He does this thing with people he loves. The way he lets you in, just a little bit at a time, and you don’t even really notice it until suddenly you know everything about him, every scar on his body and mind. It stops being a question of whether or not you’d follow him off a cliff and it becomes just a fact of life, that you’d hold his hand on the way down. All of a sudden, you’re a part of him, like another limb, and you don’t think to question it until you realize that you treat him the same way, like he’s your heart and your lungs and your blood would freeze in your veins without him. You stop being two distinct beings with two separate minds. You’re still different people, but it stops being a ‘you-and-him’ and it becomes a 'we’. And then he’s gone, and you’ve heard of phantom limbs, when amputees feel agonizing pain in limbs that aren’t there anymore, and maybe that’s what this is, but you’re walking around like a zombie and you can’t think and you can’t even fucking breathe, because he isn’t here and you’ve forgotten how to live without him.
The Gentry favor the culinary arts students. Like any Elsewhere student in a creative field, their passion is already intoxicating, but sometimes they leave offerings of baked goods. Sometimes they even get desperate or stupid enough to make a bargain.
But the student known as ‘Maillard’ was not here to bargain.
Their world was fire, and salt, and iron, and they carried that with them always. The scent of the wood-fired grill hung heavy on their clothes; their tea-towels scorched, but their sleeves always white and pure and clean. Their hands still stung with salt; coarse and crystallized, they’d scattered it over steaks, and sealed whole Red Snappers beneath its rocky crust. And the cast iron skillet at their hip carried with it the happy memories of a thousand meals or more, every one of them shared with friends.
And one of those friends was currently the plaything of the Fae, following what mortals would call a ‘bad deal’.
All around them, Maillard could feel the glamour, feel those burning eyes, feel the sheer unbridled outrage as it poured down from the thrones of ice and chaise-longues of living wood in turbid torrents, hell-bent on drowning out all thought. How dare you! How dare you bring these things here, into our world! How dare you think you can just walk in here, just stand there as if you’re anything less than nothing! Crawl, you worm! You insect!Bow down to us!
The words twisted themselves again and again, looking for a way in.
This is outrageous! We demand to speak to your manager!
But muscles honed from lifting sacks of potatoes and hauling huge sauce-pans of chicken stock held the heavy frying pan at arm’s length. Maillard had been pissed off before they’d heard The Bad News;they’d had A Busy Night at their professional kitchen internship.Tomorrow morning, they had to get up and laminate their croissant dough, rolling out unsalted butter and pastry into thin, unbroken sheets. There was no time for hesitation. No room for second guesses. Each and every one of those layers had. To. Be. Perfect.
So like hell they were going to stay up all night playing games.
“What will you give us for the girl?” One asked.
The Fae felt no fear. They could be offended, or be amused, but to them these were absolutes, far beyond the limited mortal constraints of 'feeling’. And being timeless, they were as patient as the grave. All they needed was a moment; the moment of confusion at a fork in the road, the moment a mortal’s faith was shaken, the moment when the stars were right and the moon was full. Sooner or later, they would have their way. They would have their - for lack of a better word - fun.
“I will give you my footprints, going back to whence I came.”
Maillard’s voice was unwavering, and their shoulders squared. The eyes they were looking into were like the winter sun, like burning ice, like death itself - but the customers at table six had ordered a round of extra-well-done steaks and sent them back three times because they were too tough. Table eighteen had requested vegan deviled eggs. Table nine had asked if they could take the sour out of the sourdough and the carrots out of the carrot cake. All were outraged. All were 'never coming back to this dump ever again’. Few left a tip.
They’d dealt with worse.
“I will take with me my fire, and my iron, and my salt. And from these I will forge not blades, but bread - the stuff of life - if you let her go.”
Bread, not blades. Keep the knives in the kitchen, not on the streets. Perhaps it was the magic in the air, but their whole reason for pursuing the culinary arts somehow weaved itself into words worthy of any storybook hero - and perhaps this was enough to amuse the Gentry. Perhaps they had merely tired of their plaything. Or perhaps, that momentary flicker amidst the Fair Folk - when the mortal, kissed by fire and blessed by salt, brandished their iron cookware - meant something else.
But they brought back their friend, covered with frost and fresh-fallen snow. And with their cast-iron skillet and their gas-fired oven and their kosher salt and their grandmother’s recipe, they made cornbread. And soup, because there was time, now. The two friends ate together, and the color came back to her hands and her cheeks, and the life came back to her eyes. And they talked about anything but what they’d seen and done, because that was What You Did at Elsewhere U.
Maillard left a slice of cornbread on the windowsill before they set their alarm clock. Not as a kindness, not as a payment, but as a promise; forged from iron, and salt, and fire, and love.
They supposed you could call it complimentary. The Fair Folk did love a compliment.
They tipped better than most mortal customers, too.
“Let’s go on that!” you said, excitedly tugging on Yoongi’s sleeve. He looked up at the swinging viking boat ride, a typical carnival staple, and grimaced. “Let’s not.” Rolling your eyes, you turned to him. “So then what do you want to do?” “Leave,” he said, only half joking.
Claire’s dad spins elegantly up out of his seat in one smooth motion, and ends up on his feet with one hand extended to Gwen. “I think these two old folks might need to retire back to my pod for the night. I have a bottle of KaneCohol with our names on it, and some new outfit ideas in need of a gorgeous model…”
“I think I know a girl,” Gwen says, with impeccable dignity–she sounds detached and cool, but her lips twitch like she’s hiding a smile.
A/N: Whoa I wrote this all at like 12 AM and i don’t know if its okay. also, I’m gonna go ahead and title it Draco x Reader x Harry because thats basically what it is right now. Don’t worry, it’s still a Draco fic. Also, I don’t usually post another fic this early after just posting another one. just a heads up :)
been exactly one month. One month that (Name) had broke it off with Draco, one
month since he had broken something seemingly unbreakable, and a little under
one month since Harry’s feelings for (Name) flourished.
had got considerably better. She smiled now, she laughed, and she didn’t cry as
broke off all connections with Pansy. Every time he looked at her he was just
reminded of his sins, his guilt.
down twenty-ninth and park.
I saw you in another’s arms.
Only a month we’ve been apart.
You look happier.
you walk inside a bar.
He said something to make you laugh.
I saw that both your smiles were twice as wide as ours.
You look happier, you do.
She laughed at something Harry said, making the Golden Boy himself laugh as
well. He stared at her with longing eyes hidden behind circular spectacles. She
reached over and ruffled his already messy hair with a grin before standing up
and walking away. He sat there with the widest grin anyone had ever saw.
not still moping over that (House) girl, are you?” One of his friends,
Ryder, rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Draco saw (Name) walking by and
scoffed, speaking loud enough for her to hear. “As if. I don’t mope over
someone I was never in love with.” Ryder smirked, uncrossing his
of fish in the sea.”
pace slowed and she came to a stop. He saw her out of the corner of his eyes
clench her fists and keep walking, taking a single, irritated breath.
was clear that her sorrow had turned into anger.
ok but yuuri katsuki who has a massive sweet tooth but also takes his coffee black like his soul during finals
“Aren’t you going to leave room for milk?” Victor asks him as Yuuri pours.
“No,” Yuuri whispers, and the black liquid is threatening to spill over the top, but he only tips the pot back at the last possible millisecond. Precision, he thinks. Precision. It’s blazing hot. He drinks it.
Victor watches him. “Yuuri, your tongue… And don’t you normally put sugar in it? And milk?”
The coffee drains. By the time he answers, the cup is half empty. “Finals,” he tells Victor simply, then pours more.
Give yourself to the Dark Side. It is the only way you can save your
friends. Yes; your thoughts betray you. Your feelings for them are
strong. Especially for your… sister. So, you have a twin sister.
Your feelings have now betrayed her too. Obi-Wan was wise to hide her
from me. Now, his failure is complete. If you will not turn to the Dark
Side… then perhaps she will… (Insp)
Snape substituting Lupin in PoA is so ridiculous - first of, Harry’s ten whole minutes late to the class and when he arrives Snape’s not done talking about Lupin’s lack of organization. How long has this been going on? No wonder the class is boldly interrupting him, they must’ve been exasperated by that point. 15 minutes of Snape going conveniently blind and deaf to everyone around him just to keep talking about Lupin. “He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s a Gryffindor… everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Lupin with his Dark Creatures and his chocolate……..” (Filch voice: “you have told me this at least a dozen times already”)