spun honey

She Smelled of Daisies

To my fellow parishioners over at @the-priest-killian-network

Peace be with you. 


The gardens down by the waterfront was one of his favorite places to have her. It was far enough away from the church that they could make a fair amount of sound without the fear of being caught. There had been a few times - how could there not have been - that they were careless, needing each other in broad daylight with her golden locks shining in the sunlight like a halo around her head. Sometimes it was almost as if God himself was giving his blessing to their union. Yet Killian knew that couldn’t be true because what they were doing was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Emma Nolan was an angel sent to him from heaven above and he worshiped her as such.

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My mother tells me that making boys fall in love is like feeding them honey.
She says ‘start with a little’
A kiss. Fingers brushing together.
She says eventually they start coming back for more.
Hands sliding down spines, hips pressed together so tightly it feels like a collapsing building.
'They all become addicts my darling, wanting more and more till they’re drowning in it.’ She whispers.

I think about this when I’m kissing you. When we’re tangled in the sheets. When you breath my name into my thighs.
I pull you closer and swear I can taste the honey in our mouths.

—  “Home spun honey”
C.S.
Blue Bell

Requested

“He looks at her like she puts the stars in the sky”


She arrives at the beginning of Draco’s fourth year.

Saunters in amongst the other Beauxbatons girls, smothered in blue silk and soft mouths and giggles that fluttered in their throats like butterflies. And there had been so many of them; a mirage of powdered cheeks and rouged lips and practiced, purposeful perfection, Renaissance paintings with rounded edges and placated smiles – but it was her that caught Draco’s eye and never quite managed to let go.

Because he knows myths, has ran his fingers over age-old ink that told tales of vengeful gods and spinning wheels, gingerbread houses and maidens dragged beneath the ground and he’s never understood the Trojan war, no, didn’t understand how pretty eyes and a slender fingers could cause bloodshed –

But she feels the weight of his stare against her shoulders. Glances over and meets his eyes.

He thinks about trees falling in an empty forest and whether they make a sound.

___

He’s in the owlry when he sees her again, tying a green ribbon around a letter addressed to his mother. A coat of snow has been draped over the castle, frost etching patterns against window panes and boots leaving imprints of wherever you go.

Draco’s breath fogs in the air, words catch in his lungs as he turns and sees her, an apparition, a daydream.

A fur collar is brushing against the slope of her jaw, pinned with a diamond brooch that’s ostentatious and spectacular and matches precisely the color of her eyes. “Hello,” she says, words dripping icicle-cold down the notches of his spine.

“Hello,” he replies, because he’s a gentleman, extends his hand and marvels in how much smaller she is than him. How her fingerprints seem to match his despite all reason.

A blush – fine and faint and vaguely reminiscent of the ice dusted roses in his mother’s garden – suffuses the grooves of her cheeks. “You’re,” she starts. Stops. Heart stutters like it’s drowning. “You’re the Malfoy boy, aren’t you?”

And he wonders just how much she’s heard.

Because he’s arrogant and sullen, bratty and petty and widely despised. Because he’s sharp edges and sharper words, the pomegranate that had tricked Persephone and the curse that turned King Midas’ touch to gold. Because he can’t imagine anyone who didn’t benefit from it like him, no, not when his morals have firmly affixed themselves to his last name until he can’t quite tell the difference.

“Yes,” he says, as stiff as a starch collar. His Achilles heel is pulled taut. Then, “How do you know who I am?”

She lowers her eyes. The flutter of her lashes reminds him of the flapping of an owl’s wings against the pale, pale sky. “I asked about you,” she replies, and his heart skips a beat.

___

He’s in the library, sat at a table in the back beneath color painted windows that cast stories against the floor when under the burden of sunlight, fingers smudged with ink and every word on the page somehow translating to the width of her smile and the depth of her eyes.

A stray parchment – his first attempt at his potions essay – is hanging languorously off the table. Ink is speckled across the fine wood of the table, ink blots that they show you in a therapist’s office and ask, “What do you see?”

Draco’s always preferred the hazy certainty of crystal balls.

And a weight is settling into the chair beside him, the girl, with a textbook in her arms and a question on her mouth and –

“Of course,” he says, pushes his things aside so she has more room. “I could use the company anyhow.”

It’s not exactly true.

He hadn’t been able to concentrate before and now all he can see if the blur of her smile in his peripheral, a striped tie that abides to no house, long fingers and porcelain cheeks and a lock of hair tucked behind her ear.

“I’m going to set this whole school on fire,” she sighs. Giggles at the laugh that rumbles in his chest like a thunder stroke. Sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. Pauses for one heartbeat, two, and says, “Would you like to go for a walk with me? I need a break, I think.”

It doesn’t matter that they’ve been studying for barely ten minutes.

He says yes and can’t help but compare the gossamer in the trees to the way her hair blows in the wind, the gold of the eking sunlight to the apple of her cheeks, the rippling of the lake to how he perceives her to be – everything below the surface.

___

They settle into a routine by the time Christmas magic is flickering in the air.

He walks her to her classes, helps her with her homework at night. She sits in the stands at his Quidditch practices and loops her arm through his elbow when their footsteps echo against the castle floor. She wears his jacket when it’s cold and they discreetly pass notes during class, pretend that the smudged ink on their palms doesn’t quite communicate how they feel.

She tells him of France – all muted colors and crisp days, flowers blooming like pulses beneath skin and people like dolls dressed for antique stores. Asks him to read his mother’s letters to her when they come and lounges against his lap in the common room.

We’re friends, he tells Blaise, irritation lacing beneath his scalp as he twists his fingers around the handle of his broom. Mud is caking the soles of his boots, sweat congealing at the base of his spine.

And Blaise smirks. Shuts his locker door with a clang. “Sure,” he says, reaches down to unlace his gear. “You might be friends – but I hardly think that’s what you’d like to be.”

Draco doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

___

It happens at the Yule Ball.

Snowflakes flutter against an ink-dark sky, orchestra crooning and champions shuffling across the floor like it’s all a game of chess. Queen, King, Bishop, Knight.

Draco’s fingertips are at her elbow bend as he murmurs into her ear, watches as goosebumps arise on her arms from the cold and her laugh is quiet, tinkling like the crystals of the chandeliers. Checkmate, he thinks. Keeps himself from staring at the line of her collarbones and the fullness of her mouth and the way that her dress droops just the slightest because, god, she’s a storm that he thinks he wants to chase but tornadoes always have had a way of swallowing everything in their paths.

“Dance?” he asks, holds her waist and her hand and wonders if her heart, too, is burgeoning an escape.

He whirls her around the glass floor until her cheeks are stained a watercolor pink and he feels dizzy, drunk, like he’s Dionysus and she’s the wine. And it’s all very inescapable, really.  

“It’s too warm in here,” she murmurs, sweat gathering in the pool of her clavicle. Strands of hair frame her face, look impossibly similar to a halo as he leads her outside into the chill and she glances up at the snow dotted sky.

He looks at her.

At the bend of her neck and the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her mouth as she sighs.

He looks at her like she put the stars in the sky, gathered up dragon bones and threw them to the horizon until they were little more than specks against the cosmos.

He looks at her and he can’t quite help it, no, can’t quite help the way his fingers trace the shard of her cheek, heart strings tremble like the string of a lyre in his chest and –

It feels like destiny, when he finally kisses her. Bittersweet and melancholy and sugar spun days, honey sweet summers, the wine he’s been forbidden to touch and the ambrosia of the gods.

He’s fifteen and he thinks that he’s in love.

i.
Let’s talk about Eve. Let’s talk about her nakedness. Let’s talk about how she got tricked by something Adam named, there is power in names. Perhaps if he had called it a rabbit instead of a serpent, none of this would have happened. Let’s talk about how she offered him the fruit.

ii.
Let’s talk about Pandora. Let’s talk about how beautiful she was. Let’s talk about how much she loved her husband and how she loved curiosity more. Let’s talk about how she got tricked too. Let’s talk about how she released everything except hope.

iii.
Let’s talk about her. Let’s talk about her ocean blue eyes and her honey spun hair and her olive skin. Let’s talk about how she got warned about you. Let’s talk about how you burned her until her flesh evaporated. Let’s talk about how she reformed into a spear that ripped you from your toes to your temples.

iv.
Let’s talk about me. Let’s talk about how I didn’t know you were the forbidden fruit or the forbidden pithos or the raging inferno. Let’s talk about how you dressed up in wings and a robe and called yourself an archangel. Let’s talk about your flaming sword of vengeance.

v.
Let’s talk about you now. Let’s talk about how your sword is actually a plastic torch that really, wouldn’t even make a good lightsaber. Let’s talk about your hands. Let’s talk about your legs. Let’s talk about your throat. I thought I knew everything about you, but I missed out something. I forgot to taste the forbidden. I forgot to cut your heart out of your chest and take a bite. I forgot. Let’s talk about that.

—  I think we need to talk, Venetta O.
Lick The Icing Off

Violet x Pearl

Rated M for Misuse of cupcakes

Good boyfriends went out and bought their partner a cake for their birthday. Great boyfriends baked their partners a homemade cake for their birthday. But Pearl wasn’t a good boyfriend…nor was Pearl a great boyfriend.

No, she was a drag boyfriend, er, girlfriend, and she was going to give Violet something special to remember this night.

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Blue Pain

I’m not sorry that this is up late cos I am at home and spending time with my lovely family. I wanted to write this about the past, but I know nothing about American history. Literally nothing. Seriously, until I was about…thirteen…I thought you chose your presidents by which candidate looked the most like naturally formed faces in the cliffs. Honestly. 

This is short, and not very good at all. I’m busy. 

Blue Pain

Hannah has seen a princess.

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