought for so long, even though she was just now planning her twenty-fifth birthday, but Death couldn’t really die, it just had to wait until it’s approved dying time.

Everything in this world was really keen on making sure everything was approved before it happened, keeping all the I’s dotted and t’s crossed, nothing left out of reports sent to the Virtues in Heaven or the Lords in Hell. Great world to be born into, really, so long as you didn’t mind the meaningless stream of dramatics the daily life would bring. 

“Anyway,” She said, interrupting her own thoughts as she twirled a strand of coiled black hair around her light brown finger, “I’m gonna pop over to the skating rink later, you wanna come?” Ebony turned her bright yellow eyes down to Rover with a sharp-toothed grin. To a human, it might be unnerving to see the black-sclalera eyes that peered down at them, and the fangs that unfurled from her lips, but Rover had seen demons plenty scarier than her-- that certainly included Ebony’s true form as well.

“Nah, but Rex’ll probably show up.” Rover replied, “I gotta get Fido to shave my head again.”

“Haha, nerd.” Ebony teased, pausing to pull the backpack she wore, shaped like a black cat with bright gold eyes, around to her chest. She rummaged through them as she shuffled along with Rover, pulling out a pair of black shoes. Her Heelys. Ebony grasped at Rover, waiting for the hellhound to stand next to her with an annoyed, yet playful look on his face, and leaned on his shoulder as she unlaced her platform boots, pulling them off and sliding her Heelys on in their place. She tucked her boots into her bag, then rocked back onto her heel. 

“Guess I’ll take off, then.” She said, patting Rover on the back roughly with a grin. Just before she went to kick off and skate away, she heard someone shout from behind her, and the woman turned quickly with a confused look only to see someone walking right for her and Rover.