#this drawing turns people into FAERIES

[starryevermore]

you said you were gonna come find me ✧ cardan greenbriar

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pairing: cardan greenbriar x fae!fem!reader

request: part 2 of the cardan fic?? - anon

summary: and you didn't wanna hang around. she said it was just goodbye for now. he said he was gonna grow up, then he would come find you.

word count: 1,728

warnings?: dual povs, a little angst with a happy ending, not proofread

PART ONE | PART THREE

The local children were convinced you were a witch. Part of you wanted to tell them that you were worse than a witch—that you could turn them into animal of your choosing, that you could make them do things and think they liked it, that you could ruin their lives by virtue of existing. Perhaps that was the heartache talking, so you instead shouted “boo!” when you caught them staring for too long. You supposed, though, you fed into the rumors of your being a witch. You came into this town out of nowhere, lived far away from the rest of its people, and only interacted with them when you went into town for food or a new library book. No one knew who you were or where you came from. At first, you reveled in the solace.

Now, you were only painfully are of how lonely you were.  

When you left Faerie, you went as far as you could from your former home. Traveled up to the mountains, found an abandoned cabin you could hole up in. There were few faeries in this area, mostly solitary fae that you would encounter while on walks in the woods, which had been the draw. Months later, you found yourself wishing you had set yourself up in one of the communities of fae who lived in the mortal lands. Would you be admitting defeat to leave the cabin now and join them? 

It wasn’t all horrible in your little cabin. Being away from court and all of its expectations was nice. You didn’t have to worry about carefully mincing your words so as not to offend anyone. You weren’t dragged into dances you would rather avoid. And you certainly did have to let your heart break over and over again as Jude at Cardan’s side. No, instead, you could read and write poetry and tend to the little garden you had started. You could find your happiness, even if it was without the one person you truly wanted by your side. 

You wondered how Cardan was doing. Had he even noticed you were gone? Did he care? He had seemed to miss seeing you when you danced with him on your last night in Faerie. But he had also not made any prior efforts to seek you out. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could manipulate. They could twist the truth to serve their interests. Few were better at doing so than Cardan. 

“When I learned you left Faerie, this was not the sort of place I expected you to be.”

You stiffened as you rounded the corner. The basket you’d been using to carry the herbs you foraged nearly fell from your grip. You squared your shoulders, looked down your nose at the woman seated at your dining room table. “I did not come here under the expectation to be found.”

Jude considered the room. The dirty dishes in the sink, the wilted flowers in the center of the table, the open storybook at the chair askew in front of her. “So it seems. It was not easy to find you.”

“You should have taken that as a sign to leave me be,” you said. You crossed the dining room and went into the kitchen. Jude’s chair scratched against the floor as she followed you. You ignored her as you began to unload the herbs from your basket. “I left Faerie for a reason.”

Though you were avoiding looking at her, you knew Jude’s eyes did not leave you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought Jude was fae herself. The predatory glint in her eyes, the way her fingers itched to grab at her sword. She was not still like fae, nor was she unnaturally beautiful like fae, but she carried herself in such a way that you could be convinced otherwise. By human standards, she would have been the most beautiful of all. It was easy to understand why Cardan would choose her. Gorgeous but lethal—the exact sort of woman he would pursue. First Nicasia, now Jude. It was just as easy to see that you did not fit into the picture. 

“You ran in the middle of the night,” Jude said. You looked over your shoulder. Her brows were pinched together as she scrutinized you. 

“Have you come here to chastise me for leaving without a goodbye?”

She shook her head. “I have come because you were invited to breakfast.”

It was hard not to laugh. Was that why she came all the way to mountains to find you? Because you didn’t come to breakfast? It was so ridiculous. Of all the reasons to seek you out, it was the silliest of them all. Your heart ached all the same, though. No one came because you were a friend. No one came because you were missed. Would Cardan have even known you were gone if he hadn’t extended the invitation the very evening you fled? 

“If I have offended the King, then I extend my apologies.”

Jude lifted her chin. “Tell him yourself.”

Your jaw clenched and unclenched. No. You would not go to him. You would not drag yourself back to that palace and let yourself be reminded why you had to go. You refused to break your heart all over again. “I have no desire to return to Faerie.”

“You don’t have to.”

Cardan stood in your bedroom. It was different than your one in Faerie. The one there had been full of extravagant things—the finest things he could gift you. It was full of gold and pearl and opal, glittering as if it all needed to be housed in a vault. But this bedroom, it had been stitched together out of nothing. Threadbare blankets, smooshed pillows, books that looked like they would fall apart with one wrong look. Cardan listened to your conversation as your voice floated down the hall. Would you really choose all of this over being with him? Was he truly so terrible?

The floor creaked under his feet as he stepped out and walked down the hall. Cardan could only see the back of your head, but you still looked just as beautiful as he remembered. His fingers twitched at his side as he fought the urge to run up behind you, take you in his arms, and whisk you away to Faerie. When had you taken so much control over him? When had he given it to you so willingly? When had you decided you didn’t want it anymore? 

“I believe I am owed an apology?”

You turned slowly on your heel. Your eyes narrowed, but Cardan did not miss the flash of surprise. Your tongue swiped over your teeth. Would it be wrong to take that tongue in his mouth? Did it matter if it was? “I apologize.”

“My, that was heartfelt.”

Your eyes fell to the tail that swished around Cardan’s legs. It was still unfamiliar for him to have it out, still hard to control it from revealing his base emotions. He tried to will it to stop, but it continued to wave around as his excitement of seeing you bubbled in his chest. “Would you prefer I fall to my knees and weep for your forgiveness? Kiss your feet until you are pleased?”

“Oh, there are few things that would please me more than you on your knees for me, but I would prefer to not have an audience for that.”

Your gaze flitted from Cardan to Jude, who was inspecting your collection of kitchen knives. Were you debating sending her away? He would enjoy that. He would like to get on his own knees and remind you why he cared for you so. He misliked the distance you were putting between him. Maybe if he begged prettily enough, you would forgive him for whatever cruel thing he did that sent you running. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t appreciate learning that you fled in the middle of the night after inviting you to breakfast. Is my company so awful that you would rather leave your home than spend a moment with me?”

A scoff escaped your lips. “I didn’t expect you to care.”

Cardan stared. Didn’t care…? He was so sure he had been clear with his intentions. He sent you gifts—he sent you a ring! The ring…Cardan reached over to his littlest finger and slipped it off. Ignoring your noise of protest, he closed the distance, grabbed your hand, and slipped the ring back on the finger it belonged. His heart slowed to a normal beat.

“Why would I give you this ring if I didn’t care?”

You stared at the ring. “You have gifted me many things.”

Jude stepped toward you. Your head snapped over to look at her, as if you had forgotten she was there. She tapped on the glittering gem on the ring’s center. “Allow me—Cardan is not good at professions of love, it seems. I told him of how humans would gift a ring as a promise of love. He wished to do that for you. Usually, there are confessions of how one wants to stay with their partner for all of their lives, but it seems he forgot that part.”

Cardan’s face burned as you looked back to him. “Is that true?” you asked. 

“Do I need to get on my knees for you to believe it?” He ignored Jude’s remark that that, too, was part of the human tradition.

You straightened your spine. “I will not be a lover to the king.”

Of course you wouldn’t be. You deserved more than that. Cardan was willing to offer you more than that. All you had to do was give him the word. Without a thought, Cardan sank to his knees, captured your hands in his. “Then be my Queen.”

Your breath hitched. 

“Come back to Faerie and rule by my side. Allow me to love you as I have tried for all these years. I missed you.” He lifted one of your hands to lips, then the other. “I begged Jude to help me find you and bring you home. I begged her to help me come here. Please, don’t let it all be for not.”

All you could manage was a single nod, and that was enough. 

PART THREE

[celestialprincesse]

𝟏. 𝐀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞

Part One of Foreigner's God King Simon Riley X F! Faerie Reader

WC: 2k

Sunlight fractures through the leaves of age old oaks and ancient pines, dappling against your back, weaving through long strands of untamed hair to brush a kiss against your thinly clothed shoulders, spiders silk and gauze just barely fluttering on a phantom breeze stirred by the muted clopping of horse hooves on the forest floor. The mare beneath you holds tension in her withers, matching the unpleasant knotting of the muscle between your shoulder blades. She knows what’s coming just as well as you do. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt anxiety this way. It’s the kind of gnawing, unsettling feeling at the pit of your stomach that comes only from venturing away from the safety of the trees and caves, brooks and hollow roots you call home. Your people call home. You force yourself to swallow down the fear - remind yourself that you’re doing this for them. Without this sacrifice, your sacrifice, the woods and forests which serve as sanctuary for your entire species, would be gone. The sick feeling in your stomach refuses to be soothed. 

In an attempt to calm yourself, to tear your mind away from the images you’ve conjured of what may await you on the forest edge, you focus intently on every slow stride of your companion. You draw your thoughts to counting every rhythmic movement of her shoulders, the way they gently jostle your hips as you follow each motion of hers with one of your own. A push and pull of a gentle tide. She and you melt into one being, acting and reacting in such effortless synchrony, such enviable elegance. An innate ability for which your kind are revered. 

Humans long lost touch with nature - shunned it in favor of such rapid growth, such vast power. They burned the trees to make room for their sprawling palaces, dug up the earth and all of her riches to build their roads, to grow their crops, never once wondering what she could provide had they simply respected her instead. Your people had never done such a thing, and for that, you’d been blessed. She’d provided you with everything you could ever have needed, and all you’d ever had to do was provide for her in turn. That balance, that equilibrium, is what humans have long since forgotten. Compromise, to them, is an impossible thing. To you and your kind, it’s an intrinsic part of life. 

At this moment, you feel that perhaps you know compromise better than any. 

The journey so far has been painstakingly long. On the one hand, it’s something you feel grateful for, that you’ve time to prepare yourself for the life that lies beyond the treeline. On the other, however, it’s excruciating. To ride through the forest, down the path away from the only life you’ve ever known, to mourn something you’ve not yet even lost. Every blazing orange dusk is another grain of sand dripping through the fingers of time, and every golden lighted dawn a death knell. You wonder if your sisters miss you the way you miss them. Your mother, too. Maybe they sit in quiet solitude, wondering what you’re doing at any given moment, or maybe they cry tears of frustration and anger at the fact that it could’ve been anyone else. Anyone but you. 

The days before had been spent in a resigned sort of mourning. You’d saved your tears for the first days of your voyage. 

You still so vividly remember sitting with your mother as she twisted up your hair, pinning it with flowers as she reminisced upon the girl taken by the last king. She’d been only as old as your youngest sister, Ophelia, when it had happened. Once every generation, every two, if you were at all lucky. You, unfortunately, were not. She’d spoken of how silent everything fell when the girl had been sent away - the strange, pained feeling that had settled over your people as they’d watched her go resigned into the trees. She’d never come back, of course, a fate that you too share. The small hope flickering like a fading ember at the bottom of your heart sings songs of longing. Such a foolish thing it is, holding out that perhaps the man who waits beyond the woods will love you, guide you to him with coaxing words and the gentlest of touches. You feel pathetic even thinking of it. 

You never had quite outgrown your childish fantasies of love, and in turn, had given the humans holed up behind their cold stone walls another innocent heart to break. 

When the sun shrinks back to nothing but a hazy golden glow, like that of a dying fire or burning star, you realize that more for your horse’s sake than your own, that it’s time to stop, to rest before you carry on with your journey. A day or two more and you’ll have reached the place where the canopy dwindles and the roots which cover the forest floor grow sparse, travel under the earth as though to hide from the human feet which march upon them. You hope for at least one more blissful sleep under the stars, moss under your head and night creatures watching your rest with vigilant, unseeing eyes. 

Settling aside the small pond where your horse bends at her withers to drink, you lay up against the gnarled stump of a fallen tree, which yields to accommodate your body, just one of the many perks of being so connected with nature. You’ve no need to set up a campsite when the forest welcomes and provides for you with such ease. It’s not easy to forget the fact that the forest probably recognises the way you’re feeling - sympathizes with your predicament.

As you drift off into a fitful sleep, under the comforting twinkle of the stars, A king is waking.  Behind the fortified stone walls of the palace, the revelry celebrating the lead up to King Simon’s wedding has lasted for days. To most, it’s an opportunity to celebrate. Their cold, reclusive king finally taking a wife. When the betrothal had been announced, the sigh of relief collectively exhaled by the nation had been palpable. He hadn’t wanted to do it - marry some wild forest thing and rut her full of little fat wailing babies. Johnny had been the unfortunate soul tasked with convincing him - reminding him that since Tommy passed, so did the soul heir to the Riley line. With enemies poised in the south, ready to exploit any weakness they could find, Simon hadn’t exactly had much choice. His being backed into a corner, however, hasn’t made him the most pleasant to deal with during the preamble to his rapidly inbound nuptials. For not only his sake, but also everyone else’s, he hopes that his bride-to-be is at least reasonably tame. With his luck? Highly doubtful.

His closest men had shared their theories and fantasies of some nymph-like creature, lovely and demure, happy to bend to Simon’s every whim, less wife, more well trained pet. Whilst he can appreciate a beautiful woman just as much as any man can, he keeps his expectations low - pleasant to be around and a decent conversationalist is enough for him. 

He’s tried to expel the thoughts of marriage from his mind for as long as possible. He’s far too busy to be distracted with silly fantasies of rose petal decorated aisles and which rings he’ll select for his betrothed. Keeping a kingdom running and the vulture-like men that are his enemies at bay is no mindless thing. Simon barely has time enough to sleep, let alone celebrate a wedding he doesn’t want, nor to take the day-long trek to the agreed meeting place to collect his new wife. To collect his new wife. Parade her on horseback like some exotic acquisition to be flaunted, to grow bored with when the novelty inevitably wears off. 

It’s impossible to ignore the way his knees creak as he rolls tiredly from his bed, the fathomless cold embedded in the very core of the flagstone floors seeping into his bare feet as he dresses himself. In spite of his status as King, Simon keeps his appearance reasonably simple, his tunics plain and armor scarcely decorated. Easier to dress. Simon Riley is a man of convenience, the bells and whistles of being monarch are nothing but a hindrance. 

The celebrations have thankfully quieted, all of his courtiers and castle residents undoubtedly tired, hungover and sore from the days of singing, dancing and drinking - days which he’s mostly spent holed away in his study, playing chess with wooden carved soldiers on battle maps, giving the occasional go-ahead to wedding planners and burying his nose in any literature on strategy he can find.  Today, unfortunately, his kingly duties outweigh his reclusiveness. He’ll only travel with Price to the meeting point - having originally wanted to go alone so as to make your initial meeting less intimidating, a point to which the head of his Kingsguard had made his disagreement abundantly clear. Yes, Price knows that Simon is fully capable of looking out for himself, but he sure as hell isn’t giving him any chance of proving that. He’s also desperate to get out of the castle and away from the mothers attempting to shove their daughters at his feet. So, with huffed complaints about the weather, and the threat of oncoming rain, signaled by the gritty gray clouds blotting out the starlight, the two men set off. Hooves beat thunderously across stone, dirt and grass as they make their way past the walls of the city, through the dwindling suburbs of thatched roofs and smoking chimneys and out into the vast plains of the countryside. The fresh air is a welcome reprieve from the smoke and burning metal of forges, the grassy hills and fields stretching for miles a refreshing break from the towering monoliths of stone that make up the palace. He can see why people would like it out here, away from the banal chatter of gossip and the unrelenting noise, left to grow stagnant within the confines of winding alleys or houses packed so closely together. Simon hasn’t even met you, and yet he already finds himself sympathizing for the adjustment you’ll have to make. 

You, meanwhile, feel surprisingly more grounded following your nap, having allowed both yourself and your horse to rest for a while before continuing your journey. The gnawing anxiety in your stomach is soothed by the handful of blackberries you’d found and snacked on as you continued through the slowly more sparse woodland, and although you’re still wallowing, at least you’re not wallowing on an empty stomach and no sleep. 

The sun slowly inches west behind the cloud cover, which quickly replaces the forest canopy you’ve always known, and tells you that in your mental absence, another day has nearly come and gone, and with that, the mileage covered which draws you closer to your inevitable fate. The birdsong has long since gone quiet, and there’s no longer movement indicative of life in the shrubbery. Just you, and the parapet on which you seem to endlessly walk. 

Until the forest seems to stop entirely. The trees halt their growth at some invisible boundary, wildflowers cease their spread with an unnatural abruptness and your stomach goes lurching. Like you’ve jumped from a cliff. You’ve jumped from a cliff, you’re about to hit the ground, and everything in you is screaming for time to stop, for fate to twist, for the inevitable to be somehow avoided. 

You could turn back. You could still turn back, and the forest would welcome you home with open arms. You could go home to your sisters, to your mother and the magic woven into everything you’ve ever known.

You could turn back - but in turning back, you’d only shatter the fragile peace forged so weakly between your own people, and those who’ve come to take you away. 

“Looks petrified.” Price observes from where he and Simon stand proud upon the hill, watching as a faerie on a white horse comes emerging tentatively from the treeline. You do, you poor, delicate thing, Simon thinks to himself as he, Price, and their imposing black friesians make their way to greet you. 

Happy Foreigner's God day to those who celebrate 1.8k and 2k are basically the same so pls enjoy the 1st chapter 💕

[feyreswaterybowels]

Shadows Dance🐦‍⬛ (#4)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel is losing his shit. He tries to keep it together for Sarah but he needs (Y/N) back—needs her far away from Jarek.

Warnings: Reference to implied sexual assault. Implied sexual assault that led to pregnancy. Referenced forced miscarriages.

Word Count: 1.5k

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 ↓

“Here,” Feyre says gently, sitting a warm cup of tea in front of Sarah. Gazing at the small child asleep against her chest, thumb tucked in his mouth.

She reached forward with shaking hands grabbing the cup. “Thank you,” Sarah breaths in a shaky voice before taking a sip.

“Sarah, dear, we need to ask you some questions,” Rhys begins but Feyre cuts in.

“Maybe we should give her a minute to settle,” She offers but her mate shakes his head.

“No. Every minute we waste is a minute she’s alone with Jarek.” Feyre nods in understanding, she knew very little of this Jarek male but it didn’t take much to figure out he wasn’t a good guy.

“Can I lay him down somewhere first,” Sarah asks, voice breaking and raspy. Rhys' shoulders lose a bit of rigidness, eyes softening as he looks at the girl he loved so much and nods.

“I’ll take the child,” Mor steps forward. “He can lay in (Y/N) and Azriel’s room.” She shoots a look towards the shadowsinger, who doesn’t respond but doesn’t protest either. Sarah nods, letting Mor take the boy, leaving the room and ascending the stairs.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Sarah says, shrinking in on herself. She was finally back with her family and it was wrong, it was all wrong.

“Just start at the beginning,” Feyre offers gently as Mor joins the room again. Sarah meets her eye and sniffs.

“Okay, um, well, I met Jarek two months before my birthday

The Day Court was absolutely stunning. Sarah parts from her sister heading out the back of the large mansion, admiring the beautifully crafted architecture. Intricate designs laced with gold. I reached out to touch a particular pillar that had swirling designs all the way to the top.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” A voice asked. Sarah turned, blushing at the sight of the male next to her.

“Indeed,” She nods, drawing her hand back to herself, taking a sip from the glass in her hands. Some sparkling juice Rhys has slipped into her hand.

“I’ve never seen you around here before, are you traveling from Night Court?” He asked, Sarah looked over at him and offered a small nod.

“I am, this is my first time visiting Day Court,” She nodded, watching as he took a drink from his own glass—sure it was the faerie wine the rest of the people were drinking. “I’m here with my family. The High Lord is my uncle.”

“What is your name, dear?” He asks, offering his hand. “I’m Jarek of the Autumn Court, formerly Night Court. I wasn’t aware Rhysand had a niece.”

“Oh!” She gasps, offering her hand. “I’m Sarah. Rhys isn’t my uncle by blood. I was raised by my sister (Y/N) and her mate who are close with him.”

“Ah, I see,” He nods, a charming smile pulling at his lip, before offering his arm. “Well, you allow me the honor of showing you around?”

Sarah’s cheeks heated, nodding at the handsome male, looping her arm through his. “I would enjoy that.”

“That is how we met. After that we seemed to run into each other quite often. I didn’t think much of it,” Sarah tells the story, sadness and regret laced in every word. “He told me we should keep quiet about seeing one another since I was younger, but that on my birthday he would be willing to meet my family—meet all of you. A-and he convinced me to sneak out and meet him before the dinner. He kissed me for the first time, I’ve never been able to fully remember anything after that and he wouldn’t tell me either. Just that I woke up at his house days later.”

Everyone in the room was angry. Seething. Not at Sarah but at Jarek for taking advantage of her in her young innocence. Azriel’s shadows were a brewing storm around him as he listened to what his girl said.

“Did he—did he hurt you?” Azriel asks, a painful lump in his throat simply at the thought.

Sarah’s gaze drifted towards the stairs Mor at went up with her child before looking down. She didn’t have to say it for everyone to know what she meant with that look. He had forced himself on her and the result was pregnancy.

“It wasn’t the first time,” She whispers, “it happened a lot, usually his healer—who was also a prisoner—would make a tonic to rid the aftermath.”

Her voice broke, eyes welling with tears, Azriel was at her side in an instant, wrapping her in a strong embrace.

“With Elias,” She continued after they pulled away, “it was too late to take the tonic. I escaped two years ago but I had no clue where I was going. I didn’t even know where I was because he never allowed me outside. His men found me, brought me back. By the time I realized I was carrying a child it was too late.”

“Sweetheart,” Rhy’s breathed emphatically—trying to keep the thoughts of what had happened to himself under the mountain at bay. Knowing this sweet girl had gone through something similar hurt.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Feyre speaks, reaching out to grab Sarah’s hand, glancing at her mate, feeling his emotions through their bond.

“Sarah, dear, when you got out, where were you?” Cassian asked, arms folded across his heaving chest.

“It was hard to tell, it was dark and we were in the mountains but I—I’m pretty sure it was the Autumn court,” She says, looking around when everyone remained silent and stone faced. “What is it?”

“It’s just that the Beron is still over the lands there. He isn’t exactly our biggest fan. We could have…trouble gaining access to his lands,” Rhys explains gently, watching the girls eyes water.

“This is all my fault.” Her voice crack into a sob. Azriel grab her face shaking his head.

“No. It is no one's fault but his. I promise you, we will get (Y/N), back,” He says standing. “We’ll get her back or I’ll destroy all of Prythian trying.”

════════════════════════

Azriel stands at the window of his destroyed bedroom in the house of winds. Arms crossed, jaw clenched, fists sore and snarling quietly to himself, shadows storming around him, whispering to him.

He doesn’t look back when the door opens but he knows who it is.

“Az,” It’s soft, of course she’d be the one to come check on him. “Are you okay?”

He nearly scoffs. If it was anyone other than Mor he may have. Is he okay? Was he supposed to be okay knowing his love, his mate, was stolen away and at the mercy of a man that probably wanted her dead?

“Sorry, dumb question,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.

Azriel glances at her but doesn’t say anything.

“We’re gonna get her back—”

“Yes, and what pain will she have suffered by the time she is back?” Azriel bites, bitterness and hatred lacing every word.

Mor sighs, leaning against the windowsill. “What happened in here?”

Azriel snarls to himself as he remembers what sent him into his rage that left the bedroom in absolute shambles. His fists clench, he wants to his something.

“I can’t feel her.”

“What-”

“(Y/N). I can’t feel our bond. Obviously it wasn’t broken but it’s not there either.”

“Oh, Az…”

It’s silent. They stand there together, the stars of the night sky twinkling in the vast darkness of the sky.

“We spoke a bit more with Sarah,” Mor starts, and Az tenses—anything she says could send him into another fit of rage. “We know there’s wards placed on the home that’s probably what’s blocking the bond.”

It’s not the right thing to say. Azriel hisses, tearing himself from the window, pacing back and forth not caring about the debris being crushed under his boots.

“Az-”

“I can’t do this. I need to go find her. I need to be out there and Rhys has ordered me to this room. To our room. And I-I can’t,” He bites, still pacing. “When she leaves it’s different. It’s her choice. I know I’ll see her again. But this? He could kill her. He could force himself on her just like he did with—fuck.”

“You need to get your shit together, Azriel,” Mor snaps, Azriel looks up at her shocked. Opens his mouth to snap back but she holds her hand up silencing him. “Rhys ordered you here because he knows you aren’t in your right mind right now. (Y/N) needs you. She needs you strong and out there doing your job to find any and all information to find her. She is waiting for you—for us and you’re sitting here having a melt down.”

Azriel stares at her. Mouth ajar eyes wide. Fuck. Fuck, he’s so stupid. How could he be so selfish? So self absorbed? His girl was out there, out there alone with his and he was brooding in his room.

“Are you ready?” Mor breathes, looking at expectantly, arms cross and brow raised.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m ready.”

[rosanna-writer]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) (2/?)

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt. Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~2k

To absolutely no one's surprise, I'm part of @feysand-hivemind! I am so lucky to be able to create something alongside the sweetest, most talented group of people with the biggest, wettest, wrinkliest brains (and the biggest wingspans to match). I love you guys so much!

Moodboard by @octobers-veryown

Chapter 1: now we're at the starting line (i did my time) - Loop 0-2 | Chapter 2: Loops 5-11

You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!

It had started with a deer and a wolf and a forest. Rhys supposed it could end there, too. There had to be a reason that he found himself back at this moment in particular, over and over.

Something momentous, something world-changing happened every time Feyre loosed that arrow. He knew that down to the marrow of his bones.

Perhaps, then, he’d been tasked with stopping it.

The biting cold and the gnawing hunger were there again, and along with her scent and the sight of her alive, it was nearly enough to distract him.

But her eyes landed on the deer. And then the wolf.

“Feyre!” Rhys called her name, the first time he’d ever dared to voice it aloud.

She turned, and the look she leveled at him was pure hate. A human with ice in her heart, indeed.

Faerie. Rhys heard her thoughts, and she’d spat the word, all venom in her mind.

He hardly noticed. His Feyre moved like an expert, drawing the bow and aiming before she’d even finished turning, loosing the arrow on instinct. It hit its mark, and Rhys couldn’t help but marvel—it had taken him years of training in Illyria to be able to hit a target while doing anything but standing perfectly still.

His painter was a predator, too. He wasn’t even upset she’d shot him.

Rhys’s hand drifted to the wound in his chest as he watched her. Feyre hadn’t wasted time watching to ensure her arrow had found its mark—no, she’d reloaded, and Tamlin’s sentry was already dying, too.

Blood was soaking through his tunic, and Feyre had reloaded again, clearly intent on shooting him a second time to finish the job. Relentless. She had exactly the sort of tenacity Cassian had always said was a hallmark of his most promising recruits.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Rhys said, putting his hands up.

Feyre nocked the arrow but didn’t draw it. “Your kind isn’t supposed to be on this side of the Wall.”

His head was swimming, and for the life of him, Rhys couldn’t tell if it was the blood loss or those blue-grey eyes that were making him dizzy. A giddy, delirious, decidedly un-High-Lord-like laugh bubbled out of him.

“And I would have done something about that if you hadn’t shot me,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She reached back for another arrow but didn’t close her fingers around it.

Darkness was already eating at the corners of Rhys’s vision; there wasn’t much time left. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Feyre said something else, but Rhys didn’t hear it over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He swayed on his feet, stumbling backward until he hit a tree.

Something that might have been regret flickered in Feyre’s eyes.

The stain on his chest was growing, the fuzzy darkness overtaking more and more of his vision. Staying on his feet was too much, and Rhys tumbled to the ground. There wasn’t much time left.

Feyre didn’t kneel at his side or take his hand. He was dimly aware of her standing above him, watching silently as the last of his life drained out of him, probably just making sure he stayed thoroughly dead.

Good. She was being careful. Rhys had seen more than a few warriors die because they got cocky in the brief period between landing a killing blow and their opponent's final breath. Feyre was too smart to let someone she killed go down swinging and fell her too, and for some reason, knowing she could handle herself brought him an immense sense of relief.

Rhys faded out of consciousness, and with Feyre watching over him, it was almost…peaceful.

All too soon, he found himself right back where he started. A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold and hunger.

Perhaps he’d frightened Feyre by calling her name so abruptly last time. He must have made her panic, so of course she’d reacted on instinct and let her arrow fly.

Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. This time, he gentled his voice as he called her name.

And again, Feyre turned. And again, she shot him without hesitation.

But as he brought his hand to his chest again, Rhys noticed her cheeks had gone pink, most likely from the cold. Perhaps though…perhaps he’d overdone it and purred her name a bit too much like a lover.

He caught the tail end of her thought about him being the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and even as blood oozed from the wound next to his heart, Rhys wanted to preen.

He was running on borrowed time before he bled out and time reset. None of this mattered at all, so he said, “For what it’s worth, you’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, too.”

Just for that, she put another arrow in his throat. The world faded into too-familiar nothingness.

Deer. Wolf. Forest. Cold. Hunger.

Rhys had called her name, and that had been a mistake—as far as Feyre was concerned, he had no reason to know it. Though it seemed patently ridiculous, he didn’t want to frighten her into shooting him again, so he said, “Pardon?”

Feyre whirled around, blinking in surprise, and drew the bow. “What do you want, faerie?”

“You need to run. Do not return to this part of the forest. Please. It isn’t safe.”

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion, churning so quickly that Rhys could hardly keep up with all her questions or even begin to answer them. Somewhere in the middle of it, the deer bounded off into the trees.

Feyre swore. As far as she was concerned, Rhys was the reason her only chance at eating that day had just slipped away. She muttered something about faerie bullshit and shot him in retaliation.

As life drained out of Rhys again, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d expected this to turn out any differently.

And yet, he tried again. Each time, Feyre either perceived him as a threat and shot him immediately, or enough time passed that the deer got away, and then she shot him in retaliation anyway.

Rhys had known his painter held hate in her heart for the fae, but he hadn’t anticipated just how deep it ran. In the few seconds he had before she let her arrow fly, it was impossible to get Feyre to trust him.

He lost count how many times she let him bleed out in the snow before he accepted that he needed to play the long game. That was fine—Rhys was an extraordinarily patient male.

He’d known that Feyre changed the world when she sank her arrow into the wolf’s eye. Perhaps trying to stop it was wrongheaded of him; it seemed as good a guess as any that these repeated deaths were a message.

Feyre needed to kill that sentry. Rhys needed to let her.

A deer and a wolf and a forest. Cold. Hunger. And a shadow, watching over all of it.

Resigned to do things differently, Rhys woke again Under the Mountain. He stared up at the ceiling as Feyre’s scent faded from his nostrils, and for a moment, he just savored the short-lived peace. It wouldn’t be long until Amarantha was awake, too.

Somewhere across the Wall, the Cursebreaker was slinging a carcass over her shoulders and trudging home.

And maybe one day, she’d bring Rhys and the rest of Prythian home, too.

[likecanyoujustnot]

Cardan’s letters pov

Part 2: nearer

A/n: this part is a fair bit longer lmk if you wanna be tagged for the other parts

Part 1. Part 3

I stared at Taryn from across the room. She was laughing at something a courtier had said. I’d contemplated asking her if she’d heard from Jude, but as far as I knew she still thought Jude and I hated each other. And asking as to her well-being would be suspicious.

“Cardan.”

It took all my self control to not flinch at that voice.

I turned to him, “Locke.”

“You seem to be particularly gloomy tonight.”

I ignored him and looked at the faeries, all of them drunk or drinking, laughing and dancing. Happy.

“You could have you pick of any of them.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Maybe more than just one. Wouldn’t be the first time now would it?”

I wish Jude was here. I’d ask her to stab him. Not so bad that he would die, just enough to shut him up.

I’d been like that the past weeks. I’d sent the letter 8 days ago. She’d now been gone for 19 days. If past Cardan could see me know, moping over a mortal, fantasising about my former best friend getting stabbed, not even touching the wine in my hand, he’d laugh and sneer, call me pathetic.

“No it would not.” I still didn’t look at him.

“This mood wouldn’t have to do with a certain Duarte sister’s recent exile would it?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Locke,” I threw as much venom into his name as possible. “I exiled her, I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“Yes well, usually by now you’d be drunk out of your mind, a few lovely ladies draped over you and a gaggle of courtiers hanging off your every alcohol-slurred word.” He laughed. “Seems that that crown has made you rather boring.”

I wanted to throw said crown at him.

“Come join the party, a bed that big is surely too big for only one.”

There was only one woman I wanted in my bed. And she was currently in the mortal world.

“Perhaps you should be more worried about the amount of people who may be in your wife’s bed.” I threw a pointed glance at Taryn, standing awfully close to a green-haired faerie.

I would bet my title that Locke had not stayed loyal to his wife. The fae had twisted views on fidelity to one’s spouse, it was frowned upon, but also expected, especially among the likes of Locke, who believed they could do whatever they wished, I wouldn’t be surprised if Taryn took another lover to balance it all out. I had no intentions of ever betraying the trust of my wife.

Though I had already done that when I exiled her hadn’t I?

Locke didn’t even look at Taryn. Since we were both married to a Duarte sister, that technically made us brothers, though I would rather be drowned than ever acknowledge that to him.

“What my wife chooses to do with her spare time is none of my concern.”

Yes, like pretend to be her sister and trick the king into removing his general from his oaths, allowing him to do whatever he wants.

“Did you have any particular reason for bothering me Locke?” I looked at him, brows raised, unamused.

“Yes, about my birthday.”

“Your birthday is in five months.” That was it?

“Yes, I have something extravagant planned and I-”

I could see where this was going. “You are not using my gold to pay for your foolish personal revels, you have enough of your own.”

There was a flash of anger in his gaze as he said, “Very well. It appears some of Jude’s sensibility rubbed off on you,” and he left.

Good riddance.

I turned my attention back to studying Taryn. Everyone said they were identical, and they were, but I could tell the difference. Taryn didn’t seem to glow the way Jude did. Didn’t draw attention, didn’t make me want to do foolish things like declare how I felt for the world, risk war simply to get her back, do the things that haunted my most depraved thoughts.

Or maybe I couldn’t, since Taryn had fooled me. But I had been poisoned. And she had a strange quality to her skin.

I got up from the throne and left the party, walking to my room.

I was going to write another letter to Jude.

Locke was right, the bed was too big for just one. So I had to convince my wife to come back to me, to join me in that bed.

Jude,

Please come home, back to me, I need you

Why was putting my thoughts into words so difficult?

Maybe I should’ve been paying attention in school instead of getting drunk and spending half my time tormenting Jude and the other half staring at her and hoping no one noticed.

There had to be a reason she hadn’t come back didn’t there?

I assumed she was staying with Vivienne in the mortal lands, where Oak was as well. One would think if anything happened to her Vivienne would tell me, or at least tell Taryn, and if Taryn heard, Locke would, and he would undoubtedly lord it over me.

No.

Jude was stronger than that. She would never let anything in the mortal lands harm her, even if through nothing but force of will.

I wondered if her every waking moment was as filled with thoughts of me as mine were of her.

The guard had assured me that the last letter had made it to a messenger, so I didn’t see how she would not get it.

There was only one other reason she wasn’t coming back: me.

Had she felt that betrayed by the exile that she was staying away to spite me? Was the thought of being married to me, being my queen, that horrible that she didn’t want to come back? It seemed like something she would do.

Jude,

Since I cannot imagine there is much in the human lands to interest you, I can only suppose your continued absence in Elfhame is due to me.

I urge you. Come be angry at a nearer distance.

Cardan

I refrained from begging her to come back. Though if she didn’t respond to this I very well might.

If I had any clue where she was I’d go there personally. But I’d need to ask Taryn, and I did not want to talk to her.

This time I personally took the letter to a messenger I found scampering through a hallway. Half human male. Might be inclined to deliver a letter to another human.

“Make sure this gets to her.”

He nodded and took off, no questions as to why the king was sending a letter to his exiled seneschal.

It was out of my hands now.

All I could do was wait.

[inbetweenhours]

How It Started VS How Its Going

Back on that @pinchhitsfromthevoid hype! This pinch prompt was for @dayables​ who I know got spoiled in the brainstorming chat (rip) but I still hope you enjoy how it turned out! You gave me the option of flower husbands which was absolutely not going to be passed up, as well as the prompt of Arranged Marriage AU. Since I just so happen to already have an arranged marriage au for them, I figured I may as well put some effort into actually showing it off since, despite my very long google doc of plot chicanery, I haven't actually drawn much for it or otherwise got much of anything to show for it.

The real trick here was balancing the angst and fluff. There was no way I wasn't getting out of this without, any angst. The problem was actually finding a suitable amount of fluff to balance this out lol. I knew I wanted to draw their wedding, since that's the whole base of the au and it directly emphasizes your request. The problem is that within the au, these two don’t really get to anywhere that's especially fluffy till weeks if not months after their wedding lol. That’s how I eventually settled on a kind of “before and after” of their relationship. 

Mirroring their less than favourable wedding day and first meeting with the renewal of vows they do near the end of their journey within my plot. Where they choose, despite already being stuck together, to have meaning behind their marriage.

Below the cut I’m gonna ramble about the lore  important to this piece from the au. Enjoy :]

Okay so first off- their “vows”! Instead of exchanging rings my idea is that the Ocean Empire and Rivendell each have a different giving for their wedding ceremonies.

Merlings have a selkie inspired pelt. Its technically their old skin. Young merlings are much more creature esq, and as they grow they grow out of that skin into a more humanoid form. However they tend to keep their pelts since they are pretty durable and are good for young merlings to protect themselves with and camouflage in the depths. As merlings continue to grow out of even that stage, their pelts become sentimental. kept close to their hearts. The lose of the plt is like a severing of oneself from their soul or heart. Its important for their mental health that they know where their pelt is and that is is safe. They’re not typically handled by people you don’t trust.

Which is why it is traditional that merling will trade pelts with their lover at their wedding. Its imbuing this trust that their partner will give the pelt back. As well it is a symbol of love and  soul, metaphorically giving that devotion and adoration to their partner.

Elves meanwhile are a type of fae. The rules I use for elves names are adjacent but not directly the same as other fae, such as the faeries of the overgrown. Elven names hold power over the individual still, but its far less than what a faerie might hold. It more a social power than anything else. Elves keep public and personal names. These “true” personal names can only be chosen by the elf themself. They are only given to people who you trust absolutely. May that be family, longtime friends, or lovers. Its not uncommon in Rivendell for lovers to not share their true names until their wedding day, though even if they have the vows are much the same. Giving their spouse the gift of their name, to use as they please. This is done both out of trust (much like the merlings pelts), trusting their lovers not to hurt them with their name. And more importantly it offers devotion to your spouse, which would be returned of course.

Now when it comes to Flower Husbands... this all falls apart. These two have not had a real conversation till their vows. They have no trust or love for one another, and are in fact quite afraid of each other. Neither want to give over something so terrifyingly precious to the other. 

Jimmy feels pressured to do so, despite Lizzie insisting he doesn’t have to, because he knows how a wedding should go. He knows the citizens of the Ocean Empire do not trust that his mother, The Empress, has made the right choice in allowing this marriage to go through. He knows if he doesn’t do his best to make this look and feel legit for them, then they’ll only have more problems in the future. And he really is trying to be responsible, trying to prove himself to his family and his kingdoms that he can do the right thing. He isn’t just the prince, the second born. He is loved by his country, deeply so, but nothing is expected of him. He wants to do one good thing for them in turn. Hell, he volunteered himself so that his sister wouldn’t throw away her preexisting courtship. He loves his family and his country, and he has never been asked to do a thing for them. He just wants to prove he can.

So he drapes his pelt over Scotts shoulders, careful and with the sudden understanding of how badly it hurts to see. How easily being separated from it would destroy him. And he can only hope Scott will return it soon.

Scott meanwhile doesn’t believe in another choice. He is the Chosen Champion of Aeor, god of Winter and Stasis. He is a representative of tradition for Rivendell. As much as he is fuming about the marriage, he has rarely acted out in his life. The golden child for so much of his adolescence that even when that love has left he knows little more than to hold his tongue and obey... for now. Still, he knows what is expected of him for the wedding. And despite there being no way for his family or the citizens to verify he abided by tradition in this instance, he is loyal enough to his god (and in fact fairly knows his god perceives him and he would know he wronged him) to not try and get around it. 

So he gives his name, as coldly and objectively as he can. It is not a gift, but Jimmy, traditionally, has a right to it through their union. He can only pray Jimmy be kind with it.

Ultimately both spouses are careless with their exchange. Scott misunderstands the importance of the pelt, and keeps it far to long. Jimmy misunderstand the weight of Scotts name, and speaks it carelessly. Its rough, and terrifying. But it leads them to understanding, to finding common ground and for the first time finding hope in their situation as they understand the other not as an enemy but as the only ally in the same situation as them.

Finally I’m gonna do a quick run through of details I was happy with, kinda lore relevant but with less flowery language on the plot.

At their wedding both are dressed in traditional wedding garb for their empires, as well I’ve referenced my board loosely to dress the crowd properly. Rivendell brides/grooms tend to wear white. It represents purity, white is typically only worn in formal settings o it wont be dirties anyways, and it doesn't represent either individual god. Allowing neutrality. Jimmy is wearing a loose cut deep blue outfit with small decorative. Dark colours but especially deep blues are traditional as they connect with both the deep waters and the sky, tying an individual throughout to the world and their life.

In their renewal of vows they wear nearly the same outfits, however Jimmy sports some golden Rivendell jewelry and Scott in turn sports some pearls in his hair much like how Jimmy had at their wedding. Its about the sharing <33

Wedding day was very formal, very controlled. Both of their hair pulled back and styled in very proper traditional ways. At their vow renewal everything was up to them, so Jimmy looks a bit more like himself (as messy as that may be) and Scott has both his kingship and his hair cut (lore) so he’s a feeling a lot more stable

Scotts wears gloves at his wedding, vs without gloves at renewal! Tied in, at his wedding Scotts hair and skin is patterned with growing frost as he gets cold feet (hah) and is very upset about the situation versus his renewals where he has much more control of his powers and very explicitly happy with the situation

That is all for now! Day I hope you liked the pinch! Everyone else i hope you liked the lore! I would love to do more with the au going forward, I have a growing plot document and love talking about it. If anyone wants me to expand on any thoughts, has questions about the plot or characters or otherwise, my inbox is always open and I am attentive to both tags and comments ;) <3

[wizardislandisland-news]

The (not) Daily Orb

A war has nearly broken out over an artifact called the sorcerer’s crown. Rumor has it that it is the reason we have as little sorcerers as we do, as it steals the energy from them. As of now, there is not any more information. All interviews with @sorcererest-sorcerer have been denied.

Ruins have been found in cave

The ruins of a temple have been found recently in the caves under @lead-sorcerer’s mines. From what we can tell, it is dedicated to mushrooms. If you would like to help, you can join his expedition.

Cookout gone wrong

An innocent wizard cookout located at the Wizard Island Island Walmart turns into a mutant bloodbath. clones of @viscerawizard were reportedly afflicted with a severe allergic reaction, resulting in some horrific imagery for other attendants. Fortunately, none were harmed, though witnesses say the incident resulted in a new entity known as Dermis. Our request for interview with dermis has been declined.

Come on down to aster’s crystal shop today!

Are you feeling down? Depressed? Unlucky? Fading in and out of existence? Threatened by a bat? Looking for bunnies? Well, come to Amethyst Aster’s crystal shop! We have all of the crystals you need. Enhancers, fire starters, elemental, even mInD cOnTrOl, and so much more. Make sure to be careful. We do have stairs and holes, like THE PIT that many people know and love. However, you may not want to go there on account of accidentally falling into THE VOID WATCHER’s realm. Pretty chill but we don’t want to bother him.

Population booming

You may have noticed a significant increase in population. From what we can tell, this is because of the aforementioned sorcerer war, drawing many towards the island. However, the world is more unwelcoming to mages recently.

House faeries going on strike

House faeries going on strike. Domestic fae have begun to orchestrate sit-in strikes out of feelings of being treated unfairly. Demands include: increased minimum of cream and honey wages, clean dedicated living space within walls/floors/ceilings, pixie dust loss compensation, and vacation days.

Strikes will continue until demands are met and their rights as intelligent beings are observed. We sincerely apologize, as these strikes have negatively affected our rate of release.

[zarvasace]

1931 Vampire AU!

For those unaware, I wrote a bit of a neat Linked Universe setting AU last year that I haven't done much with, but I really like it and want to share a bit more about it! Links to the existing fics where relevant.

The series on AO3 is here!

(It would also be fun to develop this AU a little more, and I'd like to draw some stuff for it, so if you send in an ask about it, I might answer with a doodle. ;) )

AU basics: a hidden magic world in America, the year 1931 after WWI. None of the boys are human (except Twilight, at least at first), but they all think they're hiding magic from everyone else, at least for a time. :) There are a lot of magical peoples in this world, organized in their own ways, e.g. merfolk kingdoms, fae courts, the vampire councils, entire hidden cults, and hunter organizations. Ganon exists, but he's a hidden threat that they've all faced in one way or another.

Character summaries!

Wind: the focus of this AU. (The original fic was an excuse to make him very cool.) He was born 1696 in Florida ish, at the height of the golden age of piracy. He was turned into a vampire by Tetra in about 1710 and is eternally physically 14. He sailed with her crew (all pirates) for a few decades. She was invited to the western vampire council in Spain in 1750 as the vampire pirate queen, but... stuff went down. (fic: Body and Soul Marooned) She and her whole crew died, along with a lot of vampires. Wind survived, getting a nice angsty scene in there where they said wedding vows as she died, and went on to try and warn other councils about the upcoming massacres. Because most vampires died during that time, Wind is one of the oldest vampires still alive, and most who survived that time owe their lives to him.

Warriors: the secondary focus of this AU. He was a legitimate soldier during WWI, proper age and everything. When Wind enlisted, Wars took it upon himself to guide this seemingly young kid, and got killed doing so. Wind turned him into a vampire, not wanting him to die. (fic: In the Chill of Battle) He has a fun relationship with Wind, both of them taking the big-brother role in turns. Wars is a younger vampire, but his brain and body was able to mature more, so. Before Wars knew Wind, he was also captain of a division with Time, not that Time remembers that right off. Wars acts the responsible adult, so he gets them both hired as part of Time's team.

Time: he's Twilight and Wild's uncle. When he was a kid, he was whisked away to Faerie and replaced by a changeling for a few years. He fought his way back to find that time had passed differently for him, so he's mentally older than he appears. He didn't get out without being touched by the fae, and is beholden to some of their rules. He's the only one old enough to have enlisted in the military at a legal age, and used his status as a veteran to get a job at a local police station as a sort of detective. That's how he collects all the boys. :)

Wild: half-vampire. He's aging slowly, but still aging. He's close to Twilight, but always felt like he didn't exactly belong. Vampires as an organization don't believe there are many dhampirs out there, and don't like them, but a few underground cells have been organizing. Wild had a few run-ins with them. He's aware of a lot more magic than people think he is, having networked out to several kinds of magical peoples. The Yiga are a cult of shapeshifters that are out for his blood. (fic: Caged) He joined the team when the existing members came to save him and Twilight from them, later in the "story." Wild is one of those in the group willing to do Mad Science. :)

Twilight: is human. He dealt with Wild his whole life, so he's aware of vampires, but not much else. Over the course of the "story," he gets turned into a werewolf, so all of the boys get to deal with that.

Sky: he's a lynchpin of the team! Without Sky, not everyone would be there. He's an air elemental by birth, fairly important in those familial circles but mostly separated from them these days. His natural form is not exactly... physical. He knows Time from the war (he enlisted at too young an age near the end, and didn't see much combat, but made connections), Legend from some of what Legend did (aka everything, but specifically some merchant connections in this case), and found Four on his own. Sky doesn't count as fae at all, but he's in-tune with the environment and flow of magic around him. (He's not happy about the dust bowl.) He is pretty oblivious to the others being magical, though.

Four: he's rather disconnected from the others, in terms of backstory. To understand him, you have to know that there are six courts of the fae: one for each season in the wheel, with a light and a dark in the center and outside. Four grew up in the Light Court, full fae. One of the princess's Minish advisors betrayed the Light Court and gave power to the Dark (hi Vaati), and Four helped to restore balance. In the process, he had to change. The courts didnt generally trust each other, so Four split into four fae with the help of magic, one for each seasonal court. More magic and betrayal happened, and Four is semi-stuck as a Dark fae now. He can become a shadow and hide in other shadows, but he's vulnerable to light in general. When he left Faerie for the mortal world, he found Sky, who pretty much adopted him as a little brother. He's very protective of Sky.

Legend: is a prince of one of the merfolk kingdoms. He saved each of the underwater kingdoms at least once, then ventured to the surface to find more wrongs that needed righting. He isn't obvious about it, but he has a good heart. He's kind of sort of employed as a spy and informant, but he focuses on supernatural issues. He's more of a special ops agent than anything, though he does like to find people who'll pay him for doing what he wants to do anyway. He's been practically everywhere and done practically everything. He definitely heard of Wind, but didn't connect the dots right off. Merfolk aren't considered fae, but his particular family line made contracts with fae long ago, and he has some of their geases in a lightened form. He figured out pretty quickly that everyone was magic and trying to hide it.

Hyrule: is full fae, like Four, but of the Spring Court. He lived in the human world his whole life, a street kid who had to keep his fae nature tightly under wraps, which could get difficult around the promises and names and iron of daily life. He moved around a lot. He was captured for a year or two by unscrupulous scientists and rescued by Legend, who took him to Sky and Time. (fic: EPISODE SEVEN: Lost and Found) He's the resident healer and mad scientist.

Other Fics

More Than You Can Chew: the beginning of the "story." Starts with Wars confessing he's a vampire, and then they go rescue Wind, who's been captured by wannabe hunters.

Council: sort-of ongoing fic about Wind taking the rest of the Chain to the latest vampire council meeting. >:)

[wordy-little-witch]

I am also on the buggy-isnt-actually-human agenda 👀 also i cant believe i never thought if boabuggy mean girl squad bc ur so right (im gonna ignore the fact that canon buggy most likely isnt immune to her since he never once showed interest in alvida) which now brings me to: mean gurls boabuggyalvida 😌🧚‍♀️✨

YESSSSS THANK YOU ILY I LOVE TALKING ABOUT THIS

I actually have an ongoing fic with Buggy as non-human and him and Shanks being brothers and just- aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa BRAINROT OKAY

My favorite concept is making Buggy a type of faery. My fic specifically has him as a Harlequinn, solely bc it FIT and I am feral for clown/jesters/etc. I can go into detail if you want, but I don't wanna clog this one

But like.

Buggy is the ONLY person in One Piece with a nose like his. He's hyperaware of that, and it's his biggest visible insecurity. He loves shiny things, treasures, gold, etc. His luck stats are either MAXED OUT or in the NEGATIVES. He is so good at manipulating people ((silver tongue)), and his specialty is smoke and mirrors, enthralling the masses, and he only gets involved when either A) he HAS to, or B) he has reason to protect/claim something. He's an observer most of the time, and he facilitates observation in others as well. And don't get me started by the lure and draw he gives to others to his space, his territory, full of Power, Fortune, Whimsy and Joy. Gods. He's so fascinating I wanna study him under a microscope, wanna put him in Situations ♡♡♡

MOVING ALONG~

Boa+Buggy+Alvida hours

The only thing I think might be rocky is Alvida and Hancock butting heads over beauty, but honestly? I think once they warm up to each other, Hancock would actually be really relieved to not be called the cutest or hottest in the room. I also think the three would be each other's biggest hype sources ((but also refreshingly, brutally honest)).

Personally? I think Buggy might actually be immune to Hancock. When he saw Alvida, he had a passing thought of "Oh, pretty, anyway-" so maybe in Canon he'd also become stone but imagine how funny it out be if she tried stoning him, it didn't work OR he split apart and it only worked a little. Now she is BAMBOOZLED.

Like.... "why didn't this work? What are you, clown? Explain yourself!!"

"..... I mean. You're cute, I guess???? But girl that lip tint is not your palette-"

"What-"

"Here, try this one, I stole it like this morning, it's unopened-"

"Oh that is nice-"

And with that a friendship was born!!

Or alternatively

"Why didn't you turn to stone?"

"Hancock.... I'm gay."

"..."

"And also a bottom."

"......"

"You don'treally seem like a top, but... i mean, you're still pretty though????"

".................."

"OhSeasShe'sGonnaKillMe-"

"Did we just become friends?"

"*surprised clown noises*"

ANYWAY

Yes BoaBuggyVida mean girls bestie squad. Only thing to make it better is including Perona and/or Uta bc I feel like that would be. So much fun.

Also it changes the subtext in the Cross Guild situation a tad, bc Mihawk knows Buggy and Boa get on like a house on fire, he knows Shanks waxes poetic about the clown, and he is so confused bc the math isn't mathing, is he missing something?? Are the others just THAT delusional??? What is the truth?????

But yeah I have so many Boa+Buggy+Vida concepts and it is. So much. All the brainrot. I love the dumb little clown dude and his army of simps and girlboss besties

[xerxeswitch]

Red Flags in Witchcraft Books/"Information"

Take it with a grain of salt as usual. A read a good amount of them, own some, returned some... I'm not the master of what these books entails, but it's just about taking what resonates with you and your energy craft in general, and leaving out the rest. For beginner witches, there's no end all be all book. A lot of witchcraft books are going to be biased about something on what they believe and what they practice. However, there are SOME things that you do need to know by the book when it comes to topics like proper crystal/stone care, essential oils that are toxic to the animals in your home, what ingredients you should not smoke for health reasons... And even some ends on high magic where you need to do the ritual as read, drawing in the sigil as descripted to pull off something very traditional and ceremonial -- these I don't mess with. If they are of tradition to how some cultures/religions use them, they must be done by how they do it with respect and understanding. Just use practical common sense. .............. These are some of the practical things that made me put down a witchcraft/occult book and return it/throw it away: 1. Authors bragging they are masters of dragons/transmutations/faeries/demons/angels, etc. (So many of them...) While giving out beliefs as if they're absolute facts. Example: "Heaven and dragons are located in the center of the Bermuda Triangle. I know this because I'm a dragon master and they all listen to me because I was a high priestess. There's 14 clans and I'm in all of them. There are pink dragon clans, star dragon clans, warrior clan--" 2. Additionally to the first -- believing they're the ONLY ONES that can help people and they have no one else to turn to, or they are the only one who can truly have this ability. My way or the highway! (Seen a lot of these too) 3. Bringing in radical politics that has nothing to do with witchcraft. It's exceedingly annoying and unprofessional, especially when it has nothing to do with what I'm looking for. 4. -Extreme absolutes. 5. Initiation into a cult, and comparing everyone else outside of them as stupid, or even easy prey to manipulate. Personal experience: A "high priest cultist" once tried to initiate me and gave me his book. I won't say who it is, but he belongs to a cult where they saw themselves as superior beings, and humanity are just livestock to them. (They don't think they're humans) They promote rape/manipulation/child grooming because they believe it was their birthright to rule humanity. 6. More trivial whining, less information about the craft. 7. Claiming being something with how you're born with, makes you automatically better than the others. (Aka: Class A narcissism) Glorifying something that has no advantage of disadvantage, but only because it pertains to the author. These have nothing to do with witchcraft or being a better person. I immediately don't trust anyone who does this. One upping is never a good sign to get information from -- and they give off/bad vibes anyway off the bat. Examples: "Being bisexual makes you more likeable towards faeries than straight/gay people." "Being neurodivergent/normal makes you more psychic than normies/neurodivergent people."

"Being (insert race) makes you more psychic than (insert race)."

8. Replacing medical needs with witchcraft. 9. Treats spirits as if they're servants. ---- I'll add more or edit things when I get the time. I hope this helps.

[rainbowsky]

Hello, sir! I don't really know anything about awards; I'm happy when GGDD win anything! Am I right in thinking the iQiyi award is more of an idol award? Not quite the same as Huabiao or Golden Rooster, where DD would be up against a lot of seasoned actors, correct? Still an exciting win (congrats, DD!!! You deserve it for all your hard work!), and also the sort of award we may see him pivot from as he switches from idol to Serious Actor?

Hi faery-snow! ☺️

Yeah, I don't really put much stock in those kinds of awards, which is why I didn't make a big deal about it at the time. Don't get me wrong - it's good to see him acknowledged for being awesome, but AFAIAC ultimately these kinds of things exist primarily for promotional purposes; to draw attention to specific projects or platforms.

Platforms want to be associated with the top stars, and the cynic in me thinks a lot of these types of 'awards events' are just a way for the platform to build that connection and draw viewers. Rake in the attention of fans because their favorite top stars are attending. A platform that is handing out awards to these high profile people carries a certain aura of importance, legitimacy and relevance.

These things tend to be chosen by stakeholders at the platform or voted on by fans, so will always go to the most popular, the up-and-coming, or to those with new projects coming out on the platform soon.

An award like the Golden Rooster - that's a huge honor for DD because it's selected by a jury of top actors, directors, etc. from the film industry. It's like the Oscars, which are selected by members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Awards chosen by peers and influential industry people who presumably will have more insight into what makes for a good performance - these awards are more meaningful and therefore hold a lot more weight.

Being a Golden Rooster Award Nominee will help DD's career in serious ways for years to come, much like an Oscar would. People will have forgotten the iQIYI award by next week.

Ask yourself, if a star wins an Oscar or if they win a Netflix or HBO award, which will hold more weight with you?

Just my two cents. ☺️

As for whether he'll turn away from those types of awards... I think it will depend entirely on what he's promoting at the time. If he has a new movie coming out or something coming up on the platform and it's in his interest to show up and accept an award from them, I'm sure he probably will.

[owl-by-night]

Kembleford timeloop - the faeries did it!

So a while ago there was this post about the Kembleford Timeloop and I shared the theory that the timeloop is so impossible to resolve that the only explanation was that Monty and Felicia were disrupting time with their arguments, a bit like Titania and Oberon disrupting the seasons in Midsummer Night’s Dream. Which turned into ‘if they are Titania and Oberon then Flambeau is Puck’ and, well, it turned into fic accidentally. Thank you to @anneofkeys who encouraged that first conversation and came up with the idea for how the time loop was eventually broken.

Fic below :)

Hercule comes to her in spring, walking into Kembleford churchyard with a bunch of flowers. 

“For you,” he says, “in celebration of the changing season.”

He offers the bouquet but she doesn’t take it. He smiles and places it on the bench beside her instead. 

“1954 at last,” he says and lights a cigarette. “Thought it would never happen.”

“Why are you here Hercule?” Felicia looks steadily at him. She appears calm but he can feel time shifting around him, sticking and slowing as she pulls them out of the flow. He loves how she does it, how skilful she is. He won’t be caught by the trap, but he can feel the tug of it all the same. 

“May I sit?”

“If you must.” 

He lounges on the bench beside her and listens to the church clock ticking slower and slower. “You don’t need to do that,” he tells her. “You can’t hold me.”

“Of course not. You’re a trickster, aren’t you? Not bound by the rules we follow.”

He smirks, holds his hands up, somewhere between an exaggerated shrug and surrender. “It’s a gift.”

She hums, unimpressed. “I wasn’t trying to trap you anyway. I thought you wanted some time to talk. Time where we wouldn’t be overheard.” She nods to the people visible beyond the churchyard wall, moving as slow as flies in honey. He wishes her skills were not so alluring to him but power always draws him in. 

As if she can read his mind, she picks up the bouquet and touches a drooping flower. It blooms back into perfect beauty as he watches.

“Call it the irresistible urge to make sure you didn’t need rescuing,” he says. 

“From my husband?” She arches one brow at him. 

“He did hold you in a time loop for… well… I’m not sure how one measures time when time has stopped. How long did you spend in 1953?”

“Oh how sweet,” she says. “Did you think that was all Monty?”

It disconcerts him for a moment but even she can’t pin a trickster for long. 

“Oh, my mistake. Did you want to be trapped in 1953?”

She glares at him, showing a flash of the power behind her eyes. It thrills him. 

“1953 was an excellent year. Perfect weather. They say the strawberries have never been better.”

He just looks at her and waits. She sighs. 

“My husband and I were fighting for a long time, Hercule. Long before you appeared. Yes, sometimes he pulled time back. Sometimes I did the same when I was angry with him.”

Well that explains the apparently endless summer. And the secret behind the award winning scones. 

“And then? Why did you break the loop?”

“He offered to sacrifice himself for me.”

He scoffs. “At the hands of a mortal doctor with a knife? Such a sacrifice was worthy of you, was it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t understand. That blade was cold iron, Hercule. There was no question of what he risked.” She shudders and leans over to steal his half smoked cigarette. 

Cold iron. The thought of it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Braver than I gave him credit for,” he mutters. 

“Why else would I have married him?”

He lets that pass. “And when you accepted his sacrifice he let time move forward as well?”

“We agreed. You’ll notice changes here in Kembleford. New faces. Old friends gone forward into the world.” She drops the cigarette and crushes it neatly beneath her shoe. Her mouth is pinched. It always hurts to let the mortals go on with their short little lives. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, inadequately. She shrugs. 

“It was for the best.”

“What will you do now?”

“Oh… this and that. Travel perhaps.”

“You could have travelled with me.” He puts a little charm in his voice, short of full persuasion but enough to let her know what he could offer. 

“You’re a rogue,” she says without heat. 

“I am what I am.”

“You are indeed.” The voice behind him is male and powerful. The air has a sudden chill. Hercule turns to see Lord Montague in the flesh for the first time. 

Not an imposing presence on first sight, but where Lady Felicia is full summer, his lordship is the cold depth of winter. Hercule shivers. He had waited to meet Felicia until late spring, when her power would be in ascendancy, but he may perhaps have underestimated the Earl. No wonder so many versions of New Year’s Eve 1953 had ended in an all consuming blizzard of snow. 

“Is he troubling you, my dear?” 

“No.” Felicia smiles at her husband and the chill suddenly melts. A warm breeze ripples over the grass, full of the scent of blossom. Hercule can breathe again. 

Lord Montague leans against a crumbling monument to some long dead resident of Kembleford. Hercule wonders if he remembers them. 

“What do you want, thief?” 

“Monty,” Felicia says in a chastising tone. 

“Merely visiting an old friend. Although I should be going...” Hercule’s self preservation instinct has always been strong. 

“Perhaps you should. Felicia?” Lord Montague offers her his hand and as they touch, Hercule feels the ripples of time and power. These two will love and quarrel and love again for all eternity. An ancient dance, waxing and waning with the seasons and yet impossibly fixed in a way that is anathema to Hercule. Anathema and so, of course, it draws him from the bottom of his magpie soul. 

“I’ll return in the summer,” he says and steals a kiss, hot as the sun and sweet as strawberries. Felicia’s eyes catch him, alive with mischief, and this too is part of the dance. 

Then he is gone, slipping away through the strands of time before the chill of winter can touch him. 

In St Mary’s churchyard, the clock resumes its usual pace. Father Brown prepares for mass. The weather is perfect. The Lord and the Lady walk arm in arm and all is well. 

[neverlearnedtoread]

Spinning Silver

⭐⭐⭐⭐; the staryk king and mirnatius with the word 'wife' on the board: there's only one thing more horrible than a wife.... *rips off paper* MY wife

Oh?? 👌😉😏

women are fucking amazing and wonderful and terrifying and unequivocal badasses. especially to their husbands. it's about the fantasy of a marriage you have no control over being perfectly suited to you in ways you didn't even know it could

inhuman fae creatures that actually have a separate culture and set of rules they are governed by. they're much more powerful than humans, of course, but they are bound to their laws, and if you're smart you can work with that

fairytale-esque magic system that relies heavily on (1) trickery (2) Having Audacity and (3) the rule of threes 😉. we love a soft magic system that rewards big swings and BDE!

not one, but TWO separate arranged marriages engaged in HEATED pvp AKA two people bound in hostile matrimony trying to kill each other while having 'wait, are they hot? fuck!' moments

you can be cold and practical and still be a good person. you can be strong enough to protect yourself without sacrificing others. with a good enough grasp of contracts you can force a demon to leave your kingdom AND husband unharmed in a 2-for-1 deal

No.. ❌🤢🤮

multiple POVs with no names for chapter titles so you have to figure out who it is from context clues - if you're like me and love a little puzzle to go with your reading time, you'll really enjoy it (Novik does it VERY well) but if you get confused easily or don't wanna put in the brainpower its annoying and overly complicated

if you don't like enemies-to-lovers where they actually argue and are ideologically opposed, you're not gonna enjoy the romance subplots. this is not a 'forbidden-lovers' kinda enemies-to-lovers. this is firmly in the 'my husband misses me a lot - but his aim is getting better!' zone

really quick wrap up - it gets tied up a little too fast after the final confrontation with the Big Bad. i wouldve liked at least to have irina POV at the end because her side of things just. gets left hanging

Summary: Miryem is a daughter and granddaughter of moneylenders, and though her father doesn't have the hardheartedness to be a good one, she'd rather be despised for what she's owed than starve. Her knack for the trade, coupled with her sharp tongue, draws the ire of her village, and even more alarmingly, the Staryk's attentions; faerie creatures who only covet gold, they take her offhanded boast that she can turn silver into gold quite literally, and show up at her door to hold her true to her careless words - which, honestly, kind of backfires on them when she rises to the challenge and upends their realm into complete disarray, so maybe there's a lesson there for the next group of nonhumans to learn: don't bet the house against a human girl whose Had Enough Of All This Bullshit. She might win.

Concept: 💭💭💭 I don't know Rumpelstiltskin's story very well, and Ice Kingdom aesthetics aren't my favourite (you can blame it on my residual dislike of Frozen), but I DID read Uprooted before this. I wasn't as into the book blurb as I was with Uprooted, but I'm an experienced (and opinionated) enough reader to know when to trust my gut - if I find an author's writing style easy to read, and I enjoy how they handle their themes, I'm not afraid of diving into deep waters. If it's that bad, I can always DNF

Execution: 💥💥💥💥 As I've come to expect with Novik's writing, a wonderfully easy read; the storytelling voice flows smoothly and makes me want to keep on reading. No slogging through difficult to understand passages and too slow pacing for me! I instantly wanted to collect every POV character like puppies in a basket, no matter how brief their sections were. I will say the ending does forget what it wants to say and simply ends on a happy note, instead of a complete thought. It doesn't tie in the POV characters together strongly enough - I would've loved to see an epilogue scenes with the 3 main female characters supporting each other, or at least being three distinct Bad Bitches!

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤❤❤ Mostly because of Irina and Miryem (and Wanda)'s absolute BDE. They truly brought their stories to life and felt very dynamic, constantly driving the story forward through their actions, especially because their personalities and characteristics were so well-suited to the challenges they faced (Miryem rules-lawyering the Staryk, Irina taking to politics, Wanda keeping faith despite all the shit she's been through). Honorary shoutout to the complete hilarity of Mirnatius's POV (though ultimately it IS more indulgence than necessity, I respect Novik for it) - may he spend the rest of his life desperately drawing his wife in vain search of her bad angles!

Favourite Moment: the running gag of mirnatius losing his fucking mind trying to prove irina isn't hot. you know that post that's like 'find a blorbo to draw and your art skills will start improving so much faster'? irina is his blorbo. special mention of the scene he gets jealous realizing a random guard has a crush on his behated wife and immediately jumps to the conclusion that irina would want to fuck the guard for the sake of the kingdom. babygirl the hoops you are jumping........where is this gymnastics routine even going 😭 this man is not beating the meow meow allegations..

Favourite Character: It's really a tie between Miryem and Irina, who are both so similar yet different at the same time. Miryem's BDE was enjoyably explosive - she throws it in everyone's face, which is perfect to play off of the Staryk's otherworldly impassiveness. Irina's BDE was a lot more...steely. Quietly coming into her own as she realized how adept she was at politics, and how perfectly well-suited that made her to being tsarina - and when they finally met each other? it was so funny when were like 'hey...why dont we kill our husbands via pokemon battle??'

[teriwrites]

about me: a writeblr re-re-re-introduction

Hello! My old pinned post is officially over a year old and makes me cringe whenever I'm on my blog, so it's time to freshen things up again!

me

I'm Teri, I'm smack dab in the middle of my 20s and figuring out life. My writing is pretty exclusively original stuff, a lot of novels and a lot of fantasy, but I play around with various genres in short stories. Sort of a jack-of-all-trades in regards to hobbies - aside from writing, there's anything from baking to drawing with my ancient art tablet to cross-stitch to playing music to rambling around the patch of woods near my house to watching long-form D&D let's plays.

my goals

I recognize that every time I post something like this, it's with the intention of finally becoming as active on writeblr as I was during the pandemic. I also recognize I've never quite managed that.

So here are some more general goals to get me through 2024:

Finish my 2nd draft of Beyond Alder Creek

Write as cringey and brutally honest as I never allowed myself to as a teenager.

Speaking of, a large reading/writing goal of mine is to go back through every NaNo draft I've ever written (I've participated since 2011). So aside from just reading that and likely turning it into a whole spectacle on here for people's amusement, generally just survive reading through the writing from 8th grade. Stay tuned for more on that in the coming weeks lol

Finally, I have a general goal every year of reaching 100K words, between writing and editing and the like, but I'd happily be a little looser with that goal if it meant getting through others.

And now, without further ado:

my writing

Before I get specifically into WIPs, a general overview of the kind of writing you can expect from me:

As I said, I'm a fantasy nerd. I love worldbuilding, both on a large scale (nations and cultures and political relationships) and a small scale (a magic shop in an otherwise contemporary setting).

There's not a lot of romance in my writing, but there Are a lot of transformational relationships and codependency. Friendships, siblings, guardians, general ride-or-dies.

Thought experiments. I've been trying to catch and indulge more in my 'wait, what if?' ideas. Sometimes, that's fun little snippets of silly ideas, sometimes it's a majorly emotionally heavy scene for a story I'll never write. Sometimes, it's coming up with ideas to 'combine genres'. It's all about expanding the range.

wips*

Beyond Alder Creek /// draft 2 /// tag: bac

Winnie Pewitt has never believed in the fae. That is, until her little brother disappears, and she stumbles upon a faerie ring on the edge of town. Inside, a man seemingly carved from gold suggests that he knows who took the boy. With everyone else around their hometown accepting her brother's fate as certainty, Winnie takes it upon herself to craft the perfect deal and enter the realm of the fae with her new companion in tow.

The Lies in the Legend /// draft 1 /// tag: litl

The fictional autobiography of an elven noblewoman who rose rapidly in station and influence from an unremarkable youth to a diplomatic powerhouse. Spanning centuries during the prime of her life, Lady Ghislaine Agassi charts the course of her career and reputation, and highlights the dangers of making myths out of our idols.

*Though these are my primary WIPs, I have a page that covers various other WIPs and projects that I've brought up over the past few years.

I think that about covers everything! As always, I can't make any promises about how the year will wind up and where it takes us. But I will say, I've actually been writing recently, and yk I'm just gonna ride that high.

And for fun, here's some random facts about me:

fun facts

I have degrees in psychology and music!

I've lived across three continents, but currently live in upstate New York for whatever reason lol

The animals I've ridden on the back of include: horse, pony, elephant, and ostrich. The horse was my least favorite. By far.

I got diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes a couple months after Covid landed stateside (in May 2020) and am Always ready to talk someone's ear off about it.

The first story I ever wrote was on PowerPoint and was about war breaking out between humans and aliens that had taken refuge on Earth after their planet was destroyed. I was 8. There was a Lot of Clipart involved.

I've never been published, but I once secretly planned out, wrote, edited, and self-printed a couple copies of a novel about my best friends and our college apartment. They received it for Christmas last year and loved it (or at least were kind enough to tell me they did)!

[daveyfvckingjacobs]

not a single person cares but unfortunately I’m hyperfixated so that won’t stop me posting the last binding writing <33

basically I wanted to draw this concept, did not have the ability and remembered I’m also a writer and should write smaller things more <3

There’s an old house, out in the English countryside. It’s surrounded by sprawling land, dominated by creeping vines that infest cracks and dust that has settled into the air itself. There’s a beehive and a garden and a tree on a hill and something about those three things hangs in the air like a myth fighting desperately to not be forgotten.

The house belongs to someone. Someone who inherited it from someone else, who tries to look after it like it was looked after in days gone by but the house is large and the time for such manors long past. It’s a memory, a creature trapped in amber and if you listen closely, sometimes you can hear it’s heartbeat still.

The house has stories, like every good house does. Stories about frozen lakes and the way magic used to be and about faeries and bizarre things that can’t possibly be true. Names are attached to the stories, but they’re impersonal. Dusty words with nothing but the ghost of a breath and a laugh, if you’re still listening close enough.

The house has an attic. The attic holds life, the way it used to be. There’s a walking stick and some journals, books with faded scribbles down the margin, old waistcoats and shirts that have managed to survive for so long untouched. There’s a box in that attic too. A box that holds photographs and the someone who owns the house know will find them someday, sitting back on their heels in the old attic of an old house and maybe they’ll smile at what they see.

The first photograph might have been black and white once, but it’s faded to a sickly sort of yellow, edged with the brown of a bruise. It shows two young women in the middle of four men. It’s as impersonal as the names given to the stories. On turning it over, the someone will find a note written in a carefully swooping hand.

Sir R. Blyth, Mr E. Courcey, Miss M. Maud, Miss V. Debenham, Lord J. Hawthorn, Mr A. Ross, 1910

The names won’t mean very much. Each individual looks hardly different than the last, though the man identified as Sir R. Blyth has the same round face and twinkling eyes as the Miss M. Maud. Siblings perhaps, though it’s hard to think of such a thing existing so long ago. The man on the left - Mr A. Ross, according to the note - is an odd one out, with the way his clothes are patched and his grin slants. Mr E. Courcey is faded of colour, the Lord so stern he must not be a real person.

These aren’t real people, the someone will think as they brush their thumb over the faded image. Too stiff, too emotionless. They didn’t live and breath here, did they? They can’t have. Nothing but letters that form names and ink that forms faces.

The second photograph is different. It’s tucked into the bottom of the box, almost like it wants to remain unnoticed. It’s not different at first glance; still faded and bruised, taken at the same time as the first image but it’s different nonetheless.

The colourless man has more of a smile, the Sir R. Blyth gazing at him like he’s forgotten about the camera entirely. One arm loops around his waist where before a distinct gap existed between them. Next to them, Miss M. Blyth is pressing a kiss to the cheek of the other young woman, who’s mouth is open not in a smile but in a laugh, a hand fluttering over her chest. Next comes the unpleasant looking Lord, who’s mouth has been pulled up as though on a string. One of his hands rests on the shoulder of the Mr A. Ross - he in return is scowling up, arm raised mid swat but something about it lacks venom.

There’s writing on the back of this photograph too:

Robin and Edwin, Maud and Violet, Alan and Jack, 1910

Maybe they’re smiling at whoever took the picture. At a comment made or face pulled, the way you might encourage a smile from a child. There’s comfort in this image, trust, care and it breathes life into the coolness of the attic. It makes the someone think. About arms around waists and kisses on cheeks and the stories that got lost instead of told, hidden in the bottom of boxes at the back of attics.

There’s something sad about that, in a poetic way. Something close to tragic, but the stories don’t have just have names anymore. They have faces, have the hints of lives and if they can only be seen this way, in light filtered through a dusty attic window then the someone will hope that that’s good enough for them.

For the man called Robin, who must see the stars themselves in the one called Edwin. For the dimpled young Maud and the way the woman called Violet is laughing like she’s made up of scraps of the sun. For Alan - the odd one out - who scowls like he’s trying to decipher the way the moon is shining through the Lord with such a boyish name as Jack.

They’ll tuck the picture into their pocket and hope against hope that it’s good enough for them.

[lasudio]

VeronaHills, Round Nine: Mann

Lunch with Cornwall Capp, the village's pride of the dance world, was an opportunity Junior couldn't afford to fumble.

Then again, affordability had never been one of life's concerns for the Mann heir. Post Wagyu cheeseburger, Junior rose from his chair, turned, and released evidence of his stomach's gastronomic capabilities across the dining table. He made a giddy remark to do with the concept of "better out than in", but Cornwall was unmoved.

"Urgh!" the moustached maestro uttered with malaise. "Did you do that on purpose?"

Junior spun to face his guest and feigned shock. "Oh dear! I didn't know I had that in me. Sorry. What were you saying about tango?"

A new hairdo and a stern parental talking to made Junior feel like a new man; one who didn't find farts amusing and had a genuine interest in getting to know the family of his soon-to-be fiancée. That included people who married into the Capp family - he'd be just like them, soon enough. Just as soon as he ran the ring past Juliette for approval. How big were lady fingers, anyway?

Lana marvelled at the miracle of Junior setting aside his martinis for marriage as she drew a bath that evening. She was gingerly dipping a toe in the water when she wavered and withdrew her leg for balance. Her foot collided with a candle, which met the bathmat in a lit up streak. She yelped and scrambled for her cell phone.

The representative from the fire department, a young man named Roberto Miceli, was not best pleased at the scene. In the time it took for Lana to throw on her spring nightdress and evacuate the bathroom, the flame had disappeared under a flood of toppled candlewax. His words descended into lecturing territory as he described the scene of the Montague restaurant fire, and how his team needed to be ready for "real emergencies" such as that. In the drawing room behind them, Lana heard Rich clear his throat and scrape his chair away from the chessboard.

"Oh dear," Lana replied. "You don't know who we are, do you?"

Under the cold light of a droning lamp, within walls grey and damp, Rich laughed as the fireman came to. He had a whole monologue ready to go about the foolishness of seeing his wife's predicament as unimportant, with an explanation of the cow-faced creature rumbling and swishing its prickled vines beside him. He usually took the time to brag: "What do you think of my friend here? A faerie gifted her to me." Alas, said creature was ravenous, and Rich barely had time to grab a vine and dramatically swing himself up to look down with a grin before the fireman was happily consumed. Not to worry, of course: the glowing yield was collected from the udders, and Rich slipped into a black car, with his cape totally unblemished.

Thanks to the fireman's donation, lovely lady Lana had a better shot of living to see grandchildren.