emilie ayers

half-veela princess || beauxbatons alumni

[blackcanarywrites]

GREEN EYED - Short Film

[irresistibly-emi]

giggle-me-this​:

xiomarawinters·:

Xiomara wrinkled up her nose at the revelation that Emi’s piece was a politician, of all things. “What a waste of a pretty face.” She replied, keeping up with the language switch that seemed to make her old roommate so comfortable.

While the other blonde rambled about matches and fathers and courting, Xiomara was staring at the necklace. Her necklace, she was certain. Emi always had been a particularly conniving snake, doing what she needed to do to get what she wanted.

And maybe it was jealousy- that Emi got to graduate from Beauxbatons and parade around on the arm of a rich suitor, approved by her family. Maybe it was the impulsivity for which Xiomara remained heavily medicated. 

But Xiomara wanted nothing more than to snatch the necklace from around her neck. Her fingers twitched, flexing next to her. She wished she had her wand. She could magic that shit away in a snap. She wasn’t a hedge witch. Nonverbal, wandless magic didn’t suit her well.

There was a rustle next to her, as Nate scooped ice into a cocktail shaker. Xi flicked a glance at him, picked up her glass and started scraping her fingernail against the frosted glass.

She turned back to Emi then, feigning interest, “Has he taken you anywhere? Bought you anything? I need details!”

Meanwhile, she placed her glass back on the bar, scratches facing her boyfriend. When Nate filled it back with ice, the words would appear: Take Necklace.

Xiomara’s frenemy laughed loudly at something Xi told her in French, and for some reason the sound of it made Nate stop in the middle of what he was doing—an empty glass in one hand and the other submerged idiotically in the bin of ice behind the bar—and watch her. It wasn’t that Nate found this woman or her laugh attractive at all; in fact, so far he’d found her to be ridiculously uptight and from an objective standpoint, her laugh was sort of squealy. But for reasons beyond Nate’s perception, there was also an eerily musical quality to it that drew his attention—and, he noted, that of Sven-fucking-Nordstrøm (the washed-out prick) and several other patrons who were sat at the bar. 

It took several minutes of Nate staring dazedly at the blonde with his hand that was stuck in the bucket of quickly-melting ice turning a light shade of blue before Fish shoved him unceremoniously between the shoulders as she passed behind him, whispering a pointed, ‘for Christ’s sake, Pinnock, wake the fuck up…’ before Nate snapped out of it, wiped off his half-frozen forearm and then did a quick tut to re-freeze all the ice. He finished the drink he’d been making and delivered it to the waiting patron with half-assed apologies, then returned to find Xi’s glass empty and waiting. He read the message, and while he prepared Xi’s drink he eyed the necklace in question fixed about the woman’s pale, slender throat. It was pretty, he supposed, and looked like a solid heft of gold—but not the sort of flashy item that usually turned his girlfriend’s eye. Still, it was clear to Nate that Xiomara was barely tolerating the company of this so-called friend, who was shamelessly flaunting her wealth and status and inbred man-candy among those she clearly deemed lesser—so it was easy to imagine the reasons why Xi might want the necklace besides the financial. 

His fingers and wrists formed a series of hedge spells with easy muscle memory, so that when Nate shook the shaker that was filled with nothing but ice, the contents hardened and solidified and wove and colored themselves into links of gold-looking chain that wouldn’t melt for hours and hours yet. Some cubes formed inlaid gems that sparkled realistically, and when he was satisfied with the decoy Nate wiped his brow before running a few fingers over the condensation that had settled on the bar. Then, while pretending that he was listening to a drunk patron’s story, Nate focused his energy on molding the malleable threads of probability in the web of imminent circumstance that surrounded himself, Xiomara, and Xi’s friend. And then all there was to do was wait for his Rube Goldberg trap to be set into motion.

It didn’t take long; the drunkard Nate had been feigning interest in gave a hacking cough, which caused the bejeweled blonde to turn her head sharply in his direction and eye him with disgust, the force of which caused the clasp on her necklace to, by ‘chance,’ come undone. The necklace flew from her throat and ‘improbably’ hit the pool of condensation that coated the top of the bar, which caused it to slide toward Nate and fall into his waiting hand. With some deft sleight-of-hand Nate pocketed the necklace, and returned to the woman the illusioned-ice fake in its place, flashing her an arrogant smile. 

He turned his back to the customers at the bar and ‘prepared a drink’ for Xi in an opaque copper mug that would not betray its contents—not a drink at all, but the trinket she had coveted coiled up inside like a sleeping viper. As a final touch, he had a bar napkin scrawl  text onto itself: Nice choice- this will look far more striking on you. Love, N

Then he placed the napkin and the mug in front of Xi with a smirk.

[end]

[irresistibly-emi]

verlie-redlocke​:

Verlie swept some stray curls away from her forehead, she didn’t want to block the view of the blonde woman in front of her. Eyes dragging down the planes of her face and neck, even her hands were lovely with fingers that Verlie wanted to see clenching onto silk sheets in the Redlocke quarters in London. Even better with droplets of blood for her to suck and lick clean. If she were still human her heart would skip a beat, a pulse would beat a banner across her face and down her neck, flushing her idiotic and red. But immortality suited her like a bespoke dress. 

“They’ll have what you want,” Verlie hummed, “I’ll pay them handsomely enough to Floo in in special if they don’t.” Verlie knew that some people had problems with money, but for all her issues the gold gleam of a galleon was more familiar than her Mother’s arms. Verlie tilted her head to the side, then back to the other, squinting at the woman across from her.

“It’s possible,” she drawled, “but somehow I don’t think I could forget a face like yours, unless of course I was blitzed out drunk, in which case. Forgive me.” She put on a pleading face and soft smile.

“But my family name you’ve probably heard, we’re a bit of a deal for the magical liquor sales.” Among other types of sales. “You’ve probably seen our labels on spirits and wines internationally, which makes the name famous even if I’m not.” The Redlocke brood didn’t grace Witch Weekly, they didn’t attend Hogwarts and stayed far from the traditional limelight of rich magical elites. But their name carried weight for those in the right circles. Verlie hoped that Emi wasn’t in the right circles.

Emi gave a demure smile at the other’s compliment, knowing exactly how to behave in polite company—a clear giveaway that she was Beauxbatons-bred. And of course, Emi knew all about her own beauty—obviously—and she used it to her advantage often. But she still appreciated being praised for it; you’d be hard-pressed to find a Veela that was immune to flattery, but Emi was a creature who enjoyed being wooed, with compliments almost visibly brightening the glowing aura that seemed to surround her.

“Ma mie, I am sure you are a delight à chaque somme d’ivrognerie…” she purred, her eyes sparkling with playful intent in the low pub lighting. A server stumbled ungracefully over to their table and presented Emi with a bottle of sparkling wine, the French script on the label facing upward for her to inspect. She grinned; Merlin knows how they’d managed to rustle up a bottle of this quality, but Emi was pleased. “Très bon,” she approved, and the bottle was uncorked and poured before it was left in a floating bucket of ice. Emi raised the glass in a toast and said, “…perhaps we can see about getting a little bit ‘blitzed out drunk’ ourselves, mm?” She sipped the wine and hummed; it was dry and effervescent and perfectly sweet. Exquisite. Second only, perhaps, to her present company…

Emi bounced a maryjane, her legs still crossed at the knee while she leaned back in the booth, considering what the woman said. She preferred her wine French (as most French people do), but if this woman’s family sold a popular product, Emi was sure she would have sampled it at some event or other. “That must be it, then…” she said, light and conversational and oblivious to any other subtext that may have lurked therein, and then explained, “…my father is Atticus Ayers, the politician. He’s always throwing fundraising soirees for this or that, back home…I must have seen your label in passing.”

And now that they’d gotten the obligatory resume-checking part out of the way, Emi started on her oft-practiced art of laying the bait for what she really wanted out of this conversation—namely, to get out of this dingy bar in favor of the probably luxe accommodations where this woman was staying, to be peeled out of these curve-hugging clothes she was wearing. That sounded like an agreeable way to turn around this boring day.

She let the silky wisps of magic, her Charm, unfurl from within her, delicately and quietly enchanting, like a harp’s soft melody floating over the breeze. Her voice buzzed with enticing, unhurried possibilities, like honey bees trailing the sweet nectar of a rose in some far-off garden as she said, “…but we are not our families, are we chérie? L’entreprise, la politique…those things are so dull, n’est-ce pas? You’re what interests me…so tell me—how can a girl get the privilege of getting to know you?”

[irresistibly-emi]

verlie-redlocke·:

Verlie poured herself another glass, watching the curve of the woman’s hip and how the fabric of her skirt clung to the tops of her thighs as she sat down. The young vampire smiled, a delicate turn of her lips. The sort of smile that earned her galleons and weekends away in hunting lodges and castles. Had she been of lower class or perhaps more desperate would have licked her lips in anticipation. But Verlie had been many things in her short breathing life, and none of them were desperate so she saw no reason to play the part of a hound dog in her immortal death.

“C'est ton jour de chance, la chance c'est moi.” The ground was sticky beneath her heels and Verlie scoffed, “Though perhaps it is unlucky that we are at this bar. Hardly a fit establishment for creatures as delicate as us.” She wrinkled her nose and waved down a worker, who likely wasn’t a waiter but Verlie was hardly going to stand to get her own drink. Absurd.

The worker was at her side, face flushed, his eyes darting between Verlie and the woman seated with her. He was a young pimply thing, likely closer to the age she was frozen in, he didn’t quite know who to look at so Verlie snapped her fingers, once, then twice, the sound loud even in the dull pitching roar of a messy London bar. She needed his attention on her, not their tits, the mongrel.

“Another bottle for me, and whatever the lady wants. Oh, and buy the kitchen a round on me.” Verlie pulled from her pocket an empty check and signed her name to the bottom, leaving the numbers blank “Don’t worry about a limit, charge it to the Redlocke account at Gringotts. Fill it in when we leave.” If her family intended to drag her back to England by her throat she was going to make them pay through the nose every night she was stuck here.

The woman’s flawless French accent was like music to Emi’s ears, and she felt a sparkly, anticipatory feeling pop its way lightly down her poised, slightly arch-curved spine like tiny little bubbles of champagne. Oh, but this was a delightful reprieve from her boredom.

“T’as raison…” Emi agreed, the rounded corners of soft pink lips quirking up. She watched squiggly indentations form in the porcelain skin that bridged the other’s nose and it was familiar to the Veela; a conspiratorial secret held between them like a feather-light kiss whispered between girls in powder-blue nightgowns in a darkened Beauxbatons dorm room. This woman was not faking her status, Emi was pleased to discover, nor did she flaunt it; she was commanding but not cruel. People who were truly well off didn’t need to be gaudy about it, no. Class was just a way you carried yourself.

“Do you have any French Champagne? A vintage would be superb, if you have it,” Emi told the server with a tone that was sweet like Chantilly lace—knowing an order like hers would be costly, and trusting her patron to be agreeable to that fact. When they were alone once more, she turned her eyes back to the dark-haired woman opposite and hummed curiously. 

“‘Redlocke’…” Emi repeated the name, her accent caressing around the vowels like warm honey. “…why does that sound familiar? Have we met before?”

[irresistibly-emi]

verlie-redlocke·:

The Leaky Cauldron felt damp; Verlie wiped off her chair twice before taking a seat in a corner booth. The leather beneath her back was cracking, and there were water stains on the wood in front of her. Cass had told her of the vampire club, but the woman didn’t feel the need to plunge herself so quickly back into the hellscape of vampiric Europe. Not after such a long period away. So Verlie tucked herself into the dark corner, ordered a bottle of RedCross Gin, and tilted her head back to study the patrons within the bar. England was a stark contrast from Japan, all wool and tweed, the muted color tones, and the thick seep of magic that seemed to soak into the earth around her. Supposedly home, but the vampire couldn’t help but feel exposed even in the muted yellow lighting and dark browns of the Leaky Cauldron, her head filled with cotton, thinking already about her next trip out of the country and far away. 

Perhaps she was just hungry, Verlie eyed the person who perch themselves at the end of her table, all raw thick lines and eyes like a cow - placid and weak. They’d make a terrible hunt, a worse feed, and a piss poor feature in her bed.

“You don’t think you’ve got a chance, do you?” Verlie hummed as she poured herself another shot, “Fuck off.” The vampire grinned as the person slunk off, head down, a hard flush on their cheeks when she felt eyes, Verlie shot a sideways smile at the onlooker.

“Now you,” she crooked a finger, “well, you certainly have a chance with those pretty eyes of yours. Why don’t you join me?”

Emilie Ayers sat alone at a wobbly Leaky Cauldron table, bobbing a heeled maryjane up and down over crossed thighs as she sipped a blood red Libertine, missing Paris. Paris was alive and teeming with colorful, vivacious magic—right out in the open, if you knew what you were looking at. Nothing like this dismal country, where magical folk hid themselves away in dark alleys and dingy, glorified cauldron cupboards masquerading as pubs. Like this lovely establishment.

Emi sighed prettily; she was also just fucking bored, to be honest. Her cousin was away on holiday with Piper’s girlfriend, and with the Supreme Mugwump election looming, Sven and Emi’s father were tied up in delegation business day in and day out. Amidst the dullness of it all, Emi had even been momentarily deranged enough to consider returning to that abominable squatter bar that Xiomara had taken her to. Quelle horreur.

Then Emi heard a voice from the corner booth that perked her interest; a woman’s voice, enticing and delicate but overlaying sharpness, like a fingertip circling the rim of a crystal glass. This voice was delectably dangerous, tout à fait. This voice could draw blood.

Intrigued, Emi turned and watched the woman savagely dismiss her would-be suitor, and Emi smirked. Impressed, she raised her thin-stemmed martini glass between French-manicured fingers in a toast of appreciation, then slunk off her barstool to acquiesce the other’s request to join her. She sat down and primly smoothed her tight tailored skirt, her eyes coy and alluring as only a Veela’s could be. “Well…my lucky day, n’est-ce pas? And what is it exactly I’ve been deemed worthy of a chance at?”

[irresistibly-emi]

Have you ever regretted something you did to get a crush or partner’s attention?

"Évidemment pas, mes chéris—do I look like someone who needs to lift a finger to get attention, hm?"

No, I don't. And I don't care what maman says about staying cautious, either—I was born a Veela and I intend to use what nature gave me to get what I want.

[irresistibly-emi]

xiomarawinters·:

Something that had been buried deep, deep within Xiomara lurked at the surface of her skin, and the French woman gave a crooked smile, a daring, raised brow on her face as she eyed her former best friend. It positively purred at the sight of seeing Emi squirm. 

Xi covered her laugh as Nate slid the drink across to the other blonde, one elbow resting on the bar as she watched the French woman’s reaction. She waved her hand dismissively, “Oh, I’m sure Maman will find something to soothe her aching heart,” She said, taking the whiskey sour Nate had made for her and having a sip. As she raised the glass, something shiny around Emi’s neck caught her eye, and Xiomara raised her brows again.

“That’s a lovely necklace,” She said, conveniently side-stepping Emi identifying her and Nate as a couple who were settling down, “It looks so similar to one I had at Beauxbatons. I hardly remember though- when I left it was such a blur, I wasn’t even allowed to pack my things.”

Xiomara eyed her necklace, having a pointed sip of her drink. Her gaze then drifted to the man who tottered around behind Emi, and, assuming she didn’t speak French, she addressed her old friend, “Qui est-ce? Vous courtisez un étranger?”

Emi observed with surprise and curiosity the sight of Nathaniel watching Xi from behind the bar, taken aback and even, somewhat, begrudgingly jealous of what she was witnessing. Not because she herself desired to be with someone ruined and penniless and working in the service industry—ew—but because of what Emi saw behind those very obvious heart-eyes he was fixing on Xiomara. Well—they were obvious to her, anyway; she was sure to the rest of the wix world, Nathaniel Pinnock was still very much playing the part he’d always played—despite the costume and venue change—of being heartless and unavailable. But to Emilie Ayers and her Veelan sensibilities, Nathaniel Pinnock couldn’t hide the waves of pure affection and fucking love that he radiated toward Xiomara as he stood there trying to nonchalantly wipe off glasses with a gross-looking rag—no sir. That shit was lighting up Emi’s radar as clear as fucking day. 

She finished her drink, not realizing that she’d been tuning out the world around her until Xi mentioned the necklace. “Hm?” Emi said, blinking out of her daze, her fingers caressing the jewels at her throat absently. She frowned sympathetically, though it looked too objectively pretty to be truly considered a frown. “Oh, Xi—really? Why, that’s just awful…” Emi drummed her French manicure on the bartop, not knowing what to say to that, when suddenly Nathaniel was handing her another drink and Emi smiled, taking a grateful sip. 

The second drink, combined with the fact that Xiomara had returned to speaking in her native tongue, set Emi more at ease. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned in toward her friend, as naturally as if they were still thirteen and whispering secrets about boys. In easy and colloquial French, Emi replied, “Don’t you recognize him? That’s the International Confederation Delegate from Sweden. The youngest person to run for Mugwump in history, I’ve heard…his family and mine have been acquainted for ages, since we were just playmates—though he’s grown up a good bit since then…” Emi giggled, glancing at Sven—who had found a live cat, Merlin knows from where, and was stroking it right there on the top of the bar like a farmhand.

Emi took a sip of her drink, then continued, “…and I know you’ve never had a taste for politicians, Xi—and he’s certainly not your infamous American, by any means—but he’s stirred up enough legislative drama to catch my father’s eye. And you know how hard I find it to resist good genes and a smart match…”

So engrossed was Emi in her gossip that she was totally oblivious to a number of things—like the fact that her words had very slightly started to slur, or that she was now halfway through a third drink, or that Xiomara was still eyeing the necklace that hung like live bait around Emi’s pale throat…

[irresistibly-emi]

xiomarawinters·:

Xiomara was almost immediately bored by Emi’s response, and she didn’t try to hide it, her gaze wandered to the man who was trailing behind her. Was she married yet? She looked back to the blonde’s ring finger, finding nothing. Wow, not even an engagement? How the mighty fall…

She raised her brows, quietly shifting her gaze from Emi to Sven, and then back again, a slightly amused expression growing on her face. Xi turned back to incline her head to Sven apologetically before strolling along with her old friend. “Oh, I know a good place…”

The Unnamed Bar, today named Quoth the Raven, was surely not the sort of place Emi had in mind. But it brought Xiomara so much, almost too much, joy to walk in, her shoes sticking to the ground on old beer from when they’d invented a rambunctious mix of Beer Pong and Push. 

Xiomara released her arm from Emi’s, moving to lean against the bar, her expression not showing any hint of a bluff as she asked, “What’ll you have? They do a good warm cider here.”

Emi’s small buttony nose twitched and wrinkled with distaste as she was led into an establishment that, as far as the Veela could tell, could only be a foreclosed-upon building full of illegally squatting wix—right? There was absolutely no way this dump was up to passable health code regulations, let alone actually operational for service. The heels of her shoes made a sound like pulling apart velcro every time she took a step across the tacky floors. 

When Xiomara untangled her arm from Emi’s, Emi hugged around her own slim waist warily, as if worried she might accidentally bump a cashmere-clad elbow on any foreign contaminant. And the expression that crossed her features when asked what she wanted to drink was palpably incredulous. “I…I, euh…”

And it was then that the tall, dark-haired bartender turned around, and Emi was face-to-face with none other than Nathaniel Pinnock, the contemptible Lothario himself—alive and well (or, as well as you could be when you were a veritable social pariah forced to exist in such abject squalor). And Emi was a beloved politician’s daughter, whose suitors were held to a higher moral pedigree than the salacious socialites smeared all over the society pages (not that any of Nathaniel Pinnock’s historically well-publicized roguery had been featured, as of late…); but, unavoidably, the American was talked about at Beauxbatons, and at the many parties that Emi’s father hosted—lambasted and swooned over in roughly equal amount.

Emi gave an audible gasp as Nathaniel Pinnock gave her a discerning once-over, shifting the arms wrapped around her middle; cad. Then he gave Sven a suspicious scowl, before finally his hazel eyes moved to Xiomara. They appeared to have some sort of silent exchange for several seconds, and then his entire demeanor flipped so instantaneously and with such ease as to make anyone doubt that he hadn’t been acting this way the whole time. He smirked, arrogant, superior, leaning languidly against the bar like he owned it. “You didn’t tell me you were entertaining old friends, babe…” he drawled to Xiomara like it was the punchline to a private joke. So it was true, then! Xiomara Winters was carrying on an illicit affair with the disowned heir in social exile, despite their history of failed public courtship and seeming antagonism toward one another (Emi recalled one memorable interaction from their school days in which Xi had dumped hot chocolate on the young Pinnock’s head). 

And, most notably, this was not the story the Winters family had been circulating about their youngest daughter’s whereabouts to their social circles back in France.

Without waiting for Emi to actually decide on a drink order, Nathaniel started fixing up a French 75 in a champagne flute that he pulled from Merlin-knows-where. He did something very strange with his hands and then dropped a strip of lemon peel into the drink that unfathomably resembled a tiny yellow rose, stem and thorns all carved out with lifelike detail; it almost looked like it bloomed as it buoyed inside the fizzy drink. He slid it across the bar toward Emi and said with scathing irony, “We’re fresh out of Dom, but I doubt you’ll taste the difference.” 

Emi picked up the drink with a hmph sort of sound and took a tiny sip; she was miffed to discover that it was fucking delicious—sex in a cup—even without real Champagne. While Nathaniel started making something for Xi, Emi cleared her throat and said brightly, “Well, don’t you two make an adorable couple! Your mother must be thrilled to see you finally settling down, Xi—especially after losing another husband, the poor thing. C'est tragique…”

[irresistibly-emi]

xiomarawinters·:

·

In a move so surprising to everyone that Xi should have been offended, Xiomara Winters was actually thriving in her temporary role as Head Bitch in Charge following Ralph’s death. Perhaps it was her intense dislike of the hedge while he’d been living, or perhaps her former Hogwarts house really was rubbing off on her; While the Free Traders were lost in a blurry haze of grief, and Nate was drowning his own feelings in a bottle, Xiomara was clear-headed, and prepared. Go fucking figure.

She managed to leave the house that morning out of necessity- since the serial killer had been fucking everyone over, all probation meetings were being scheduled more frequently. Xi had made a batch of Pepper-up potion, charmed a platter of crepes to stay warm on the bench, made herself a coffee, and left. Simple. Who knew all they’d needed at the house was a bit of organisation, following a harrowing and traumatic death?

Xi’s probation appointment at the Ministry went smoothly- she hadn’t been anywhere, so she had nothing to report. Xiomara was just finishing her morning coffee as she strolled out of the Office of Magical Law Enforcement, putting the travel mug in her bag as she heard a familiar voice.

Fuck. My. Life.

Xiomara forced her face to pull into one of joy, smiling as her former best friend squealed. “What has it been? Five years? Too long.” Was her smile too fake? Fucking hell, she wasn’t used to putting on this act. Xi cocked her head, knowing a bullshit probing question when she’d heard one. Merlin, Emi truly was a snake. “Oh, I don’t work here. But what are you doing here? You’re a long way from home.”

“I know…c’est affreux, non?” Emi sighed, pretty and theatrical. There was always a rather performative quality to Emilie Ayers, no matter what she did; after all, you never knew who might be watching. “…Daddy’s up for Supreme Mugwump, if you can believe it…he won’t take it, of course—even if he is the most qualified candidate, certainly no one would contest to that…” Behind her, Sven rolled his buggy eyes pointedly, but said nothing. “…but of course, it does pay to show solidarity—especially in such trying times as these!” Emi put a manicured hand to her chest and shook her head sympathetically, her soft blonde curls bouncing; a vision of compassion and charity for public welfare in six-inch, designer heels. 

And speaking of charity…

Emi looked Xi up and down, not trying very hard to keep the pity from her expression. “It really has been too long, ma belle…we’ve been just starved for news about your worldly adventures, back home—you can’t trust all the gossip, after all, and the things they’ve been saying...well, I should just love to hear about it from you instead! Why don’t we all go and grab a drink, catch up, like old times, hmm? Sven and I were just headed out anyway, and you’ve got nothing better to do, do you, Sven?”

Sven blinked once in a sleepy kind of way, as if surprised to have been considered in this matter at all. Then he said, almost bored, “Nothing nearly so intriguing as this, to be sure.”

Emi beamed and it was, unfortunately, radiant. “Splendid!” she exclaimed, and then looped her arm with Xiomara’s as if not a day had passed since they were schoolgirls buttoned up in Beauxbatons blue. “Where’s good around here? You’ll know the city far better than we do, I’m sure…”

[irresistibly-emi]

“And I told you that I am not ‘rescheduling’ the Minister-of-fucking-Magic, Sven!” insisted Emilie Zuria Ayers as she marched through a lofty corridor of the Ministry of Magic in London, her pink heeled maryjanes clacking against the brilliantly polished tile floors as if to herald her arrival. A towering, surly young man wearing a dour expression trailed rather unenthusiastically behind her, and it was to him that Emi continued, “…even if he is a rather uncultured English brute, he’s an old acquaintance of Daddy’s from his Wizengamot days—and you should know as well as I, mon ours, that my father would not ask me along on a business tea date with a politician unless it was important…”

The man who was following her—Sven Nordstrøm—grunted, and muttered something to Emi that was in too low a tone to be deciphered from a distance, but which caused the blonde to trill out a laugh that bounced off the walls, clashing with the sound of Emi’s shoes. The laugh had a dangerous quality to it; beautiful yet sharp, like broken glass. The strikingly lovely daughter of the delegate from France and the enigmatic young delegate from Sweden had arrived for an extended stay in London, at the invitation of the Minister, to attend the highly-publicized International Confederation of Wizards Conference that had been called for September to elect a new Supreme Mugwump from among the Confederation’s delegates. 

“Connard!” Emi hissed, swatting Sven, and then stopped abruptly as she noticed someone else walking through the corridor, causing her companion to skirt to a halt so as not to run her over. “…Xi, est-ce vous?” Emi’s shoulders squared back as she peered at the young woman opposite, surprised (and just a touch suspicious). She took a few steps closer to the other, her heels clack clack-ing. And then, as if delivered confirmation via some unknown, imperceptible frequency, Emi squealed enthusiastically and said, “Xiomara! It has been far too long, I hardly even recognized you! But whatever are you doing here? I thought you were going to be a journalist, not a government employee…”

@xiomarawinters​

[halfcupcinema]

[irresistibly-emi]

Emilie Zuria Ayers (with a special guest appearance by ICW’s Sven Nordstrøm)

[casshasfangs]

send me a confession on anon for my muse’s reaction

[irresistibly-emi]

what do you like most about yourself?

What—you expect me to choose just one?

[irresistibly-emi]

What’s your worst habit?

I’ve been told I make a habit of toying with the...feelings, of others. But I think all those complaining should lighten up, and stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, n’est-ce pas?

[irresistibly-emi]

jeremy-lockhart·:

“Well being naughty is fun would you like to join me?” He nodded happily and enjoyed the feeling of her fingers at the nape of his neck. He hadn’t been close to someone in this way for a long time. It felt familiar, warm, and good. The music was so loud that it drowned everything else out which let Jeremy focus on Emi. He gladly pressed up against Emi and kissed her back. One hand went to her lower back while the other went to cup her face as they kissed. 

Emi’s eyes flashed. “Toujours…” Jeremy’s skin beneath her fingers seemed to sing with emotion and Emi coaxed out the desire, warm and heady and tingling like bathwater with peppermint and rose. She could sense the other emotions, too—tinges of sadness, the echoes of recent heartbreak, an underlying current of feeling lost and adrift—but Emi sifted through these and let them roll off her; that wasn’t what she wanted. Emi had never been particularly compassionate, not like her cousin, anyway, but this boy was so undeniably sweet and genuine that she felt inclined to do him a kindness; when Jeremy kissed her, Emi flooded back into him pure, filtered, commanding desire—enough to wash away his other doubts and unwanted feelings, at least for one night. Her hips pressed against him, her belly, her chest, until all the space between them was sealed and they’d spun themselves through the air right into a dark corner of the club.

[irresistibly-emi]

jeremy-lockhart·:

“Well I have been told I’m irresistible.” Emi herself looked gorgeous and irresistible. Jeremy was surprised as they started to float. It was such a strange feeling but it matched the floaty feeling the alcohol was giving his head. Jeremy wrapped his arms around her waist and kept her close just in case. “London is pretty great if you give it a chance. I want to travel some more though.” Jeremy was thinking of going back packing before trying to open up his own bakery. “I haven’t been here before but It’s fun I could see myself coming more often. I haven’t really partied for a while and when I used to I wasn’t exactly the age to be allowed in here.” Jer was a bit sheepish about his lack of partying since becoming an adult. “Now I’m ready to make up for the past year or so. Gotta dance it out and have as much fun as possible.”

Emi’s smirk as it curled up her face was perfectly pink and lascivious. “Naughty boy…” she teased, scratching her fingers along the short hair at the nape of Jeremy’s neck. “…let’s have some fun, then, yes?” The music got louder, the room darker, as some of the dancers started to perform, and Emi seized the opportunity to press up flush against Jeremy so there was no space between them; the momentum of her movement spun the pair of them in a slow, lazy circle. Suspended in the air like this it was easy for Emi to hook a leg around the back of his, intertwining their ankles. Her lips when they pressed against his were soft, deceivingly sweet—like a whispered secret, an invitation…

[wixcollective]

Piper Oliver’s maternal cousin.

Name: Emilie “Emi” Ayers (18) Birthday: March 31st, 2001 Bloodstatus: Half blood & half veela Patronus: Peacock Wand: Chestnut, Veela hair, 12″ Education: Beauxbatons Academy of Magic Faceclaim: Penelope Mitchell

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