#cause confusion amongst evil spirits

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

hello mara! i was wondering - what happens to a sinistral that doesn't disconnect? hope you have a nice day^^

hello alyastatic! before i answer, i:ll briefly define sinistral/dextral and connection/disconnection, because without common understanding the message gets confused -- and it:s important that it is not confused.

sinistral: just means left-handed, exactly as absurdly simple as it sounds; no philosophical concept, just "the hand you were born with a natural disposition to write with," not which hand you taught yourself to use or some abstract evil-theosophical-handedness concept. not as simply: left-handed people are born from an aberrated heavenly vessel that splintered under the pressure come-from containing soul at creation -- and their 'mother-material' has fallen to the earth, where it lay buried in the bowels, in profane simple soils (this is the buried circulatory network of the garden of life/eden).

dextral: just means right-handed, just as simple as sinister. their creation is from the healthy vessel that correctly bore soul as basic as water, and remained towards heaven as collections of silver and gold (where this bias also forms the abstract nervous system of the heavens, as it extends downwards towards the top-soils of the garden of life/eden).

connection: the natural state of people is to be connected to one-another, and everything in the environment (or 'server,' or 'material-basic') pulls all people to this connective state. the environment does this intelligently, and this intelligent action (which is driven to subsume) is also the 'insect.'

disconnection: the the aberrated state caused by a person straying from the intelligent environment; aberrated behavior towards this 'insect,' whether it be by natural obstruction on the 'garden' (which is where reality is, ie: not the material-basic world we observe) attracts an intelligent 'arachnid' non-environment that is driven to consume.

to your question: nothing unusual! or: the same as a right-handed person who does not disconnect; likely: they live a 'happy' life in affinity with the server, even if it bears-upon them the common ills of connection (which might just be the gnawing of an aberration, as it starts to consume away the insects).

where trouble starts to occur, is when a person begins to act in 'misalignment' with their material. sinistration has already been subsumed into a grand confusion with righteous culture (to the detriment of both), but constant subsumation from the server itself (that intelligent insect) acts to constantly pull attention away from the reality of the spirit. there is this biblical concept Ellen G White writes about (in her book Education, mostly is where i:ve read it), of 'the Wilderness,' where pure communion with God is found disconnected from the buzz and trappings of society. years spent in the plains, amongst nature, cut-through the 'logics' of society and allows a pure un-logic'd language to be heard -- and maybe this is the difference between sinister and dexter disconnection. (this is from my EGW reading yesterday, in 'Prophets and Kings' i think) god is constantly belaying communication through the natural-plain elements, in the most pure-basic-art mirroring the original garden that adam/eve were taught in -- and every-step that sin/dust has taken to change this original art, is born of an aberration to that communication; the swamp, the city, the sewer, the apartment, the landfill -- the language of god warbles in its message, till it is either 'healed' through the subsumation of insects (ie: an unnatural sinful church is elevated, through abstraction, into a church, that somehow is clean and is constantly communicating the insect-given language of 'here is a clean place to connect'), /or/ it becomes a 'desolate wilderness' where God still remains, but the message is affined towards the left-handed material.

sinistration has a disposition to suffer disconnectivity as its bias, but most people (regardless of their make) are connective in their affinity. if a person is of true disconnective affinity (true here = their location within the garden of eden has disrupted connectivity with the server -- this is unchangeable and has nothing to do with a persons character inside material-basic) then their basic-state will be in constant antagonism towards intelligent connection.

environment is constantly looking to subsume unclaimed wilderness, and is constantly looking to smear-over wilderness; environment is generally good -- because we are largely made to connect (which is why disconnection is an aberration) -- however it is nonsensical to live in learning with a wilderness, while inviting some insect construction-crew to pave it over with their logic and learnings -- this is where misalignment does its damages, and why we must act true to both character, and true to material.

mending this world starts with recognizing this world.

take care, chief! i think sabbath is tomorrow, according to the 8th day calendar -- consider celebrating, if you:re left-handed.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

At what point shall we expect the approach of danger? By what means shall we fortify against it?—Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant, to step the Ocean, and crush us at a blow? Never!—All the armies of Europe, Asia and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest; with a Buonaparte for a commander, could not by force, take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thousand years.

At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.

I hope I am over wary; but if I am not, there is, even now, something of ill-omen, amongst us. I mean the increasing disregard for law which pervades the country; the growing disposition to substitute the wild and furious passions, in lieu of the sober judgment of Courts . . . . Accounts of outrages committed by mobs, form the every-day news of the times. They have pervaded the country, from New England to Louisiana . . . . Whatever, then, their cause may be, it is common to the whole country. . . .

But you are, perhaps, ready to ask, “What has this to do with the perpetuation of our political institutions?” . . . When men take it in their heads to day, to hang gamblers, or burn murderers, they should recollect, that, in the confusion usually attending such transactions, they will be as likely to hang or burn someone who is neither a gambler nor a murderer as one who is; and that, acting upon the example they set, the mob of tomorrow, may, and probably will, hang or burn some of them by the very same mistake. . . . [A]nd thus it goes on, step by step, till all the walls erected for the defense of the persons and property of individuals, are trodden down, and disregarded. But all this even, is not the full extent of the evil. By such examples, by instances of the perpetrators of such acts going unpunished, the lawless in spirit, are encouraged to become lawless in practice; and having been used to no restraint, but dread of punishment, they thus become, absolutely unrestrained. Having ever regarded Government as their deadliest bane, they make a jubilee of the suspension of its operations; and pray for nothing so much, as its total annihilation. While, on the other hand, good men, men who love tranquility, who desire to abide by the laws, and enjoy their benefits, who would gladly spill their blood in the defense of their country; seeing their property destroyed; their families insulted, and their lives endangered; their persons injured; and seeing nothing in prospect that forebodes a change for the better; become tired of, and disgusted with, a Government that offers them no protection; and are not much averse to a change in which they imagine they have nothing to lose. Thus, then, by the operation of this mobocractic spirit, which all must admit, is now abroad in the land, the strongest bulwark of any Government, and particularly of those constituted like ours, may effectually be broken down and destroyed—I mean the attachment of the People. . . .

—Abraham Lincoln, speech to the Young Men's Lyceum of Springfield, IL (Jan 27, 1838)

[Robert Scott Horton]

#Robert Scott Horton #Abraham Lincoln #quotes

[myboxofcookies]

Personal CRK au world ideas

Just want to ramble some cookie run ideas that I had for a while.

Cut for long info:

1st idea: Cookies making themselves at home at an old “abandoned” witch’s house. The leader of all the cookies is known to be a powerful benevolent mage whose magic is said to rival the Witches. The house is far and deep in the forest, far from the other witch’s home that Gingerbrave and friends are from. The house cookies already know the truth about the Witches but most refuse to follow Dark Enchantress’s calling to join her cause or other related evil plans. One cookie probably heard about DE and joined her army by now. Extras: - Cookies may enter the house by being a powerful mage that knows the secret password or be assisted by the Great Mage there herself. -  The house is hidden and protected under the Great Mage’s spell for centuries so to outside cookies they thought there was a tribe/kingdom that is only heard of in myth.

2nd idea: The fairy realm in cookie version basically. The kingdom within the realm is ruled by a kind and wise queen whose wings are said to shine brighter than a clear spring day. And it was said that long ago after the Great Flour had ended, many cookies had gone into hiding and some had stumbled into the realm of the fairies where the current rulers and natives had initially tried to drive the intruders away despite many pleas of mercy. It was then the young princess of the land vouched for them to be able to live in their world peacefully and helped them adapt to their new home. Touched by such kindness themselves to their current descendants they all pledged their loyalty to the princess now queen to live happily and peacefully. Current day in the fairy realm (after DE’s re-awakening), the queen is hardly seen due an cursed illness she had ever since she was a child. Her son, in her place, rules over the land hoping to keep the peace while his mother recovers. Or if in dire scenario should the queen perish, be prepared to be crown King of the Fairy Realm amongst the all trials. So far, he has proven to be a very capable heir. Extras: - Fairy Cookie was most likely born and raised in this world before travelling to the outside world. - Time in the outside world stops as you enter the Fairy Realm - To enter the Fairy Realm, one must find a fairy ring (mushrooms that grow in a circle) and chant the ancient entrance spell. If not helped enter by a fairy or native inhabitant to the realm. - It is unknown how cookies of the past managed to enter the Fairy World without the spell or fairy intervention. May come up in the mainline story in mention or something.

3rd idea: The Realm of the Dead or the Spirit World, however you call it. As the name implies, it is the underworld where spirits of fallen cookies come to rest from life and be sent to the Skybread above or Burnedbread(hell in cookie-verse ig?), or if myths hold true, be reincarnated into new cookies with different lives. This world is overlooked by the fabled Reaper Cookie and their followers, few to be mentioned are Cheshire Cat Cookie, the Yellow-Eyed Guide, and Kijo Cookie, the Punisher. Reaper Cookie collects souls and guides them from their old life to their resting place with the help of their followers and unknown co-ruler. As a land of seemingly unexplored mystery, the world seems to be littered with many paths that will confuse lost souls (or cookies that stumble there by accident) to take more risks than precautions without the help of the Yellow-Eyed Guide or the other native inhabitants. Extras: - Can be found in a secret entrance not far from the Forgotten Academy due to strong disruption of spirits and mana in the area.

#cookie run kingdom au #story drafts #cookie run oc

[maroonsweetpea]

Yeah, I knew it was wrong all along.

I seem to have problems 

Choosing alarm

Over pleasurable thoughts

Of which wires get crossed

I'm exactly what my mother

Wish she would've lost.

Deem me many labels

I'll find myself unable

To agree

Perhaps Im contrary in nature

But, still correct.

And critiques favor delusion

Tastefully sang

I gave up the needle cause it

Didn't prove me evil

And I find myself confused

Amongst the shame.

Bring back my youth when

I didn't see the truth in

Whatever bloody thought was sent my way.

In times past I have been

Feeble, weak, and too loud speaking 

Careful not to mix the hearing

Crowd who walked paths 

That those others may cross.

Gave up one half of my gossipy nature

When I gave up spirits too…

I reach for Christ and he don't answer

But I keep close the angels my grandmother prayed for and

Remain lucky through and through.

Big headed special creature,

My soul demands

The touch of nature

I fear I'll never reach again.

Freedom has a greenish pasture 

Away from peers and chatter

Away from money, men, and needless flattery.

And, truthfully, I knew it was wrong all along.

I seem to have problems 

Choosing alarm

Over pleasurable thoughts

Of which wires get crossed

Making me even at my brightest

Exactly what my mother

Wish she would've lost

#thot id start sharing some of my poetry just bc why not lol #gotta start somewhere! #poetry #poems #poem

[alzaeemadel]

,Ya Allah Al Wali - The Protecting Friend, protect us from hearts that are not humble, tongues that are not wise, and eyes that have forgotten how to cry.

Ya Allah make me and my family from amongst the sabiqoon you mention in Surah Al Waqi ah. Let the light of our eeman emanate from our chest and from our right hand side.

Ya Allah grant us the companionship of Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him), his family and the Sahabas in Jannathul Firdous al aala.

Ya Allah accept our good deeds and increase us in reward and Your Mercy. Wipe away our sins and pardon us completely. Shower your Mercy upon us and save us from disgrace on the Day of Reckoning.

Ya Allah, when we die, let our soul and our record of Deeds be with the Illiyeen. Grrant us and our loved ones shade under your throne when there will be no shade but yours.

Ya Allah grant us, our parents, family and children guidance, steadfastness and increase in Imaan and taqwa. Keep us and our loved ones miles away from major and minor sins and from everything that earns your displeasure.

Ya Allah, make us of the few You love, You Pardon and You shade on a Day when there is no shade but from Your Majestic Arsh (Throne).

Ya Allah increase us in our love for You and Your Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him).

Ya Allah forgive us and increase us in Your Blessings and Provision

Ya Allah Save us and our loved ones from the punishment of the grave and the punishment of the Hell Fire.

Ya Allah, protect me and the Muslim Ummah against wicked oppressors. Save us from Fitnah and give us ease in our times of trial. Ya Allah unite our Ummah.

My Lord, bless us with the best in this world, the best in the Hereafter and save us from the fire. We are indeed in need of the good You have in store for us.

Ya Allah increase us in gratitude towards You , let me, my family and my spouse be among the pilgrims to perform Hajj in 2023.

Ya Allah protect us against Evil Jinns and Spirits. Safeguard me from their evil incitements and plots. Save me from every evil that you have created

Ya Allah forgive and have Mercy upon my parents, as they looked after me when I was young. Ya Allah Al Mannan make my parents proud of me in this world and in the hereafter.

Ya Allah, I pray and beg of you for the guidance of the Muslim Youth and Ummah. Save us all from Kufr, Despair, Misdeeds, bidah and Shirk. Keep us away from confusion of different sects and keep us on siratul mustaqeem.

Ya Allah grant us Ultimate Success -safety from the Fire and entry into Jannatul Firdous al alaa.

Ya Ghafoor make us from amongst the True slaves of Ar Rahman you mention in Surat Al Furqan who are protected from Hell fire.

Ya Allah help single mothers and sisters who have lost their husbands and guardians. Be their Wali and ease their hardships. Provide them with finance and help them take care of those under them.

Ya Allah Al Shafi cure everyone who is suffering from chronic diseases and those suffering from Cancer.

Ya Allah keep us away from people who want to cause us harm. Ya Allah make my enemies my friends and make my friends my best friends. Surround me with people who remind me of you and about the akhirah.

Ya Allah uplift the men of our Ummah. Make them men of true honour and deen. Make them our protectors and those who help us and guide us. Keep us away from men and hypocrites who might destroy us, our peace of mind and our eeman.

Ya Allah strengthen me in carrying out Your commands, let me taste the sweetness of Your remembrance, grant me, through Your graciousness, that I give thanks to You. Protect me, with Your protection.Place me among Your righteous and obedient servants, and place me among Your close friends, by Your kindness.

Ya Wakeel we entrust our affairs in your hands do not leave us even for a blink of an eye, . Purify our hearts and Bless our hearts with Your Noor.

Ya Allah, Grant me and my loved ones a blessed death. Let me proclaim the shahada before I die. Grant us the intercession of Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him). Ya Raheem make my last moments the best moments of my life. Let me die a shaheed in madina with my head in sujood and with my eyes shedding tears because of the love I have for you.

.Ya Allah to you we belong and to you is our return. Have mercy on us and forgive us and guide us towards things that lead to your pleasure and keep us miles away from things that lead to your displeasure. Please accept all our duas and protect us from hardships.

Ameen ya rabbul alameen.

[jawllines]

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing.

or

Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming

19K+ words

(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)

i.

It was dark. 

Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.

This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it? 

She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was. 

(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.) 

It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two. 

One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.

The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles. 

Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment. 

What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity. 

There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.

That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy. 

And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be. 

This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out. 

His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her. 

“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.

“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?” 

“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”

Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.” 

“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”

It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder. 

A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow,  “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater. 

Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking. 

But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?” 

He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?” 

Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.” 

“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?” 

The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.” 

“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?” 

“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words. 

He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.” 

“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.” 

“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.” 

She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.” 

“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke. 

Her response is blunt, “No.” 

“Listen --”

“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!” 

                                                         .                             .                          .

When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry. 

She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.

But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers. 

The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold. 

She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain. 

So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.” 

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!” 

“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”

 “You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’ 

Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --” 

“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.” 

“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.” 

Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid. 

(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)

Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it. 

He was just absolutely rotten. 

                                                           .                                  .                           .

Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten. 

There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends. 

Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie. 

Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good. 

That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus. 

When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often. 

She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior. 

That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self. 

So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon! 

Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep. 

Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out. 

He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now. 

And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!

If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited. 

It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead. 

And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly). 

God, she was so rotten! 

                                               .                                     .                                 .

“Have you felt weird lately?” 

“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.

The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others). 

His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.” 

Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way. 

Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here. 

Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.

She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue. 

That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour. 

“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad). 

His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”  

Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy. 

“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.” 

Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?” 

“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.” 

It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.” 

“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?” 

“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.” 

Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side. 

(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio). 

But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him. 

“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.” 

Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.” 

“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.” 

His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.” 

“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.” 

Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.” 

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.” 

“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.” 

Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.” 

   After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door. 

The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that. 

But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.” 

“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.” 

“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?” 

Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?” 

“No --” 

“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.

“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?” 

Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --” 

“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence. 

“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.” 

“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?” 

“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?” 

Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?” 

“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.” 

“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.” 

Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use. 

She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown. 

It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere. 

She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it. 

By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.” 

“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it,  “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.” 

“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.” 

Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.” 

“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.” 

She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!” 

Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --” 

“Harry --” 

“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.” 

                                                                     .                       .                         .

Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits. 

She’s only curious. 

                                                             .                         .                        . 

Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall. 

Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner. 

And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor.  Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind. 

It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out. 

Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow. 

It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed. 

After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank. 

But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals. 

One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them). 

And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice. 

She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning. 

What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears. 

So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done. 

Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous. 

He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely). 

Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who --  before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs). 

“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?” 

Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.” 

“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.

“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.” 

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”

Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?” 

“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”

In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code. 

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?” 

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .” 

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing. 

Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected. 

“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.” 

Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?” 

“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”

Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own.  It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting. 

“I oughta call you Bambi then.” 

He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”  

Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head. 

“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake --  “Harry, shouldn’t we --” 

“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest. 

“We shouldn’t just --” 

“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut. 

This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space. 

But nothing happens. 

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it. 

“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time. 

Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it. 

“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?” 

                                                        .                             .                              .

Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often. 

Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.

Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer. 

But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in.  If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall. 

And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over. 

It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!” 

After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?” 

“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.” 

Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”

 Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.” 

“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly. 

Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.” 

“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails. 

“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands,  “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”

“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.” 

Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?” 

If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.” 

“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.” 

“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?” 

He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.” 

Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?” 

“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.” 

A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though. 

Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout? 

Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?” 

“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen. 

MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND 

He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...” 

“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?” 

“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?” 

He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”

“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on. 

“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --” 

“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.” 

Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers,  “But --” 

“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?” 

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out. 

So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”

He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep. 

Harry just fell right to sleep. 

She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed. 

Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest. 

 Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch. 

Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything. 

It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for. 

Y/N rolls her eyes. 

“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.” 

                                                         .                               .                              .

It had been a while since Harry had worked. 

Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong.  He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from. 

It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior. 

Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it. 

The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.

And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead. 

This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things. 

He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure. 

It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep. 

And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens. 

He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.” 

His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.

“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.” 

“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I  have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.” 

It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.  

Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work. 

He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?” 

Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.” 

“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?” 

He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.” 

“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?” 

“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.” 

Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him. 

“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.” 

Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store. 

But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?” 

Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.

 “Where are you?” 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.” 

She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.” 

Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?” 

“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.

“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills. 

“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?” 

Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?” 

Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red)  “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?” 

“He loved them, mate,  he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.” 

Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.” 

Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,

“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.” 

She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.” 

Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.” 

“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --” 

He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “ 

Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?” 

Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to. 

He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all. 

But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.” 

It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.” 

“What a coincidence -- so did I.” 

They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit. 

After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?” 

Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.” 

“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon. 

“I was doing some research while I was at work --” 

“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods. 

“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.” 

Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.” 

“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.” 

It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.” 

Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding. 

“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.” 

Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought. 

#WRITING #WOOOOOOOOO #SPOOKY #YAHTZEE #I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT BECAUSE I LOVE IT LOADDS #AND I LOVE YOU LOADS #HAPPY READING :D #HARRY STYLES

[honestlynoragami]

The Relationship Between Master & Regalia

In my previous post ‘Taking One’s Own Life,’ I mentioned about Suzuha and his relationship with his God, how his only wished was to be remembered and be of use for her again. However, he couldn’t express his dissatisfaction or emptiness as these emotions could negatively affect a Regalia’s master, due to the one-way connection between them. The impact is looked down upon and the blame would mostly go to the Regalia responsible and they would have to go through an ablution to beg for forgiveness or be punished. This principle applies to every Regalia in the series and it had been, especially, strictly followed by the Regalia and exemplar of the Bishamon household out of respect for the giver of their name. 

After losing one of her Regalia, Bishamon became ill and her condition worsened when Suzuha’s loss caused distress and distrust amongst her Regalia as they didn’t know how and why he died. Notwithstanding the confusion, they remained silent in hopes to not affect their master further without knowing that bottling those emotions and crying behind her back could still affect Bishamon just the same. Additionally, Bishamon had been doing the same for the sake of her Regalia, putting up a brave front and keeping face despite the pain that was slowly devouring her, in order to not make her Regalia worry. 

As the God of many Regalia, she took responsiblity of carrying their burden and considering how Regalias were once humans, they tend to make mistakes and let their emotions take over them regardless of how much they can repress those feelings. In addition to that, I mentioned before how the Gods in the series are exposed to their Regalia’s past, especially their death, when they decided to name them so this further amplified the pain Bishamon was going through. The authors utilized Bishamon’s character to represent The Giving Tree, an individual who prioritized other people’s needs before their own to the point that they give their everything to others until their final breath without expecting anything in return as long as they can be of use. 

Author’s note: ‘Ayakashi’ is the Japanese term for Phantoms or evil spirits while ‘Ane-sama’ refers to Bishamon. 

In the episode that took place before the scenes above when Bishamon saved a wandering spirit from Phantoms and took her in as her Regalia, because the said spirit was wounded she couldn’t become a proper Regalia, thus, a broken mirror. Then, she stared at her own reflection through the shattered Regalia that she named with both being broken and at the brink of collapsing, displaying the inner struggles in both Regalia and master. 

Kazuma, one of Bishamon’s Regalia and her exemplar, even pinpointed the potential solution and advised her to be more engaging with the family of Regalia whom she named and took in. This lack of communication within the household negatively affected both parties until the situation exacerbated and Bishamon lost control. AdachiToka made use of the Bishamon household and the relationships between the characters involved to present the potential factor that cause conflicts in relationships, especially in many families where the children build a barrier between them and their guardians due to trust issues. With all due respect, this issue arises not only from the children’s deliberate seclusion but also from the adults as well, in which the authors are trying to portray with these characters. 

References:

https://noragami-mangaa.com/manga/noragami-chapter-13/

https://noragami-mangaa.com/manga/noragami-chapter-14/

https://noragami-mangaa.com/manga/noragami-chapter-23/

#noragami #adachitoka

[ickle-ronniekins]

it was all yellow

request from nonnie!!! “hi love, wanted to throw out this request before camping ;u; only if you're up for it, for either of the twins: i'd love something fluffy inspired by one of my favorite text posts on this site: she guessed my favorite color first try.. but between me and u.. i didnt even have a favorite color until she yelled out yellow! she was hella excited n smiling like a little kid, so i told her she was right and i havent seen yellow the same since, its in everything. i could probably live in it now. 🌻”

pairing: fred x hufflepuff!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: love me a good cheeky fred. also this prompt was FUCKING adorable and i did try to incorporate the actual quote into my writing but some of it didn’t flow.. so i hope it’s still as good as you’d imagined?? also def listened to coldplay’s “yellow” whilst writing this x

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @cottageoflove @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @waschbiber @dreamer821 @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic | message me to be added, loves!

“Mr. Weasley!”

Umbridge’s voice is shrill, and it immediately pulls Fred out of his daydream-like state, but not quickly enough for him to turn his attention toward his professor and avoid making incredibly embarrassing eye contact with you. The entire class, much to his dismay, turns to glance at him -- you included. It’s unlike him to feel so insecure, so embarrassed, but alas -- here he is.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Is there a reason,” Umbridge hisses, the edges of her lips curling into a rather evil smirk, “that you’ve chosen to completely ignore me during the lesson?”

Fred considers this for a moment. He could take this opportunity to explain to his professor that yes, now that you mention is, there is a reason. A huge reason. He could then proceed to tell you about all of the overwhelming feelings that have seemed to take over him the last few weeks. It could be a grand gesture, couldn’t it? Scooping you up into his arms, sliding a hand around the back of your neck, telling you just exactly what keeps him up at night -- that adorable smile of yours, and the pineapple scent in your hair. It’d be all the castle would be able to talk about, wouldn’t it? Plus, to be able to ignore Umbridge even more and do something so utterly abysmal in the middle of her lesson and have the rest of the students cheer him on, well -- it’s something Fred’s always dreamt of.

“I’d love to see the look on Umbridge’s face if I ever chose to cause mayhem in the middle of one of her lessons,”

“Easy there, Freddie. Don’t want to go getting any more detentions, do we?”

“Darling, mischief is my middle name. I need to prank. My life depends on it.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? Just trying to look out for you, is all.”

“You’ve really got that Hufflepuff stereotype of ‘loyal’ down -- you know that, right?”

He supposes, when he thinks about it now, that you were right. You’re always right. He reckons it wouldn’t be such a good thing to cause such an uproar, especially since Umbridge is nearly always on his tail, and is one step closer to knocking Dumbledore out of his post as Headmaster. Fred doesn’t want to give her any more of an edge, does he?

Next to him, George brings Fred back, yet again, from another daydream with a quick kick to his knee. He grips the desk tightly and hopes that his face isn’t flushing bright red. Umbridge’s smirk grows even deeper, and Fred, ignoring his instincts to grab you and run out of the lesson right this instant, merely clears his throat. “No. There isn’t.”

“Good,” Umbridge hisses again, turning her attention back toward the board. “Now, to continue..” Fred relaxes a bit and slumps in his seat, feeling rather grumpy, but his spirits lift almost immediately, and his insides seemingly twist into a tight knot when you send him a soft smile from across the room.

-- -

Fred is shaken awake, only to be face to face with a very cheeky looking George, who then proceeds to throw a notebook straight into Fred’s cheek.

“Oi!” Fred shouts, coming to, bringing his hand to his jaw. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“You do realize it’s the middle of the day and you’ve fallen asleep directly in the middle of the courtyard, yes?”

Fred kicks the younger twin with his foot, and George and Lee begin to laugh. Fred had been having quite a lovely sleep, thank you very much, and is now annoyed that his brother and friend had chosen to wake him. As he sits up from the bench, adjusting his loose tie and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Lee offers, “You talk a hell of a lot in your sleep, mate.”

Much to his horror, Fred freezes. This whole talking-in-his-sleep thing is relatively new -- he’d never, ever done that before. It seemed to have happened to him a couple of weeks ago, when he began repeating the days’ events -- ones that included you -- over and over in his mind before falling into a peaceful, and rather deep, slumber. It seemed to have happened when he started to look at you in a new light.

“And what exactly was I saying?” Fred asks, trying to shrug off his nervousness.

George and Lee both suppress a laugh and share a cheeky exchange, and Fred feels his heart leap into his throat. “Oh, you know.. mumbling on about lessons, and things. Bits of parchment you need to finish. Normal musings.”

Fred sighs rather dramatically before relaxing again. He hates this whole being-on-edge thing that comes with having a massive, over-the-top crush on you. “Oh,” George continues, his grin only growing larger, “and something about Y/N being the colour of sunshine, or something?”

As Fred’s eyes widen with embarrassment, George and Lee’s laughter only seems to grow louder and it echoes across the courtyard. This grabs your attention from across the way, and you smirk at Fred. You seem to be working on a bit of homework -- you’re leant against a large tree with your bag and robe next to you on the ground. Your hair is pulled back and you’ve got the end of your quill in your mouth, as if you had been pondering something right before you met Fred’s gaze.

“Thank Merlin she wasn’t over here, or you would’ve scared the poor girl away,” Lee says in a mocking sort of voice, which only seems to intensify Fred’s nerves.

Fred can’t help but fall into a bit of laughter with his friends too, even though the mere fact that he’d been talking in his sleep, about you, in the middle of the courtyard, makes his entire body hurt. ‘Thank Merlin’ is right.

-- -

The colour of sunshine. Ugh. How could he have been so painfully cheesy? Fred thinks about this all day long -- through every lesson, through every stroll down the corridors, through every bite of the evening feast. He can’t simply believe he’s said this out loud, even though it’s true. The truest words that have ever come out of his mouth, even. You are the colour of sunshine.

Simply bright and beamingly so -- the most beautiful of yellows.

You, he reckons, are pure warmth -- enough to soothe him on even the coldest of days.

“You know,” your voice, now closer than it seems, makes Fred jump and snap out of his own thoughts, much to George’s amusement, “this whole not-being-able-to-eat-with-your-mates-from-other-houses thing is simply stupid.”

“Why don’t you go and give Umbridge a piece of your mind, eh?” George asks you.

Your grin deepens, but you shake your head and begin to shovel dessert onto your plate. “It’s her own fault if she doesn’t notice a Hufflepuff amongst a group of Gryffindors. She’s supposed to be the Hogwarts High Inquisitor,” you say a bit stuffily, as if to imitate the woman in question, “is she not?”

“Brilliant,” Fred replies as he finds his voice. “An uncanny impersonation.”

You flip your hair over your shoulder and Fred notices a dimple appear on your cheek. He finds himself lost in your eyes as you peer at him softly over the top of your teacup, which you’ve brought slowly to your lips.

Fred’s happy to hear when you bring his all time favorite thing about the magical world into conversation and does his very best to hide his ever-obvious feelings. “Rumor has it McGonagall and Dumbledore have been pleading with Umbridge to let Gryffindor play Quidditch this year,” you tell the twins.

They peer at you with confusion. “What?” they ask together. Fred continues, “Why? What’s she going to do -- ban all teams except Slytherin? Then they’ve got nobody to verse,” he lets a laugh escape his lips.

George huffs a bit before sipping his tea. “She’s such a bloody idiot. No, I will say it louder, Ron,” George shoots his younger brother a look as Ron closes in on himself a bit, “she’s a power-hungry, egotistical toad who has no business running a bloody school.”

“The truest statement,” you point at him and then bite into your cauldron cake, “but no worry -- she’s apparently agreed to the whole Quidditch thing. Now you two’ve just got to smack the bludgers straight at Crabbe and Goyle’s heads. They’re certainly large enough -- should be easy targets.”

Fred cannot help the enormous laugh that escapes him due to your joke; in fact, he’s sort of surprised it’s only gotten the attention of half of the Great Hall, because it seems to have echoed throughout the entirety of the large room, reverberating off of the walls. Unfortunately, though, Umbridge notices and makes a beeline right toward the Gryffindor table. You turn to Fred and George, shrug your shoulders a bit and proceed to roll your eyes at the very pompous “hem-hem” that is too disturbingly sweet and high-pitched in your ears. “Miss Y/L/N,” she says in her most mocking tone of voice, “please correct me if I am mistaken but I’ve assumed by the yellow color on your robes that you are a Hufflepuff and not, in fact, a Gryffindor, as you’ve so decidedly claimed yourself.”

You turn toward her, a very large grin painted across your face, and simply reply, “No need for corrections here, ma’am.”

“Good,” Umbridge says curtly before turning on her heel. “Best return to your house table, then, before we slip you lot into detention, yes? I do hope it was worth the embarrassment, Miss.”

Embarrassment? Please. You stand up from your seat and chug the rest of your tea and pop the rest of your cauldron cake back into your mouth. You lean against the table, reaching across to the other end to grab yourself another pastry, and get as close to Fred as you possibly can. He notices a bit of a twinkle in your eye, something that’s suddenly driving him absolutely mad, when you say to him and only him, “Definitely worth it.”

A very cozy feeling sweeps itself through Fred’s bones.

-- -

The Gryffindors are lucky to have such two stealthy beaters on their team, because Fred and George know the ins and outs of the castle like nobody else. This comes in handy after a playful, late night match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, when the twins are able to sneak the entire Hufflepuff team, and even a few spectators, into the Gryffindor Common Room.

And as if he isn’t excited enough already at the pure theatrics of this entire thing, Fred finds himself smiling even more so at the sight of you, nestled in a corner with a few others, a Butterbeer clutched tightly in your hands, your cheeks rosy and flushed.

He’s reminded of a few weeks ago when he snuck into the Hufflepuff Common Room with you -- very late at night --

“Don’t you trust me?” you’d asked, taking his hand in yours.

His heart had skipped a few beats, if he was being honest.

“Merlin, it’s bright in here!” Fred had exclaimed when you’d both entered. The inviting colours had swirled around him. “How you people get any work done is beyond me. I’d never be able to focus --”

You’d laughed and shoved him. “Fred, you can’t focus, regardless.”

He’d just shrugged and sat down next to you near the fire. The entire room was empty except for the two of you. “I’ll give you that one. It’s just -- it’s so much different from our common room.”

“Well, it’s bright yellow. Plus, it feeds to all of the ‘Puffs' personalities. What did you expect, silly?”

He’d smiled at you, nestling himself comfortably against the edge of the couch. I haven’t seen yellow the same since, he’d wanted to tell you, especially because of the golden colour of your hair. “Nothing more, nothing less. Besides, I’ve got to say -- I’m rather fond of it, actually.”

His heart had nearly constricted at the feeling of you placing your head onto his shoulder. He’d been happy you couldn’t see the shock rising on his face in that of a crimson red colour, since you’d been so focused on staring into the flames. He’d suddenly felt warm -- incredibly warm. He’d willed himself to believe it was the fire, and not the feeling of your soft hair brushing against his neck. “Oh yeah? Yellow your favourite colour, and all?”

I could get lost in it, actually. Fred had to force himself to swallow over his own nerves a few times before he’d been able to say, “You could say that.”

Now, in the Gryffindor Common Room, he darts past a very confused looking Neville and plops himself down next to you, completely ignoring the fact that he’s interrupting your conversation with the others. “Hey,”

“Well hi,” you say, turning your attention toward him. He can smell the pineapple scent of your shampoo and is nearly sent into a dizzying overdrive, but he does his best to focus on the feeling of the cold glass in his fingers. “Great match.”

“Even if we did beat you guys?”

“Yeah,” you reply tersely, “Hufflepuff’s saving their strength for your actual match so they can kick your arses.”

Fred laughs haughtily and scoots a little closer to you on the steps as the others around you both disperse and head off in their respective directions. He can hear the steady pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears and decides to take a leap of faith. “Maybe. Although I will say -- you’ve got to be more careful with your leering, love.”

“Meaning?”

“Pretty sure you didn’t take your eyes off of me the entire time. You were full-on staring.”

Fred notices the pink on your cheeks seemingly deepen a bit, but you don’t let on to any embarrassment. He grins at you. “Perhaps I was. And if you’ve noticed, it means you were watching me back,”

His smile only grows at your mock voice. He replies with the same tone, “Perhaps I was.”

“You can’t do that during an actual match though, sir,” you tell him, bringing your goblet to your lips and sipping significantly, “otherwise you’re going to be distracted and I reckon you’ll be hit with a bludger, don’t you?”

Fred twirls his goblet in his hands, desperately trying to read your face and your tone. He’s having a hard time deciphering. “You do make a good point.”

“Besides,” you continue, a small smirk making the edges of your lips curl, “we can’t have you getting distracted. Although, I understand how difficult it can be -- considering I’m the colour of sunshine, and all.”

It takes a moment and a laugh before Fred’s registered what you’ve said, and you glance back down at your goblet, giggling into it a bit, and he shakes his head before turning to look at George and Lee, who seemingly have been watching you two this entire time, because they immediately glance away and immerse themselves in conversation with others around them.

“And we know how brilliantly blinding sunshine can be, don’t we, Fred?”

Someone’s playing very loud music and Fred wonders how Umbridge hasn’t caught you all yet. Or perhaps, he thinks, maybe the booming just sounds louder in his own ears.

“Almost as blinding as love, d’you reckon?”

Fred feels that warm, homely feeling take him over yet again -- but this time, he knows it’s not from the butterbeer, or the raging fire. He doesn’t even try to pretend. It’s all from you.

“Yeah, yeah -- tease all you want,” he says as confidence engulfs him. He reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

You place your goblet down on the step next to you. “I wasn’t teasing,” you say very matter of factly, “so much as I was trying to get you to kiss me, actually.”

He purses his mouth into a very smug smirk and watches as your eyes dart down to his lips, and you bite down on your own. He leans in, the rest of the music and chatter surrounding you both seemingly drowned out by the steady pounding of his own heart, when --

“Oi, Freddie! C’mere, mate!”

Clearly Ron’s incapable of seeing that we’re in the middle of something, Fred wants to tell you. Instead, he pulls away slightly and whispers to you. “Want to sneak up to the Astronomy tower?”

“So late at night? How very scandalous of you.”

“Well it’s why you fancy me in the first place, isn’t it?”

He grabs your hand as you paint a very mischievous look on your face, and is about to stand up before you tug on the collar of his shirt with your free hand, pulling him back to you and pressing your lips to his in an electrified climax.

You try to part, but he pulls you closer to him and slides his hand down your leg. A soft moan emits your lips, and Fred wonders if he’d be able to sneak a Hufflepuff girl up to his own dormitory this evening. “Sorry,” you reply, biting down on your lip again, sending him into a complete tizzy. You whisper cheekily, “Just couldn’t wait.”

He smirks at you, hoping his giddiness isn’t blatantly evident in his exuberance, and pulls you to your feet. “Actually..” you say, playing again with his collar, “instead of the Astronomy tower, how about we head to the Room of Requirement?”

“No? Don’t want to look up at the stars, be all mushy, fall asleep in my arms?”

You actually snort through your laughter, rolling your eyes at him. “Yes, yes, of course I do, you sap. But I reckon we should save that for an actual date. Right now, I’d kind of just like to snog you for a few hours, if you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head at you with admiration. “What has gotten into you?”

Another hair flip from you sends warmth through Fred’s veins. “C’mon, Weasley,” you say, tugging his hand, the yellow fire reflecting in the light of your eyes, “don’t you trust me?”

#fred weasley #george weasley #fred and george weasley #weasley twins #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley reader insert #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fanfiction #weasley twins fanfiction #weasley twins fanfic #weasley twins imagine #hp imagine #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #lee jordan

[ambiguouspuzuma]

find the word tag

I was tagged by @sleepyowlwrites - thank you!

As usual, I have ferreted around in Archipelago, given that it appears to hold every word in the English language.

hour

“Am I early?” The woman strolled in without a knock, her question more a greeting than apology. “I am, aren’t I?”

She strode over to her chair without waiting for an answer, walking with the easy confidence granted by the rapier in her belt and hands which knew how to use it. A second woman trailed in behind, moving more cautiously, and closed the front door after her. She hovered just behind the first.

“A little,” Salla answered, already scrambling for another towel. Jade hadn’t in fact been due for another hour, but she wasn’t the best barber in the city if she couldn’t be flexible. “Have I met your companion?”

exist

Ramona knew she’d been the same, smoothing over their narrative so that it fit neatly in her dreams, but the reality was always much more ragged and coarse. All stories were a lie, a set of satisfying arcs which were too perfect to exist amongst the dirt and the confusion of the real world. 

No war was ever a simple tale of two sides, of good rising to overcome evil. Wars involved thousands of individual human beings, each with a mixture of vices and virtues, all of them broken and left writhing at each other in the filth of a world that had been torn apart as well, rising and falling every day until enough of them were dead that the whole accident could end.

“It wasn’t that simple,” she said.

determination

It was a song which roused the spirit, more intoxicating than any measure of Dorian courage. If they were to die, then this was music to die to: a sort of final lullaby, to send the soul on its way. It spread with the wind from ship to ship, a chorus echoing across the width of the Stem, and each nervous voice added to its atmosphere of determination. Tirim was about to protest, but when he opened his mouth he found that he was singing too.

spite

“Who are you?” another asked, bolder still. She was at least standing near the front, a young woman wrapped in a striped purple cloak, her long hair streaked with a rare line of red, her voice dripping with scorn. “The city guards?”

That got a laugh from all of them, not least the small man standing next to her. Bizarrely, and in spite of everything, Jasper felt an urge to defend the blacksmith’s girl. She might have ruined his plans for Iro, and could have killed him if she’d had the chance, but she’d at least challenged him with honour: as a foe worthy of her time. This rabble were just laughing at her, and that made his skin crawl more than any of her accusations had. He knew the laugh of a bully when he heard it.

found

Jasper couldn’t help the laugh. It was an awful sound, or at least a dreadful silence: it was an echo without a noise, the music played by broken strings. When legends spoke of the rainbow-bound horn, they described its call as hollow, guttural; something that human ears were simply not made to hear. This was like that.

It wasn’t a sound that even he was used to: perhaps if he’d had more practice, he could have softened it, and found a way to rasp in a less skin-crawling way, but he hadn’t had much cause to laugh over the past decades of his life. Besides, the skin on his hands was crawling anyway.

drink

They walked past a drinks table and she filled a glass with yellow mango juice, choosing from a rainbow of jugs all set out in a line: they ranged from amber papaya to pink guava, the gold of spiced rum to the warm brown of liquid chocolate. She watched Tem hovering in their reflection, wondering if he would leave if she took long enough pouring it out, but he stayed by her side; silent, patient, just waiting for her to be ready to continue on.

hug

On the approach of the welcome party, Elan finally emerged from his carriage with his closest generals in tow, and after a few minutes of pleasantries the whole group turned and headed back in through the gates. Nisa squinted for a good look at their new captain, but all she saw was a human-shaped patch of colour, robes of deep purple and turquoise mixing underneath a matching feathered hat. Still, there was a space around him as the others stood back from their leader, a mark of respect that gave the impression of an aura around him. All apart from Quin, who went straight in for a welcome hug.

I’m going to tag @once-written-twice-shy @kjscottwrites @author-a-holmes @chauceryfairytales @akindofmagictoo and anyone else who wants to show off their wonderful writing.

Your words are all in the last paragraph I’ve written tonight: withhold, question, earlier, and lie.

#archipelago #writeblr #tag games

[teruthecreator]

okay everyone shut up leave me alone Jack Frost (1979) maplekeene au under the readmore i have to get it out of my head or else i won’t be able to sleep

argo is jack frost bc blue skin and desire to be seen/appreciated by others. they call him “jack frost” bc of the original bearer of the title--jackal--who they nicknamed jack frost

jackal retired from the position of going down to the human world and making sure winter happens, and then argo picks up the position 

father winter is hieronymous bc it’s a bigass dude with a beard like. c’mon. EITHER THAT or its mother winter so it could be shebrie. i haven’t thought deeply about this part 

snip is hieronmyous and holly is firbolg. they both know far too well about argo’s obsession w the human world and its inhabitants 

elisa is fitzroy but his motivations and personality are completely different (since elisa suffers from Female Rankin/Bass Love Interest Disease). 

he isn’t outwardly “in love” with winter and jack frost more than he just enjoys the season because of the freedom it allows. it is also the season his mother enjoyed the most (in past tense bc in this one...she dies! for good reason i’ll explain). he does kinda “talk” to jack frost a lot, since he hasn’t got many friends and he quite enjoys walking around the woods alone. this is how argo comes to know and become slightly enamored with his mortal lad (i say mortal bc i’m still working w the fantasy races--aka a good excuse for argo to keep his blue skin) 

kubla kraus is the commodore. big asshole man with a beard. controls everything by being a lying, cheating, evil bastard. has no friends. yeah that’s him alright

sir ravenal rightfellow is buckminster!! and his importance to the plot is Completely Different from the movie. i will explain now: 

okay so PLOT is that argo is jack frost, the winter spirit who comes to nua (aka january junction) to make sure winter runs smoothly. he is fairly new at this job (the original jack frost being jackal, who has now retired in the land of the winter where all the winter spirits live. he’s sorta argo’s mentor in jack frosting and warns argo not to get too attached to the mortals, but argo’s heart is simply too kind for that to not happen. 

argo develops a very deep love for mortals and their mortal ways, but is saddened by the fact that he cannot participate in their fun. winter and winter again, he returns to this poor village and gives them the means of living and joy, but he can’t even reveal himself to them!!! because he’s a winter spirit and mortals cannot see winter spirits. so it leaves argo feeling sorta dejected, even as he continues to watch the mortals he’s grown so fond of

fitzroy, on the other hand, is a native to this village. imma just call it January Junction bc i like that name a lot. he grew up here with his mother and father (though his father very quickly excused himself from the picture because i hate stable fathers <3). fitzroy and his mother are as poor as anyone else in the village--which is to say Very Very Poor since kubla commodore owns all the money and supplies in january junction. then, when fitzroy is about 13 or so, his mother suddenly falls ill and dies. before she passes away, she tells fitzroy that there’s documents in the kingdom about a week’s travel (by horse) away that he’ll “need when he’s older”. 

for a very long time, fitzroy doesn’t know what that means

in any case, he ends up being taken in by gordie and his husband to grow up with rainer, his childhood friend. though he eventually becomes acquainted with other kids around january junction that he hadn’t really socialized with before (buckminster and leon, rolandus, zana, rhodes), he finds himself more inclined to solitude. 

especially during the winter, the season when his mother passed away

despite the sadness of it all, fitzroy doesn’t find himself so glum when he’s out amongst the woods. winter is just so...beautiful. almost ethereal. he’s known about the myth of “Jack Frost” for years, so he begins just...talking to him. well, “talking”, since jack frost isn’t Real. 

once argo becomes jack frost (right around when the two are like. idk 18), though, he becomes the recipient of these rants. 

that’s when argo’s infatuation with mortals becomes a very deep desire. not bc he’s like In Love w fitzroy or anything (not yet), but because he feels like he really has a friend in fitzroy!!! someone is out there who actually cares about him!!! and talks to him about things!!! even if argo has no way of responding

so one year (aka the year the movie takes place) argo is especially despondent about this, when kubla commodore nearly kills fitzroy in his ignorance 

if you’ve never seen the movie, kubla kraus rides a mechanical horse onto a frozen lake and nearly kills elisa by making the ice crack and send her careening towards a waterfall. assume that happens here 

argo saves fitzroy by freezing over the waterfall and fitzroy exclaims “oh, jack frost, where would i be without you?” sorta just like an exclamation. but argo takes this to heart. where Would fitzroy be without him?? he’s been around this guy for so many years!!! hearing him vent about not being able to afford knight school, losing his own dream while buckminster and rolandus run off to live it for him. offering him advice (that fitzroy cannot hear) when fitzroy expresses how much he Hates doing manual labor for no pay. even being a (frozen) “shoulder” to cry on when the grief becomes too much! 

and where would Argo be without fitzroy??? the man has practically become the sole reason argo gets excited for winter anymore, and he worries about the half-elf the whole year after. 

so argo makes a decision that day, heads back up to the winter realm in the clouds, and begs father winter to let him become mortal 

father winter is, of course, Not willing to let argo do that because he knows how mortals can be. argo argues that it isn’t fair that he has to spend the rest of his eternity watching these mortals live, get older, fall in love, and appreciate his work--all while he just watches silently, unloved, in the background

father winter is moved by this and grants argo mortality for One Winter under this condition: if argo cannot find One literal reason to remain mortal, then he shall return to his spirit form. 

(this is a slight divergence to the original condition of “you must obtain a house, a horse, a bag of gold, and a wife” bc i’m modernizing it slightly okay it’s not just abt marriage now) 

argo is confused by the wording, so father winter goes on to give him examples: finding a job that is meaningful, finding a person who loves him, etc. and then argo is off 

before he leaves, he says goodbye to higglemas (also known as “snip” since he makes the snowflakes) and the firbolg. snips gives him his lucky pair of scissors that have the word “snip” etched into the side of them. yes this will be important 

argo goes back down to earth, becomes a mortal, and crash lands in the woods where fitzroy is

fitzroy is slightly baffled to see just a random stranger in the middle of the woods, but the dude seems lost and Very confused so fitzroy offers to warm him up and help him out back in january junction. fitzroy lives in a sorta commune situation with leon, rainer and zana (they’re engaged), rhodes, and rolandus and buckminster (whenever they come home). the group welcomes argo in warmly and argo finds himself feeling right at home with this crowd of early-to-mid-twenty-year-olds 

argo almost introduces himself as jack frost--as he is known by myth--but catches himself before he can reveal that. he calls himself “argo snip” (bc of the scissors and the fact that his name is actually argo), a tailor in need of business. rainer--a seamstress herself--is more than happy to have someone else in the town to work on fabrics with, and the shop that rainer runs in the house expands to allow argo’s tailoring business

while this is happening, father winter tells higgs and firbolg that they have to go down there and make sure argo doesn’t die. so now they’re human and they end up finding argo at the house. higglemas introduces himself as higglemas wiggenstaff, and the firbolg just doesn’t say anything and lets argo come up with the name “bud holly”. they are now Also tailors, which is good bc argo cannot sew. 

for the few months of winter, argo enjoys life in january junction quite a bit. though things are kinda bleak, since kubla commodore owns all the gold, the town keeps itself in high spirits during the winter. argo and fitzroy Especially end up bonding during this time, and fitzroy’s solitary walks through the woods soon find themselves one additional member. 

this is about the time where argo realizes “ah fuck, i think i’m in love with this fool”, which is when he realizes the One Meaningful Thing he’s meant to live on the mortal world for: fitzroy

fitzroy, meanwhile, also finds strange feelings developing for the eccentric genasi. but he’s a lot more emotionally constipated, so he won’t say much about it yet. 

it’s a few days before christmas and argo and fitzroy are talking alone--the house empty for some reason (a rarity but a blessing). fitzroy is embroidering something that argo’s recently sewn as they talk, and he accidentally pricks himself with the needle. argo immediately reaches out and cradles his hand, which is when fitzroy notices for the very first time just how Cold argo is. argo laughs it off and claims that it’s bc he’s “cold-blooded” but fitzroy just sorta laughs and goes “i never said i minded...” 

for some reason, this causes argo to look up at fitzroy, and the two realize how close they’ve gotten since argo grabbed fitzroy’s hand. the two are flushed, nervous, but argo dares to move forward to finally capture those lips in a--

BANG! the door flies open as a shorter man, clad in gold armor, stands in the doorway. fitzroy jumps up--first startled, then elated--as he realizes Sir Buckminster Eden has finally returned home!!! 

argo reads this reaction the Entirely Wrong Way and is instantly jealous of buckminster. poor, poor idiot doesn’t realize buckminster and rolandus have been doing circles around each other since they were teenagers...

then it’s christmas!!! everyone’s too poor for gifts so they hand out invisible ones (like the movie), but buckminster has an Actual gift for fitzroy (which argo, again, takes the completely Wrong Way). the gift is a sealed parcel from the royal parliament, instructing that fitzroy Cannot open it until he is 24 years of age. fitzroy’s birthday just so happens to be the day after christmas, and somebody is Very Aware of this fact...

...that person? oh, it’s kubla commodore, of course! who kidnaps fitzroy later on that day when his guard is down. kubla commodore throws fitzroy in a dungeon and keeps the parcel amongst his many piles of gold, determined to keep its contents away from the one intended to see them

argo finds out about the kidnapping and the whole group is sprung into action to save fitzroy. but, since argo has none of his winter magic, he isn’t really able to be the help he wants to be. buckminster--having knight training--is able to scale the mountain quicker than argo, fight off the k-nights, and break fitzroy out of the dungeon. 

argo doesn’t know this because he attempts to scale the mountain from the other side with higgs and firbolg, where he is captured by the remaining k-nights. now They’re locked in the dungeon as kubla commodore vows to send a thousand k-nights down to january junction to “wipe out the insubordinates” 

argo has no way of breaking out of the dungeon because he has no magic. so, in a moment of desperation, he calls back to father winter to turn him back into a winter spirit. he returns to his jack frost form--which is incorporeal--and begins to freeze over kubla commodore’s castle (try saying that five times fast)

with argo back as a spirit, higgs and firby aren’t needed as mortals, so they return to the land of winter to do their winter work

meanwhile, in january junction, fitzroy is Freaking Out that they can’t find argo in this freak blizzard. he tries venturing out into the tundra himself, but buckminster and the gang holds him back, telling the half-elf that they’ll look for argo when the storm clears 

oops, the storm doesn’t clear! because argo keeps up the insane blizzard for the duration of winter (though he focuses a majority of the intense weather on the castle to seal kubla commodore inside). eventually, though, father winter notifies argo that spring is soon approaching. argo is like “why” and father winter explains: “okay so basically a tiny useless groundhog comes out of his hole every year and if he sees his shadow then winter dies immediately” 

who’s the groundhog? why, it’s Gotta-Go Gary!! who argo scares the living shit out of to make 6 more weeks of winter happen

after the extended 6 weeks are up, father winter tells argo that winter will end at noon on that final day. argo is like “if winter ends, then kubla commodore is going to Kill Everyone” and he bargains with father winter to be mortal once more (since he Still has till the end of winter to find his One Meaningful Thing) to set things right. 

he goes back down, defeats kubla commodore (too much to explain, shenanigans is how i can describe it best), and realizes he has everything he could possibly ever Need now to offer fitzroy in exchange for his hand in marriage

you see, argo learned during his time as a mortal that marriages have dowries? and now he suddenly has a castle, a horse, and all the town’s gold in his possession so that seems dowry enough. also he thinks marriage is the only option to prove to father winter that Love is a meaningful thing enough to be mortal for 

however, when he finally gets to january junction, he sees...a wedding?? who’s getting married?? and then he sees buckminster in his suit of armor, looking rather pleased with himself, and argo immediately assumes that buck and fitz are getting hitched 

he storms over there and rants at buck about how He’s the one in love with fitzroy and how much He sacrificed to ensure fitzroy’s safety and happiness. and buckminster is like “woah, woah, woah, friend!!! one, uhhhh where the Fuck have you been??? two, rainer and zana are getting married dawg. fitzroy is right over there, helping rainer with her dress” 

just as argo spots fitzroy, fitzroy spots argo. and Boy does fitzroy look Pissed. he storms over to argo, ready to chew him out, when suddenly the church clock begins to sound and argo looks panicked. he grabs fitzroy by the shoulders and is like: “i don’t have time to explain much but i have a house a horse and so much gold to offer you if you agree to marry me right now”

fitzroy is like “???? hello??? what??? first off, where the HELL have you been. two, marriage??? m-moving a little fast there huh--” and argo is like. freaking out bc he knows by the final sound of the bell he will be a spirit forever and so he just very quickly explains how He’s jack frost and he trapped kubla commodore in ice for the whole winter so he wouldn’t come down here and kill him and everyone else and if he doesn’t prove to father winter that his love for fitzroy is enough to want to remain mortal then fitzroy will never see him again. and fitzroy is like. flustered honestly but also rlly panicked bc like. he’s 24!!! he doesn’t wanna get married bro!!!! 

basically he’s like “argo i--i Do love you, but. marriage? it doesn’t have to be that Now like--we have time!!” and argo is just like. split-second decision says “kiss me” and fitzroy doesn’t even hesitate in doing so because Dang he’s been thinking about that for A While 

and as the final gong sounds and argo’s form begins to shift, argo breathes a final winter’s breath into fitzroy. 

then something...changes. argo realizes, as the bell begins to fade, that he hasn’t phased through fitzroy’s body. and as fitzroy feels this cold air pass through him, he suddenly finds himself...unable to feel the chilly hands cupping his face. when they part, argo realizes what has happened. 

fitzroy doesn’t look Too much different, but he’s definitely changed. his skin glows only barely, his eyes have a ring of winter-blue around the iris, and there’s a streak of snow-white in his hair. his outfit has also become a glittery, royal-looking affair--COMPLETELY different than the formal peasant clothes he was in seconds before 

meanwhile, argo has returned to his jack frost attire and look, but he can still be seen!!! by everyone around him!!! and by fitzroy!!! 

turns out, father winter saw that argo would be unhappy as either human (with friends and his love, but none of his friends or the satisfaction of giving people winter joy) or spirit (with his job and spirit friends, but without his mortal friends and love) and basically turned him into a demigod. demispirit? half-and-half. and, in order to guarantee fitzroy would be able to travel between the places, he Also made fitzroy into a partial winter spirit. 

all of their friends are like “oh shit did you two kiss??? also why do you both look so fruity” and then the wedding happens. they hold the reception in kubla commodore’s castle, where fitzroy is finally able to read the parcel!!!! 

what does the parcel say?? well, turns out fitzroy’s mother was a descendant of a line of royals. and, though she was not signficant enough to rule an entire kingdom, her father had granted her ownership of the village she chose to raise her son in. the kubla was only supposed to be a temporary position, until fitzroy’s mother was settled down enough. but kubla commodore liked his wealth too much!! so he poisoned fitzroy’s mother and made sure to keep fitzroy Extra poor so he’d never have the ability to find the proof of inheritance himself. when buckminster became a knight, he swore to fitzroy that he’d find these documents fitzroy’s mother mentioned on her deathbed. 

okay so ending shit. fitzroy gives ownership of the village back to the people. wealth is dispersed, things are fixed, everyone is happy. buckminster and rolandus get together, rainer and zana take over the castle and turn it into a BIG ol spot where those without a home can have lodging, and everyone is happy. fitzroy is Finally able to travel and see the things he’s never gotten to see, while also achieving some of the “bringing people happiness and safety” thing that came w his desire of being a knight by helping argo spread winter throughout the world. the two of them sorta go back-and-forth between their cozy little cottage in january junction, going across the globe to maintain the cold, and going up to the winter realm to see higglemas and firby and father winter. 

they’re in love, everyone is happy, rankin/bass Bite My Ass 

just kidding i love you and your silly little movies 

#taz graduation #maplekeene #ignorance cloud on #I WASNT GONNA TAG IT W THAT BUT THEN THE POST GOT TOO LONG SO. IDK. #IM DISEASED. BITCHES HELP. #its almost 4 am thank God i dont have zooms tomorrow #also im not editing this so if its not coherent just...idk. jsut take it

[dboliklover]

Tainting the Angel so That She Falls - Subaru 

Existence had always been unkind to you, as a Nephilim.

A child of both worlds.

An abomination.

You never really ‘belonged’ anywhere, born too sinful to join the angelic ranks, too holy and powerful to live amongst the human children.

Your mother had tried her best to raise you and keep your parentage a secret from the other village folks - she tried to ensure you had a safe upbringing, but it was not meant to be. You were too strange to fit in with the other children, and it showed.

Eventually, your mother even gave her life to protect you from the villagers’ harmful intent, believing you to be a demonic child, not an angelic one. Then again, to them, there would be little difference. You were dangerous in their eyes because you were a mystical being unknown to them.

And they feared that which they did not know.

So you ran. You ran far and tried to find your place in the world, though it was tremendously difficult and the road was ever-weary.

It was a tremendously painful life, full of challenges to just stay alive - never belonging anywhere. Through the centuries you adapted from one place to another, from era to era, keeping mostly to yourself because you knew no matter how hard you tried, that you’d never be accepted by the humans.

And that was when you met him.

He was a vampire. You didn’t sense that at first - only the vague sense of solidarity between yourselves. From the very first moment you met him, you felt connected to him.

You were both still children. You’d been older by a century or two - but by immortal standards, this was nothing; and though your innocence was gone due to era after era of horrible treatment and observing the sins of humanity, your body had yet to mature.  Immortals aged far slower.

His own innocence was almost gone, when you met him.

He was a sweet boy. Your meeting had been an accident - you were in a forest when you saw him - he was picking wild roses and flowers, when you stepped on a branch and accidentally made yourself known. He hissed, thinking you an enemy, only to raise his eyebrow in surprise when he saw a weak-looking, starved girl show herself to him.

Feebly, you introduced yourself as simply “(Y/N)”.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Subaru allowed you to pick the flowers with him and explained they were for his mother; he wished to do something nice for her that would make her smile - “she’s been unhappy a lot, lately.” He told you, that day.

Once the sun began to go down, you stood, wishing him and his mother well, turning to walk back into the woods. You had the sweetest little hut you had found in the woods back about a decade or so, it was small and quaint and well-hidden, and thus ideal for you. Perhaps, it was cold, and winters were harsh, but you loved your small hut for one.

From the moment of your fateful meeting onwards, you and Subaru spent more time together. He’d come to visit you, especially when he had terrible days, and you let him see your hut.

For a little while, everything was good. Your life, always so chaotic, was...good, and you were truly happy for the first time in forever.  

Seasons changed just as they did each year, but for the first time, you noticed the beauty in everything. The rusty autumn leaves, the frosty spiderwebs, the spring daises, the sun-encased trees.

And, as time passed, you and Subaru only became closer. Childhood sweethearts; not-quite-lovers. Simply two young souls who adored each other, who understood each other, who felt a bond. The type of relationship that is filled with “almost”.

Almost kisses, almost lovers, almost romance, almost eternal;

Until, one day, he stopped visiting you.

You had no idea why - you tried to find out, to go to him, but you did not know where his house was. For all you knew, someone or something might’ve killed your best friend in cold hands.

You stayed up all day and night for weeks on end hoping he would come, searching your forest high and low, but there was no sign of him.

Dejected, you had to accept the outcome that either he was now dead, or, the dreadful outcome; he was tired and bored of you.

It also turned out that one of the nearby villagers had seen you, and they gathered to expel you from your hut. Unfortunately for you, the village nearest to the forest had been overflowing with superstitious fools who, as all humans did, chased you out with flames and curses.

Years and decades blended together undistinguishedly, and now you were sitting on a church rooftop, petite but glorious wings on your back, loosely relaxed. You’d been accepted, at long last, by the angelic order.

You still had no idea why they allowed you into their order - you, who they viewed as a disgusting being for so long - but you were glad because at long last you finally ‘belonged’.

Except you didn’t really feel as if you did. Being one of them was great - what you’d dreamt of since you were a child, but now you found it so...devoid of joy.

Subaru still crossed your mind, more often than he ought to. You wished you had more time with him, but Fate was a cruel mistress. Whatever happened to him in the end, you could only hope it brought him peace, even if it was death.

The card that Fate threw at you, however, mere months later was as unexpected as could be.

Walking down the streets, wearing a charm that concealed you from human eyes, you tried to locate your new human charge - they were going to let you observe humans and assist some guardian angels to train yourself to someday become one, too.

It was there where you saw him, but you could not believe your eyes - it was a hallucination, it must be.

You stood across from one another in the street, baffled, until Subaru was approached by what you could only assume were his brothers and a sweet-looking blonde girl, pulling him away from staring at the girl across the street.

He looked...good. Shaking yourself out of that state, you turned and continued walking to your destination, trying to focus on the task at hand. Subaru was your past.

Being an angel...this was your future.

It was your future...but you felt drawn towards him, you always were.

The next time you saw him, it was months later. You spent those months working and sucking up to make yourself seem worthy of your lowly angelic ranking - they had a change of heart and allowed you to join them in the first place, you weren’t about to be lazy and make them think they made a regrettable choice.

As one who never fit anywhere, this was going to be as good as it got for you. Humanity was overrated, so at least you had that in common with quite a large portion of some more...spiteful angels.

This time, you had a different kind of task. Your tasks as a pupil for being a future guardian was going well, but they wanted to test your abilities to protect your charges from evil beings, and thus you were given the responsibility to ‘take care’ of some small negative influences - nothing extreme, you were always going to be a Nephilim, and thus weaker than a full-on angel when it came to powers. You had to get rid of some slightly-negative spirits, helping them pass over to the other side. Not the easiest job, but not dangerous, either.

It was during this time that Subaru approached you, breathless, just as you watched a spirit fade into the light, feeling you with warmth. Subaru had watched you in the shadows as you gently explained to the ghost that they were dead and that their confusion was valid, but they needed to let go. It was beautiful.

“(Y/N).”

You gasped, turning around and staring at him, fighting against your immediate instinct to run into his arms and hug him as you cried. He was your past, now, not your future.

“Subaru…”

The awkward tension was endless. What could he possibly say to you? What could you possibly say to him?

“I…” he paused, gulping, ashamed. He had never gone back to visit you, never said goodbye, and the shame from that was hitting him - hard. He’d abandoned you like he feared to be abandoned.

He did to you, what he feared would be done to him. There was no amount of apologies that could ever atone for that.

When he did go back, months later, your small cottage had been burnt to the ground, as with the woodland closest to it. He recalled how much he wept, thinking you dead.

And now here you were and with wings this time around.

“You’re an angel now,”

“-Yes.” your responses were curt and simple - you couldn’t be mixed up with him anymore. If someone saw you...well, you would risk falling and that would be worse than if you remained half-way between two worlds.

Subaru cursed himself into infinity, throat and chest feeling too tight - he couldn’t breathe.

“I must go,” You stated, taking him off-guard, and left.

And just like the first time he lost you, you took his heart with you.

He couldn’t sleep for weeks on end, dreams of you haunting him, regret overcoming him. He needed to find you - to explain himself - to, perhaps, make things right if at all possible.

Subaru knew he didn’t deserve your forgiveness. You’d always been too soft, too sweet, too loving for him. But he had to try.

A monster he may be, but he’d be damned if he didn’t even try to atone.

Finding you was harder than he thought, however, since you were evading him - when he got sight of you, you would see him and hurry away.

It frustrated him to no end.

You tried your hardest to be strong, to stay away from him. Your heart longed for him for so long, but you couldn’t allow yourself to be seen with him, to fraternize with him.

Except you were weak, and after the nth time of seeing him and his dejected face, you sighed and went down to him, allowing him to talk.

He then, badly, attempted to redeem himself - explain himself - in front of you, stuttering over every other word as his emotions overwhelmed him and made him want to punch the nearest wall, and he did. His sudden affinity for violence shocked you and made you flinch, caused pain to strike through his unbeating heart.

You were scared of him, now, because he couldn’t control his forsaken temper!

But you, foolishly, agreed to forgive him - and from then on, though you didn’t particularly go out of your way to see him, if you happened to then you were just as kind and sweet as ever.

He missed you so badly, he hadn’t even realised how much until now.

And he wanted you to be with him - like you always should’ve been - but you were on the angels’ side now, and he knew better than to try and ruin something so beautiful for you.

So, when you had a fallout with some upper angels, and realised how miserable you were, you went to find him just to lament your fate - he was the only person  you could go to in this situation, and you just hoped he wouldn’t mind your ranting.

He understood, then, that you still felt like you did not belong even with the angels.

But he dared not suggest anything else -  anything about you stepping away from that Holy Order.

And, when you were discovered, he knew he had to do something right by you, for once, and tried to place all the blame on himself; he tempted you - and all those bullshit ‘unholy’ acts - to frame himself as the sinner, which he was, in this case. You, however, were having none of it.

Even if you hadn’t announced that you were fine with falling, you would’ve fallen regardless; an angel was meant to be incorruptible, which you clearly weren’t in their eyes.

But the fact he still tried warmed your heart, and you appreciated it oh-so-deeply.

Gods, you loved him - oh God. You loved him. Though you supposed it had always been that way.

And...if falling was what it took to be with him - to be allowed to be with him - then so be it. Because by his side, and only by his side, did you feel like you belonged.

- Mod Rozalia 

#dbl #Diabolik Lovers #diabolik lover #dialove #diabolik lovers imagines #Angels #subaru #Subaru Sakamaki #sakamaki #sakamaki siblings #Mod Rozalia #Angel reader #reader #x reader #dialovers #dialovers x reader #subaru x reader #subaru sakamaki x reader #subaru imagines

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 46 Review: 2 Theories About Jean Paul, Erica, and the Locket

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

In this great house on Maljardin, evil lives, even amongst the dead, and the poison this evil spreads threatens Erica Desmond, who lies frozen in this cryocapsule until the day a scientific miracle returns her to the living and back into the arms of her husband Jean Paul Desmond, who has defied powers real and imagined to assure his wife’s return from beyond the veiled curtain of death. Strange happenings are forcing a decision that could doom Erica Desmond...forever. 

Hello and welcome back to my Garden of Evil, where today we will examine Jean Paul’s reaction to Dr. Alison Carr’s new discovery about her sister’s bloodied locket and two possible explanations of what it may say about Erica’s death and Jean Paul’s state of mind. I could do an entire recap of this episode if I wanted to, but I'd rather narrow the focus of this entry to the theories that have been floating around my head for a while (one since before I started this blog, in fact).

A brief summary of the important stuff that happens in this episode: Alison learns that the blood on the locket is human blood, type AB-, which leads her to conclude that it must be Erica’s, because both she and Erica have that rare blood type[1]. She also tests the poison found in the glass of wine that Holly drank from two episodes ago and finds that it’s not the missing cyanide, but an unknown poison of vegetable origin. Elizabeth defends herself to Matt, telling him that she has no motive to kill Holly, not even her inheritance--and, surprisingly, he believes her. And then Raxl and Quito steal the rabbit from Jean Paul’s room and stumble upon that wonderfully sinister skull, which will co-star with Jacques in Episode 47.

Jean Paul receives irrefutable proof that the locket found around the rabbit’s neck belonged to Erica.

Outside of those plot points, this episode focuses primarily on Jean Paul’s confusion over how a bloodied locket even ended up in the cryonics capsule with his beloved Erica to begin with. When Alison shows Jean Paul the blood sample under the microscope, he's skeptical at first and tries to convince her that she either bled on it or someone else somehow put her blood there to confuse him. I would say it boggles my mind how someone with an IQ of 187 like Jean Paul can conceive such a ridiculous theory, but, honestly, it doesn’t. The popularity of conspiracy theories and other misinformation in our time has convinced me that human beings of any intelligence level can trick themselves into believing anything, no matter how patently absurd, if they want to believe it enough.

Subtle Dark Shadows reference?

I can’t tell how much of the next part where Jean Paul continues speculating about the locket is actually in the script and how much is just a particularly bad line flub. Listening to his dialogue, it sounds like a combination of both, but it’s hard to tell given that the character is supposed to be very confused already. Here’s an exact transcription of what he says:

Jean Paul: "Well, maybe I-I-I put the necklace on her neck without realizing it. I perhaps didn't put it on her when I put it in the capsule. It could have happened that way very easily. You see, I had thought I had. You didn't see me do it, did you, Raxl?" Raxl: "No." Jean Paul: "Quito, did you?" Quito: *shakes head* Jean Paul: "Well, there you are. You see? She could have cut her finger a while before she died, and so the blood got on the locket, and maybe I put the locket in the, uh, dresser drawer, and it was left there, and in my grief I didn't know what I was doing and I gave her another piece of jewelry which I put around her neck. Don't you think that probably is what has happened?"

Vangie isn’t convinced of any of these theories, and neither is Raxl. The latter believes that the locket appeared because of evil, “slimy like a snake, ugly like a black rabbit.” (WTF? The rabbit is adorable!) Jean Paul accuses Vangie of suspecting him, but she insists she doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t believe her and he takes out his anger by breaking Alison’s microscope in half, throwing it to the ground, and accusing Erica of mocking him.

In the next scene, he ruminates in his room over the likelihood that he killed Erica, intentionally or otherwise:

Could I have killed my Erica? Could I have slain my love? That's impossible! Oh, you would like it, Jacques Eloi des Mondes, my bloody murdering ancestor. If it was so, how you would rejoice! But then, if I didn't put the locket in the cryocapsule with Erica as I thought, what other things that I believe as facts--things which are part of my life and experience--may be no more than creeping, malicious, lying fancies? Perhaps I didn't love my Erica at all. Perhaps I hated her!

Jean Paul pondering whether he truly loved Erica.

Getting dramatic!

Later, while lying on his bed in shirtsleeves, he realizes that he genuinely loved her, but that his memory is still faulty:

Jean Paul: "I loved her. I remember how I loved her. There was no world but the world outside, and then there was another world and that was us. Oh, how I loved her, so good, so beautiful, but what happened at the end? I can't…was the necklace with Erica when she was sealed in the capsule? I can't remember."

But later on when he visits the Great Hall (inadvertently giving Raxl and Quito the opportunity to retrieve the Rabbit of Evil), Jacques torments him by implying that Jean Paul, like him, is a murderer. “Think there’s a chance you may have murdered your sweet Erica?” he asks. “That blood was very interesting, wasn’t it?”

Jacques hinting again that they’re the same man, or just that the apple doesn’t fall far from the proverbial tree? Or perhaps this is like that one line from Game of Thrones: “You can’t kill me, I’m a part of you now.”

Then we get this exchange which acts as a segue into the next scene:

Jacques: "So maybe you killed your little love before you put her in that tin coffin, hm? Maybe there is no pristine, pure body to revive. That's what's been on your mind all day, isn't it?"   Jean Paul: "Even if it has been, I certainly wouldn't tell you."   Jacques: "You can have no secrets from me, anyhow. You know, if you ever are thinking of murdering again…" Jean Paul: "I did not kill her!" Jacques: "All right!" *laughs* "But whether you did or not, you might want to kill someone else one of these days." Jean Paul:  "Good night." Jacques: "All right, run away, but you might find an example of my skill nearer than you know and sooner than you think."

After he storms out of the Great Hall, Raxl and Quito return, the latter carrying the rabbit. Before they can sacrifice the rabbit in an effort to rid the house of its evil, it jumps from Quito’s arms. While trying to catch it, he bumps his head into a painting of mysterious ancestor Étienne des Mondes and knocks it off the wall, revealing a hidden cupboard with a skull swinging from a rope through its jaws.

We’ll discuss this skull in the review for next episode, where it becomes the focus. For the rest of this review, however, let us turn our attention to two possible interpretations of the Jean Paul and Jacques scenes in this episode. My theories are as follows:

Theory #1: Jean Paul killed Erica and is living in denial

Jean Paul’s reaction to learning that his deceased wife’s blood is on the locket and especially Jacques’ comments about it seem to imply that Dan Forrest’s theory about murder may not be a red herring after all as Ian Martin would have had us believe. Remember that, although Jacques is evil and Martin’s episodes portrayed him as the Father of Lies, he and Jean Paul may or may not be the same man. That could mean anything from Jean Paul having a split personality to Jacques having transported himself forward in time to live as Jean Paul Desmond before the events of Episode 1, but I’ll save those ideas for another essay. The point is that Jacques seems to know Jean Paul as well as he knows himself, and as such knows things about him that the other characters don’t.

It’s possible even that Jacques has observed and interacted with Jean Paul since long before Jean Paul freed him by removing the silver pin from the conjure doll’s temple. Think back to Jacques’ introductory scene in the pilot, where he responds to Jean Paul’s proclamation of “on this island, from this moment forward, I am God” with “bravo.” He could speak through the portrait and even give characters visions before Jean Paul freed him! Also think of all the things he’s referenced that a man from the 17th century wouldn’t be aware of: merry-go-rounds, bus time tables, the figurative expression “jack up by the bootstraps,” and whatnot. Assuming Jacques is a spirit like he claims, he’s been observing and learning things on Maljardin for a very long time! Sure, he looked confused about that fountain pen in Episode 4, but perhaps that was only because he hadn’t had a chance to practice using one before Jean Paul set him free. If Jean Paul killed Erica, Jacques would know about it and may even have encouraged it by communicating with him through the portrait. There’s no indication that the scene in the pilot is the first time he made contact with his descendant. It could be the second time, the fifth, the tenth, the thousandth, or more.

Also note that the exact cause of Erica’s death is never made clear. Jean Paul claims in Episode 5 that she died of eclampsia, but the Lost Episode summary for Episode 47 from the CBC program log indicates that Dr. Menkin’s missing notes would have eventually revealed her to have “died attempting to gain eternal youth.” The latter could have meant anything from plastic surgery complications to swallowing gold à la Diane de Poitiers. It’s not even clear if the attempt at eternal youth is truly the cause of her death, just what she was doing when she died. This leaves the possibility of homicide open.

But did Jean Paul (or Dr. Menkin) intentionally kill her, or could it have been an unpremeditated, spur-of-the-moment decision? I believe the latter is more likely. Jean Paul seems genuinely confused by her death, and even by whether he loved or hated her. It’s possible he already wasn’t in his right mind before her death and may even have blacked out during it (although probably not because of possession, as he had not yet freed Jacques). Perhaps the artificial intelligence hinted at by the reference to W. Grey Walter’s “Imitation of Life” factored into this: for example, the implant inside Erica’s brain may have malfunctioned, causing her to become violent and attack Jean Paul and/or Dr. Menkin.

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM (1961)

Another thing to consider: Strange Paradise shares many plot points in common with the Roger Corman/Vincent Price movie The Pit and the Pendulum. In the film, we have (1) a husband whose wife recently died under mysterious circumstances, (2) whom he comes to suspect he accidentally murdered. (3) His doctor is living at the castle with him, when (4) a sibling of his deceased wife comes to investigate her death. Among the ghostly happenings in the house, (5) a portrait of the wife is slashed. Finally, (6) the husband goes mad and (7) is possessed by an evil lookalike ancestor, in this case his father. While I don’t think that we can accurately predict planned revelations in Strange Paradise using the events of a film written by someone unaffiliated with the show’s production, it is interesting to note that Vincent Price’s character accidentally buried his wife alive. This connects to the events of Episode 44, where Erica’s spirit possesses Holly and tells them to “let [her] out,” although in Erica’s case it’s more likely that she’s just been resurrected from death instead of being buried alive.

END SPOILERS

Theory #2: Jean Paul is imagining things

Another possibility is that he didn't kill Erica and is using the new (apparent) evidence to construct a false memory of killing her. Although most of us like to think of memory as infallible, numerous studies have proven that it's anything but. This can occur on a collective level, such as the famous Mandela effect where, prior to Nelson Mandela's actual death in 2013, many people misremembered him as having died in the 1980s. More often, however, individual people remember false versions of events from their own lives.

In the late 20th century, numerous psychological studies identified the way that even changing small details of a story--changing a stop sign to a yield sign, for example, or adding the detail of broken glass to the story of an accident--could alter a subject's memory of it, creating a "misinformation effect." During one such study, researchers used a fake advertisement showing Bugs Bunny in front of the Sleeping Beauty Castle at Disneyland to trick their subjects into believing that they could meet Bugs at the park (despite Bugs being a Warner Brothers character and Warner Brothers being affiliated instead with Six Flags). For 16 percent of the subjects, it worked, and they described further false memories of meeting Bugs at Disney, adding details like that they touched the ear of his costume[2].

Speaking of false memories of amusement parks, I swore for years that I remembered visiting a dinosaur theme park in the northern Ohio woods back in 1998 or 1999, when I was five or six. I never questioned whether the memory was real until one day when my family drove past a drive-through dinosaur exhibit and my dad said to my mom, "They didn't have anything like that when Michelle was a kid." Skeptical of his claim, I did some Googling and discovered that there was a dinosaur-themed park in the woods near Sandusky called the Prehistoric Forest that looked much like what I thought I remembered[3]. When I sent my parents the link to the article about the Prehistoric Forest, both of them denied ever taking me there or even having heard of the place. Nevertheless, I swear I've been there or somewhere very similar. I think the most likely explanation is that I dreamt about it, but that the memory of the dream was so vivid that I mistook it as one from my waking life.

Much as a researcher can convince their subjects to believe that Bugs Bunny appeared at Disney or I convinced myself that I had visited a place like the Prehistoric Forest, Jean Paul is capable of brainwashing himself into thinking that he murdered Erica. This isn't even the only time he speculates without clear evidence that he’s guilty of murder. We'll see something similar in Episode 137 regarding the murder of a different character, whom Jean Paul will successfully convince himself he killed despite hazy evidence at best.

Note that these two theories are not one hundred percent mutually exclusive. It’s entirely possible that Jean Paul killed Erica, but misremembered specific details about her death or how he felt about her. Also note that this show contains quite a few retcons, one of which we saw last episode. Just as the trajectory of this show has changed significantly from Ian Martin’s original plot, the truth about Erica Desmond’s fate is currently in flux within the show’s universe.

The contents of the secret compartment that Raxl and Quito discovered.

Coming up next: A delightfully chilling episode where Jacques uses the skull that Raxl and Quito found to further terrorize his guests.

{<-- Previous: Episode 45   ||   Next: Episode 47 -->}

Notes

[1] While rabbits can have type AB blood (or type ZY blood, using the system from this 1954 study) and they cannot tolerate injections of Rh-positive blood, they have different antibodies in their blood from those of humans.

[2] Elizabeth F. Loftus, "Memories of Things Unseen," in Current Directions in Psychological Science 13:4 (2004), pp. 145-146. There are other examples from other studies, including one involving false memories of witnessing a demonic possession, but the Bugs one is my personal favorite. Also, this period of Strange Paradise puts me in a rabbity mood.

[3] Coincidentally, the Prehistoric Forest's entrance appeared in the 1995 film Tommy Boy, which also featured Colin Fox and Pat Moffat (Irene Hatter) in supporting roles. There was also an animatronic dinosaur attraction at Sea World Ohio called Carnivore Park that operated in the late 1990s. Despite having visited that Sea World many times as a kid, I couldn’t have gone to that exhibit because we couldn’t afford to go there in 1998 or 1999.

#strange paradise #maljardin arc #george salverson #ron chudley #week 10 #episode 46 #review #genuinely scary episodes #analysis #the bloodied locket #colin fox in shirtsleeves #game of thrones #iq of 187 #mysterious desmond ancestors #the pit and the pendulum #rabbit of evil #speculation on ian martin's original story #storytime #tommy boy #vincent price

[zuzuslastbraincell]

I don’t know if I ever talked about it here but I had an idea for a Zuko = Kuzon AU, where Zuko is Sozin’s eldest child, ends up scarred + is banished/runs away from home and takes on a false name, but is found by Gyatso and is basically adopted? and Aang becomes his little brother? And essentially lives amongst the Air Nomads for at least four years.

Come iceberg time, Zuko actually notices Aang was gone fairly quickly and flies straight into the storm (smart!) after Aang and long story short ends up iceberg’d with him for 100 years.

What this entails:

- Amazing Zuko & Aang bonding obviously

- A *lot* of complicated and messy emotions when they both realise what happened to the Air Nomads, including terrible terrible survivor’s guilt, and Aang almost lashes out at Zuko a couple of times (but I think that happens very early on), and Aang is largely mostly grateful *someone* survived with him, as well

- But despite Zuko’s origins Aang has someone who has some understanding of what is lost even if they weren’t born into Air Nomad culture & has someone to help him share this loss with

- They both have a moment of panic when they realise there are no elders to turn to. They both try and work through that together.

- Scenes with the air temples have more gravitas I’d imagine as Aang and Zuko could talk about what they mean together rather than it being a monologue or implied through visuals.

- Zuko struggles to deal with his heritage + his adopted culture co-existing. Bending, after all =/= culture, and even adopted late I would imagine Zuko probably feels like he has a sense of belonging to both, or was developing a sense of belonging to the Air Nomads and would have considered himself having two cultures if he’d stayed (as he planned) amongst them for the rest of his life. But I think to some extent, even insofar as he’s just a firebender, Zuko has some ties to the FN too.

- Zuko uses a lot of airbending moves when he firebends (!) and Aang also uses some (but far fewer) firebending techniques (especially stuff that could be shared like breath control), but probably fewer firebending moves as Zuko has an understandably mixed relationship to it all

- Zuko isn’t a fantastic firebender and is in a similar position to Katara where he has to learn over the series (although he’s not a prodigy either so it’s like. harder. This causes conflict between him and Aang to some extent)

- Sokka and Katara are understandably confused at first, distrust Zuko strongly at first, but I think over time they realise that Aang and Zuko are siblings in spirit if not in blood. I think their friendship leads them to healthily question a little why they belong to a culture/nation and why not another, and opens up the possibility of ‘not evil firebenders’ a little earlier (but takes them a WHILE to find one).

- Sozin is Zuko’s dad reveal obviously causes some drama, I imagine it’d be revealed at the North Pole, Iroh probably figures it out and casually drops a reference to it, trying to gauge if everyone else already knew (they did not). Aang *probably* knows though.

This also has the added bonus of the wonderful irony of Zuko being Iroh’s Uncle.

#although understandably the relationship between the fn family and zuko is gonna be weird #zuko #aang

[litpath7]

Canada

We, Canadians, have never faced in our lifetime a period of such volatile activity of moral decay. Every aspect of our society has been affected. Government (Local- Provincial- Federal), Education, Judicial System and the offices that trickle down from all of these.  We have been bombarded with many false philosophies that have caused confusion in every area of our society. In order for confusion to reign it must negate truth. Truth comes from understanding and knowing our rights and privileges as a people of any said nation in the free world. Canada, was a free nation able to live under our Freedom of Rights, allowing her people to think for themselves, establish a living, raise a family with all the benefits of a citizen of this country, practice freely your faith, attend institutions of learning, all of which were established with moral laws in each of these areas.  

We, the people, have been lulled to sleep over the years while individuals, corporations and monopolies have been busy eradicating our societal systems and slowly but surely have gained much territory in the area of fear mongering and control.  

Our school system supported prayer-this was eliminated, it taught the morals based on the Ten Commandments-this was eliminated and traded for the god of humanism “if it feels good it must be right”, embraced the inclusion of parents overseeing every area of their children’s education- now to only be excluded almost in every area; parents have to sign consent forms for children to go on outings but no longer need parents to consent or even be informed if their child is going to have an abortion or start procedures for sex change.  

During this pandemic, churches had been closed, fellowship amongst attendees halted, preachers stifled in their messages. The world system has moved in like a wolf and now sits amongst the faithful in sheep’s clothing.  

Society, is encouraged to report disobedience on those that do not bow to the god of bullied obedience.

God’s word tells us in 2 Corinthians 10:3-4,” For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh, for the weapons of our warfare are not flesh, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds.”

Also, in Galatians 6: 14-17, Paul speaks about the Armor of God “Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes for the gospel of peace, in addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God.

2 Chronicles 7:14 says: “My people, who are called by My Name, humble themselves, and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear them from heaven, and forgive their sin and heal their land.”

We must assert where we are spiritually and morally in the light of eternity and for what purpose are we here in this day and age, therefore, with love and grace to go forward and help those, for the purpose of understanding, who are in need of guidance and direction in troubling times.

The time in now and if not now-when?  If not you and I- then who?

[alzaeemadel]

Ya Allah Al Wali - The Protecting Friend, protect us from hearts that are not humble, tongues that are not wise, and eyes that have forgotten how to cry.

Ya Allah make me and my family from amongst the sabiqoon you mention in Surah Al Waqi ah. Let the light of our eeman emanate from our chest and from our right hand side.

Ya Allah grant us the companionship of Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him), his family and the Sahabas in Jannathul Firdous al aala.

Ya Allah accept our good deeds and increase us in reward and Your Mercy. Wipe away our sins and pardon us completely. Shower your Mercy upon us and save us from disgrace on the Day of Reckoning.

Ya Allah, when we die, let our soul and our record of Deeds be with the Illiyeen. Grrant us and our loved ones shade under your throne when there will be no shade but yours.

Ya Allah grant us, our parents, family and children guidance, steadfastness and increase in Imaan and taqwa. Keep us and our loved ones miles away from major and minor sins and from everything that earns your displeasure.

Ya Allah, make us of the few You love, You Pardon and You shade on a Day when there is no shade but from Your Majestic Arsh (Throne).

Ya Allah increase us in our love for You and Your Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him).

Ya Allah forgive us and increase us in Your Blessings and Provision

Ya Allah Save us and our loved ones from the punishment of the grave and the punishment of the Hell Fire.

Ya Allah, protect me and the Muslim Ummah against wicked oppressors. Save us from Fitnah and give us ease in our times of trial. Ya Allah unite our Ummah.

My Lord, bless us with the best in this world, the best in the Hereafter and save us from the fire. We are indeed in need of the good You have in store for us.

Ya Allah increase us in gratitude towards You , let me, my family and my spouse be among the pilgrims to perform Hajj in 2023.

Ya Allah protect us against Evil Jinns and Spirits. Safeguard me from their evil incitements and plots. Save me from every evil that you have created

Ya Allah forgive and have Mercy upon my parents, as they looked after me when I was young. Ya Allah Al Mannan make my parents proud of me in this world and in the hereafter.

Ya Allah, I pray and beg of you for the guidance of the Muslim Youth and Ummah. Save us all from Kufr, Despair, Misdeeds, bidah and Shirk. Keep us away from confusion of different sects and keep us on siratul mustaqeem.

Ya Allah grant us Ultimate Success -safety from the Fire and entry into Jannatul Firdous al alaa.

Ya Ghafoor make us from amongst the True slaves of Ar Rahman you mention in Surat Al Furqan who are protected from Hell fire.

Ya Allah help single mothers and sisters who have lost their husbands and guardians. Be their Wali and ease their hardships. Provide them with finance and help them take care of those under them.

Ya Allah Al Shafi cure everyone who is suffering from chronic diseases and those suffering from Cancer.

Ya Allah keep us away from people who want to cause us harm. Ya Allah make my enemies my friends and make my friends my best friends. Surround me with people who remind me of you and about the akhirah.

Ya Allah uplift the men of our Ummah. Make them men of true honour and deen. Make them our protectors and those who help us and guide us. Keep us away from men and hypocrites who might destroy us, our peace of mind and our eeman.

Ya Allah strengthen me in carrying out Your commands, let me taste the sweetness of Your remembrance, grant me, through Your graciousness, that I give thanks to You. Protect me, with Your protection.Place me among Your righteous and obedient servants, and place me among Your close friends, by Your kindness.

Ya Wakeel we entrust our affairs in your hands do not leave us even for a blink of an eye, . Purify our hearts and Bless our hearts with Your Noor.

Ya Allah, Grant me and my loved ones a blessed death. Let me proclaim the shahada before I die. Grant us the intercession of Prophet ṣallallāhu alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him). Ya Raheem make my last moments the best moments of my life. Let me die a shaheed in madina with my head in sujood and with my eyes shedding tears because of the love I have for you.

.Ya Allah to you we belong and to you is our return. Have mercy on us and forgive us and guide us towards things that lead to your pleasure and keep us miles away from things that lead to your displeasure. Please accept all our duas and protect us from hardships.

Ameen ya rabbul alameen.

[mcfanely]

The Blessed Moon

The Celestials, gods that observe the thriving world. Be it amongst the mortals, or from a distance, their existence has a profound effect on the world. Providing day and night, warmth and comfort, safety. They are worshipped, or feared. They give blessing of their power to a select few. Yet, some people feel as though they deserve the favour of the gods, and there isn’t much they won’t do to get it. 

4304 words 

Trigger Warning: Death, Graphic Injury, Blood

The cloying sensation of muzziness and fog surrounding his mind made it hard for Cole to open his eyes, but he found that even with the confusion and the nausea that seemed to come in tandem with his gradual waking awareness; he wanted nothing more than to let his eyes slip closed all over again and let the darkness of sleep take him. 

Only, the feeling of a cool breeze running through his nightclothes, and the unusual awareness of not being in his bed anymore forced him to try and make sense of the situation. 

Cole remembered his dad putting him to sleep that night. He remembered the long day he'd had before that. Sitting around, trying to keep his four year old self from getting bored. His father, Lou, renowned performer for the God of the Sun; had taken him to work that day with the knowledge that he was to be respectful and quiet in the temple as he entertained the visitors that came by. 

Kai was a very welcoming and enigmatic deity, and some legends said that whilst he existed in the sky, shining down and providing day, allowing crops to flourish under his watchful gaze and humanity to thrive under the day that he provided; he preferred being amongst the humans. That he took the form of an assortment of animals, though mainly favoured the look of a fox. He gave light and joy to everyone and the temples dedicated to him reflected that. 

If Cole was told to sit still, he tended to do the exact opposite. Everything and anything was interesting, and the best time to sneak away and explore the Temple of the Sun was when his father was far too distracted to notice and stop him. 

He'd made sure not to touch anything, not that he'd been able to reach what seemed to catch his eye. Yet, everything seemed to. The temple rose high, towering walls and pillars that held up the structure, adorned in the brightest red tapestries that the seamstresses in the nearby villages had been able to provide. The brightest colour Cole had ever seen. Then there was the gold, glinting in the sunlight that came pouring through the open doors, along with people from far and wide. Large oaken contraptions that stayed hanging open from the tiny hours of the morning just as the sun peaked its glow over the horizon, to the late night as the final rays of its light descended and darkness took over. 

To a child, the notion that everything in that room had been built, crafted so expertly all in the name of a benevolent god that allowed them all to thrive and grow and live. It was astounding. 

For about the whole of ten minutes. 

Cole padded around the main room, explored the hallways that webbed off to the sides. Toddled past cleaners with wooden buckets of steaming water, some people dressed in some nicer tailored clothes with loaded platters of food heading straight to where the central sun dais was situated, providing food for the masses of people that came and brought with them gifts for their god. 

A few people spared him a few glances, though most workers knew who he was. They gave him small waves, smiles. Cole simply continued to gaze around each new room in turn. Until the corridor circled back around to the performance area, and he was back where he'd begun. 

And he was quickly bored again. It didn't help that his father's job seemed to stretch on for so long that it was almost like the day was stretching and making Cole's boredom and torture worse. He'd looked around, but now there was absolutely nothing to do other than sit around at the side of the room, try not to complain, and allow his dad to work. 

He must have picked a small pile of loose threads from his linen shirt when his father had come over to him. The sun had dipped, long shadows cascaded over the floor and Cole let out a large yawn when he felt himself get picked up under the arms. He rested his cheek against his dad's shoulder, and let his eyes drift closed. 

He'd come around when they'd arrived back at their home, a small place, quaint but well built. There was a large green space to the back of it, and a cobbled area to the front. Candles lit around his bedroom chased away the darkness and Cole snuggled into his bed with a soft sheet pulled up to his shoulders. His mind drifting back into the hold of sleep. 

Cole knew he hadn't woken again, he hadn't gotten up and gone outside, he hadn't pulled a stool to the window and pushed the shutters open to allow the breeze of the night into his room, then why did he feel so cold?

Why did the breeze now bite at his skin, why did he feel so bad and sickly? Why did he have the oppressive sense of wrong that caused fear to curl in his gut? 

He tried to open his eyes again, and this time it allowed a sliver of an image to get in. His head was pounding, his body was aching and he felt tears quickly prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

Cole was most definitely not at home. 

The more of his surroundings his mind decided to take in, the more his chest tightened at the fact that he didn't know where he was. Somewhere high up? The peak of a mountain? It was hard to make out anything under the faint light of the moon which was shrouded by clouds. 

There was a small fire, faintly glowing too far away to feel its warmth. Then something moved, the form of a large man, his visage covered by the night. 

The moment the man noticed that Cole was moving and awake, he stood and advanced forwards. By default and in reaction to the stranger, Cole immediately shuffled back on the ground. His night pants were muddied due to the sodden dirt and yesterday's rain, his shirt was ripped and ruined. 

And he barely moved an inch back before something stopped him. His back hit a solid blockade, a wall, or a thick pole driven into the ground, he wasn't sure?

The man knelt down in front of him, and Cole was more than close enough to see his cracked and yellowed teeth, the animal hide cloak draped over his shoulders and the wicked sharp and glinting knife on his belt. 

He whimpered, closed his eyes tightly as some tears spilled free. The man just chuckled, a rough hand clasped his chin and forced him to look up. 

He needed to get away. He had to get away, find his way back home, get to his father. Anywhere but the mountain peak. 

"Snivelling brat." the man ground out, though there was an edge of glee to his voice. "I can't believe it was so easy for me to get my hands on you. You're going to be doing something very important tonight."

The man pulled his hand away, but Cole could still feel the pain. There was bruising that would follow, should he get out of the situation unscathed.

What was happening? What had..?

Around the fog in his mind, a memory surfaced. It was distorted, and hard to make out. He remembered waking up to a figure in his room. Not his dad, his dad didn't stand that tall. Then a cloth had been pressed to his mouth before he'd even had a chance to scream, the noise only came out muffled as a sickly sweet and cloying scent rushed into his mouth and nose. His eyes had dropped instantly, his body sagging soon after. Then nothing. 

Nothing until he'd woken up freezing on a mountain top, thick ropes tied around his chest and arms to keep him in place with an unknown person in front of him.

He wanted to go home. 

He wanted to go home! 

Cole could feel the tears flowing quickly now, each one dripping from his face and hitting the ground. His nose was running, his shoulders were shaking and he couldn't move his hands to wipe it all away. 

The man just towered to full height in front of him, a monster of a man. He was bedraggled, and dirty, and he smelt foul. 

"Please, let me go!" Cole squeaked out, his tongue like lead in his mouth, "Please, I want to go home! I want my dad!" He was wriggling, pulling on the ropes. Though they weren't shifting an inch. 

In response, the man smirked and turned away. 

He began setting up a circle of small candles, thick and short, the wicks barely staying lit with each frozen whip of the wind. Cole simply watched, his breathing ragged, his voice cracking and shrill as he screamed for any help, only for the sound to echo and die in the surrounding expanse of night sky and nothingness. 

His only companion was the light of the moon which intermittently broke through the clouds. 

The man seemed to gaze up into the sky with excitement every time a moon beam helped barely light up the mountaintop. 

He was muttering to himself as he worked, moving over to the fire intermittently to collect items from a leather bound bag, sewn crudely together with thick lengths of spun wool. It seemed filled to bursting with every new item taken out of it. Strips of silver cloth, which he laid to rest over the wicks of the candles, each one beginning to burn with a glowing fervour. 

Then came the flowers, a small bunch of them but Cole knew what they were. They grew in his neighbours hanging baskets, and he'd climbed up to pick them before without permission many times. 

A white petled bud, almost a star shape. They were thin and small but there were quite a few of them. They seemed to absorb the moonlight, and give off a soft white glow. 

It was comforting, and it would be pretty, if Cole wasn't so terrified of what was going to happen.

The man stepped over once he'd looked like he was happy with the set up of his items, and placed the collection of flowers just a bit further from where his feet could reach. 

Moon blossoms. Secred datura. 

Only ever used in special rituals. Told of in stories, said to ward off evil spirits and be a gift from the moon to man. An apology, almost, for bringing darkness to the world. 

Now that the man was closer, Cole could make out what was being said, and fear coiled. He was talking to himself, in a mad fervour of words and excited cackles of glee. 

"This is the perfect night, perfect… 

A child of a disciple of the sun god, what better to use to get the attention of the moon?

They'll be so pleased. So, so pleased."

"What are you going to do?" Cole questioned, the words pouring quietly from his mouth before he could stop them. They were pitted with a teary sound, and short pulled in breaths as he spoke through the tears. 

Attention was immediately back on him, the man's eyes wide and his smile large, Cole just wished he could shrink back. Disappear into the ground, be anywhere else. 

"Gain unimaginable power."

Cole's brow furrowed deeply, his body still trembled, but if he could bide a bit of time, maybe someone would come and help him. Maybe… Maybe his dad knew where he was and he was already on his way. 

He needed to be strong, he needed to have hope. 

"How will you," He paused, swallowing around a lump in his throat, "How will you do that, mister?" 

The man seemed to perk up at the question of how, and when one hand came to rest on the hilt of his blade, Cole felt his heart stutter in his chest, even with it already racing a mile a minute. 

"You see, my boy. The gods can sometimes come to the surface, like that blasted Sun God. But they do give out power to those who they deem worthy." The man crouched down, but he was still tall enough for Cole to need to look up and see his face. Though that wasn't where his attention was focused. It was the knife, now held in the man's grasp, being twirled slowly. "They give power to people who give them gifts, help them out, or if they simply just like the particular human."

The knife was getting lifted, being brought far too close. 

Cole whimpered lightly and pressed himself back against the pole. 

"But there are some things that the gods cannot possibly ignore. Summoning gets their attention well enough." The man spread his hand back to the circle of smouldering candles. "Yet, gods cannot ignore precious and unique gifts. And tonight, my boy, the moon is at its peak. It's waxing, but bright." He grinned madly, "The moon god is watching, my patron, and when I show them how devout I am, give them such a gift, they will descend and bless me with anything I desire."

The point of the knife came to rest on Cole's throat, and in an instant his body stilled. It ran cold, but didn't move an inch. There was no shaking, tears dropped down but he didn't dare shift an inch. The point was digging in lightly, if he swallowed, if he breathed, it would do more damage. 

If the intention was injury, there wasn't much Cole could do from where he was to prevent it. 

"Please…" He whispered quietly, his pupils blown wide. "I just want to go home."

The man lent forwards, carding his fingers through Cole's hair before his grip tightened on the strands. It forced his head back, exposing his neck further. He couldn't help but shriek, the noise echoing around. The moonlight around him was harsh now, oppressive. He'd heard stories, horrible nightmare inducing tales of some of the gods in their world. Ones that didn't take material gifts, foods, crafts, gold and silver pieces. 

Some gods only accepted things that provided more power. Belief could go a long way for the deities, but there were things… 

Sacrifices, spilled blood. Tales of people never returning home, of horrifying beings that roamed the land. Searching for waylaid children, those who didn't listen to their mothers and fathers. 

Who stole them away in the night. 

All in the name of their gods. 

"You have more use here." the man smiled. 

In an instant, a powerful wind blew over the peak. The candles cascaded into darkness, one after the other. Moonlight, more powerful than Cole had ever seen it, provided light to everything around him. Silver and white. Soft. 

Cole just wanted his dad. 

"They're here." The man whispered in glee, his grip adjusting on the knife. "They're really here. The perfect night, the perfect gift. A blooming soul, for anything I desire." He said to himself, his eyes slipping closed. 

Then the knife twisted and moved, slicing in a sharp arch. Cole didn't flinch, he couldn't move. 

He remembered a cold, wet sensation, which descended into a bone deep chill. Strength left his body in an instant, slumping forwards but supported up by the tight rope that bit and burned his bare skin. 

There was a liquid dropping intermittently to the ground, his heart was pounding loudly in his ears. 

It took him a second to realise the liquid wasn't his own tears, but by then his senses were leaving him. His mouth moved, open, trying to form words. But copper simply filled the back of his mouth, preventing any noise from coming out. His vision was swimming, edged with an advancing grey fog. 

The man was still in front of him, the blade in his grip. The edge of it coated with a deep red liquid, running off its point freely. 

The moonlight strengthened around them, but Cole didn't pay it much mind. 

His fingers and toes were tingling with pins and needles, before the feeling started to fade away completely. The liquid hitting the ground was coalescing, becoming a growing puddle. It was sticky, it seeped into his shirt and pants. 

Cole barely managed a slow blink, before his vision faded fully. 

He was sure he'd seen another person on the mountain top. 

__

Summoning, for a god, was like a magnetic pull. It was there, tangible, it could be ignored but it was a present sensation. One which moved through The Moon's form as he gazed down on his favourite planet once again. 

Mortals were unusual but interesting beings. Fun to observe. They went about their nights in their homes normally, shrouding from the darkness in the safety of four walls. 

He just watched. It was what he did every night. Be it whether he could see clearly down to the world's surface or not, he just looked. Each night, a new mortal to observe. But sometimes his attention was beckoned, pulled in a certain direction. Yet it was expected whenever mortals provided gifts for him. They didn't have to, but the action of a human providing a possession of theirs in his name, The Moon couldn't help but turn towards it.

However, that night, something different happened. Something had been given to him. Something that The Moon hadn't felt in decades, centuries even. 

The copper tang, the oppressive and surrounding shroud of darkness that chilled even the god to the core. If forced anger to bloom, however unwillingly. It made his powers rile and climb, whip and scream within his form; increasing to levels that would easily be deemed by his fellow Celestials’ as anything but natural. 

Blood magic, a blood sacrifice. 

Some gods took them, thrived in the dark energy and boost of power they provided. 

The Moon, Zane, was sickened. The power felt wrong, yet it seemed into his form. Even as he descended to the planet's surface to the epicentre of the power, he could feel the energy. 

He could feel it seeping into his mind, distorting his form. Favoured silver and white robes darkening to a steeled grey. Eyes that shone blue like a perfectly pure moonbeam dulled into an almost inky blackened mockery of their true nature. 

On the mountaintop, Zane could finally see what had happened. 

See the sheer horror of the scene. 

There was a man, gazing in his direction with an incredible look of awe. His form tended to bring that out of people, but that wasn't what caught his attention. 

The bloodied blade, the man's hand with the red liquid also dripping from his fingers. The summoning circle. 

The body at its centre. 

"My… My Lord." The man bowed his head and dropped to his knees before him, his head bowed but his hands held out before him, palms up. As if he was expecting something. 

"You're truly here." He laughed, it was loud. Ecstatic. "Look upon all that I have done for you! The gift that I've given you."

Zane just stood there, his eyes never leaving the unmoving form. Clearly lifeless, skin a clear ashy grey in the dim light, red rivulets that were dried and looked as though they'd stopped flowing a while beforehand. 

A gift? 

"What have you done?" The Moon questioned, his voice carefully level, he took a small step forward.

The man looked up with a wide smile. "I provided a sacrifice for you. Power, a soul, and in return you are welcome to bless me however you see fit!" 

Bless him? Zane almost laughed as loud as the creature before him had. There was anger blooming under the surface, but it wasn't the tainted sacrifice that was causing it. 

The idea that this human… This mere mortal had taken the life of someone and thought it was what The Moon wanted? The sheer uncaring look in his eyes, the fact that he was unbothered. Unphased by what his dirtied hands had done. 

"Power?" Zane questioned, his voice echoing seemingly, even though the word was barely above a whisper. It had a ring to it, shrill and loud. 

The man knelt before him spared a wince. 

Good. But The Moon was not done. Not by a long shot. 

He stepped closer to the man and knelt before him, his back straight and greyed and charcoaled robes draping over the ground around his legs. The Moon reached forwards, his fingers resting against the monster's cheek. "You wish for power?" Zane questioned quietly. This time the reaction from the man was faster, clearer. There was pain, gritted teeth, winced eyes. 

Fresh blood was dropping, but this time it was from the man's ears. His nose. The corner of his mouth. Zane had been given a blood sacrifice, tainted abilities and power, but he wasn't above using it once provided. 

__

The moon was near to concluding its bow over the night's sky, and Zane stood back to his full height. The mountaintop was silent now, with only himself and the remnants of a disaster spread out around him.

A horror, plain and simple. Zane couldn't help but look around. Such a simple set up, so unassuming and easily done. Candles, material, fire. 

A blade. 

His attention went quickly back to the form slumped in rope, and getting closer he could feel disgust and abhorrence descend.

It was a boy. Bound, Zane could see where he'd been moving. The ground was kicked up with light trenches of shifted dirt, the ropes had left marks on his small arms. 

But the worst thing was the wound. 

He moved forwards quickly and with a wave of his hand the ropes holding him up dissolved into a puther of silver smoke, which faded just as fast. Zane was there to catch the small form, though, one hand lightly on the boy's cold cheek, another on his shoulder as he lowered him to the ground.

He wasn't moving. 

He hadn't moved for a while.

"No…" Zane whispered quietly, "No, no. So young… You're so-" He shook his head, his words catching in his throat as he crooked forwards until his chin was resting against his chest, his back bent until he was a visage of one of his followers. Bowed forwards, knees beneath him against his chest. In prayer, almost. 

Had the boy prayed? Dark skin was soft and near delicate, tiny hands with mud caked under his nails, eyes closed but if they were open they'd be unseeing. There were dried tear tracks patterning his cheeks. 

He must have been so scared…

Zane carefully brushed some hair away from the boy's face, lifting him just carefully until he was situated on his robe instead of directly on the floor. The wound took his attention.

Long and far too deep for someone so small. The edges smooth and caked in blood. It would have been slow, painful. Terrifying. Yet, before he'd even realised it, The Moon had placed his fingers just above the marring mark. 

This boy, this death, it had given him horrible power. Power that was already fading, if his robes were anything to go by. But there was some left. Mixed and diluted with his own energy, everything before him had been carried out by a mad man on a disillusioned mission to be blessed by a god. Be given power. 

Zane didn't bless people as freely as The Sun; as Kai did. Hardly at all, really. 

But if there was anyone who was deserving of it… 

He felt power flow through his hand. Firstly, into the open wound. Like silver ichor, the power seemed almost liquid, flowing beautifully. Glowing calmly. 

The skin and flesh stitched slowly back together, and the taint of blood was removed from the boys skin in turn. Yet, the power still flowed in, even when the wound had disappeared. There wasn't much power provided, not really, but it was enough. 

The boy's small form before him took on a slight glimmer, and under closed eyelids there was a sliver of light from his eyes. 

In a second, it all stopped. 

The scene went back to The Moon, knelt down on the mountaintop, cradling the boy in his arms. This poor, now blessed boy, who had laid still and unmoving for far too long. Who had been caught up in such twisted man's plan with no idea what was going to become of him. Or maybe he had known, had realised? 

The sun was edging on the horizon, the light blue of the sky chasing away Zane's deep colour of the night. 

Then finally, after too long. The sound of quiet breathing permitted the air. The boy shifted slowly in his arms, wrapped in the power of the moon and the dregs of sleep that had now overtaken him. 

Zane couldn't help but smile down at the mortal, the way his chest now moved. 

The fact that the scar was gone, but an intricate design was adorned in its place. Barely visible in the oncoming sunlight, a light blue diamond in the centre of his throat, with curled wisps of silver stretching out along either side of his neck. It was not a scar, thankfully, yet it would stand out as a physical remnant of what had taken place. 

Zane just hoped that the boy would not remember the horrors of the night, simply just the comfort and safety The Moon hoped to provide with his presence. 

He would need to leave soon, with the sun rising so fast, but he was content to wait till the last second to ensure this mortal boy slept soundly.

-

AO3

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