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Lady Twiggleberry of the Glimmering Hollow—Twig to the few bold enough to call her friend—drifted homeward through the velvet dusk, her gossamer wings trailing motes of starlight. It had been a taxing day of charming toadstools to glow in mischievous patterns and cursing impudent squirrels with tails that knotted themselves overnight. Her cottage, a crooked confection of ivy-woven wood and moonlit crystal, greeted her, as she hummed faintly with the lullaby she favored, a melody to make mortal ears shrivel like autumn leaves. She nudged open her door, anticipating the usual: a cheeky salute from her broom, perhaps, or a petulant groan from the floorboards.
Her pantry door was ajar.
This was not unusual in itself—sometimes the wind blew it open, or her broom decided to have a fly without her. It wasn't terribly unusual to find a door open in a house of sentient items.
But what was suspicious was the sound of crunching. And the smell. Sweet, profane, and distinctly human. A trail of glittering crumbs, like some horrifying reverse of the fairy tales, led to her pantry, its door yawning wide. From within came the unmistakable crunch-crunch of someone devouring her last, precious hoard of fairy-dusted caramel corn.
She glided forward, her shadow twisting into claws along the walls, and beheld the intruder: a human, sprawled cross-legged amid a wreckage of wrappers, his cheeks bulging like a greedy chipmunk’s. A single caramel kernel clung to his face, a ludicrous badge of his crime. He froze mid-chew, meeting her gaze with the blank innocence of a deer in a briar patch.
Twig blinked. The human blinked back.
“What,” Twig said, voice dangerously calm, “are you doing in my larder, mortal?”
The human swallowed with an audible gulp, then flashed a grin that was equal parts sheepish and infuriatingly unbothered. “Hey, uh, nice place you got here. Loving the… uh, vibe. Very… twiggy. Love the sparkly bits.”
Twig’s wingtips quivered, shedding sparks that hissed against the floor. “You are eating my food,” she said, feeling her eye twitch. “Fae food, in a fae’s home — one that you trespassed in."
“Yeah, my bad,” he said, scratching his neck, utterly unrepentant. “Got turned around in the woods, saw your door, and, you know how it is. Hunger strikes, and suddenly you’re elbow-deep in someone else’s snacks. These snacks are straight-up magic, though. Props.”
Twig pinched the bridge of her nose, her claws grazing the delicate skin. Mortals were meant to quake before her kind, to offer trembling respect or flee in terror. Not this—this creature with his stained hoodie and cavalier crunching, as if her sacred pantry were some tavern’s trough. “Do you grasp,” she said, “what it means to consume fae sustenance in this realm?”
He paused, a kernel halfway to his mouth, then shrugged. “Free snacks forever?”
A groan tore from Twig’s throat, rattling the crystal panes. By the ancient laws of her kind, a mortal who tasted fae food in a fae’s domain was bound to it, body and soul. It was a trap some fae set deliberately, ensnaring amusing humans for their collections. Twig hadn’t planned this. The big problem was, even if she didn't plan it, rules didn't care. He...
“You’re mine now,” she muttered, more to the air than to him, her voice heavy with disgust. “A stray I didn’t ask for, tethered to my hearth. Splendid.”
“Cool,” he said, hauling himself up and dusting crumbs from his jeans. “So, uh, what’s the Wi-Fi password?”
Twig’s despair eased up, as she realized she won't be the only one suffering from this idiotic, unplanned, uncomfortable turn of events. She leaned close, savouring the dawning confusion in his eyes. “Oh, sweet fool,” she purred, “there’s no ‘Wi-Fi’ here. No screens, no chattering devices, no toys of your fleeting world. Here, we dance with starlight and whisper to roots. Magic is what rules here, and let me assure you, your magical capabilities are as deep as dry puddle.”
His grin collapsed, eyes widening. “Wait, what? No phone? No Netflix? You’re kidding, right?”
Twig’s smile widened as she spun away, wings flaring. “Welcome to forever, pet,” she called over her shoulder, his frantic protests fading behind her.
Misery, at least, was a dish best shared.
The first few days were a nightmare. The human—who introduced himself as “Just Dave, but you can call me Dave”— was settling in, and it was driving her insane. Her cottage, once a haven of orderly enchantment, now bore the scars of human habitation. Dave, desperate without his human toys and trinkets, ignored every rule Twig tried to etch into his skull. He’d rearranged her moon-charged crystal orbs “to catch better energy,” transforming her finely tuned luck charms into a chaotic lattice that sent spoons spinning skyward and made coins hover mockingly mid-flip. He’d decided her glowing toadstools looked “taco-worthy,” attempting to stew them in a cauldron he swore was a skillet, until they melted into a radiant sludge. Then he ate it, and she had to quickly conjure a human-sized privy in a panic to contain the fallout. “I thought they’d be spicy!” he’d yelped before locking himself in. Twig decided to never think of that moment again.
Worst of all, he kept pestering her with absurd requests, each more exasperating than the last. By day six, Twig’s patience, already frayed to gossamer, snapped like a twig—fittingly—when Dave lounged on her velvet settee (now dubbed “his spot”) and launched into his latest fixation.
“Hey, Twig,” he said, kicking his feet up onto a stool carved with runes that winced under his sneakers, “when are you gonna turn me into a wolf?”
Twig, midway through sorting her dew vials by potency, fumbled a bottle, which hissed and sprouted a tiny, indignant fern on impact. “Why,” she growled, wings buzzing like a hornet’s nest, “would I waste my magic turning you into a wolf?”
Dave shrugged, scratching his stubbled chin. “Dunno. Wolves are cool. I’d get to run through the woods, chase my tail, howl at the moon. That’s, like, peak existence."
Twig’s claws twitched, itching to hex him into something silent, like a toad. “You are not becoming anything except a marginally less infuriating human. If I’m lucky.”
"Come on, Twiggy..." Dave easily ignored her tiny growl. "Tell me wolves ain't badass. Bet you'd like to be able to turn into the wolf."
Twig’s retort caught in her throat. Wolves were majestic, all sleek power and wild grace, but agreeing with Dave felt like betraying her own kind. She clamped her lips shut, glowering, which only made his grin widen.
“Ha! Knew it!” he crowed, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “Caught you thinking about it. Okay, fine, scratch the wolf. How about a cat? You could use a pet, this is witch's house basically, some good fat cat is a must."
“You are the pet!” Twig shrieked, flinging her arms skyward. “You’re the one I’m stuck feeding, cleaning up after, and keeping out of my grimoires! I didn’t sign up for a human trampling my life, Dave-just-bloody-Dave!”
Dave blinked, then leaned back, hands laced behind his head like he was on vacation. “Whoa, Twig, no need to get all prickly. I’m easy to please. Just slide me some of that glittery popcorn, and I’m chill as a cucumber.”
“Chill?” Twig’s voice cracked, her shadow writhing into talons on the wall. “You tried to ‘polish’ my sentient broom with pine oil yesterday! It’s hiding in the attic, muttering about early retirement! And don’t even get me started on you giving me your name—like it’s nothing!” She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp as a whip. “You handed it over without a fight, no riddles, no bargains. You sucked every scrap of joy out of claiming my own human! I didn’t think that was possible!”
Dave tilted his head, scratching his ear. “What’s the big deal? I know your name too. Twig’s catchy. Suits you.”
Twig’s wings stilled, her eyes blazing like twin emeralds. “You think my name is Twig? You absolute walnut!” Her voice trembled, teetering between fury and despair. “That’s a nickname, not my true name! My real name—the one that binds me, that could leash my very soul—is Talvenbreannalith!”
The air froze. Twig’s heart lurched, her wings drooping as the weight of her mistake crashed down. She’d done it. She’d spoken her true name, the key to her essence, to a human. A human who could, with a word, bend her will to his. Her cottage seemed to hold its breath, the chimes silent, the shadows pooling like ink.
Dave sat up, eyebrows raised, his grin faltering for a heartbeat. Then he leaned forward, squinting. “Uh, Twig? No offense, but… I can’t even say that, let alone spell it. Talven-what-now?”
Twig blinked. Her terror unraveled, replaced by a hollow, incredulous relief. “You… heard my true name,” she whispered, slumping onto a table near her vials. “The name that could chain me forever. And you can’t even pronounce it?”
Dave shrugged, his grin creeping back. “Yeah, sorry, boss. Sounds like a keyboard smash. You're still Twig to me.”
Twig stared, her mouth twitching. A laugh—half-hysterical, half-genuine—bubbled up, startling her. For the first time, she met his gaze without wanting to hex him into next week. “You’re an idiot,” she said, almost fond.
“Love you too, Twiggy,” Dave shot back. "So, about that cat..."
Twig, for the first time, smiled back. "No."
As the weeks unfurled like petals in reluctant bloom, an unsettling shift crept into Twig’s world. She didn’t like Dave—no fae in their right mind could stomach his relentless chaos—but she found herself… enduring him. His infuriating habits, like whistling off-key tunes that made her chimes cringe or leaving muddy bootprints on her star-woven rugs, hadn’t dulled. Yet, there was an odd charm to his blundering existence. His absurdities—his Dave-ness—began to carve a reluctant niche in her cottage. He’d taken to telling groan-worthy jokes that somehow pried laughter from her, like the time he’d smirked and said, “What do you call a fairy who offers bad deals? Unfairy!” She’d hexed a cushion to bop him on the head, but her chuckle had betrayed her.
One twilight, after a day that felt like wading through nettles, Twig dragged herself home, her wings drooping like wilted leaves. A rival fae, that smug Lord Bramblethorn, had sabotaged her garden with a curse so vile it forced her roses to bloom backward, their petals curling inward like shy secrets. Her attempts to unravel the spell had left her drained, her magic sputtering like a candle in a storm. She collapsed onto her settee—mercifully free of Dave’s usual sprawl—her sigh heavy enough to stir the dust motes. The cottage, sensing her mood, dimmed its glow, the quartz walls casting shadows that mirrored her gloom.
Dave, meanwhile, was perched on the floor, surrounded by a teetering fortress of cushions, blankets, and what looked suspiciously like her ceremonial shawl. He was muttering to himself, tying knots in a length of enchanted twine that twitched in protest. At the sound of her sigh, he froze, his head snapping up like a deer hearing a twig snap.
“Yo, Twig,” he said, his usual grin faltering as he studied her. “You look like someone stole your sparkles. Everything okay, boss?”
Twig pressed her palms to her eyes, wings giving a feeble flutter. “No, Dave. Everything is abysmal. My garden’s bewitched by that brazen, brackish Bramblethorn’s backward botany!”
Dave nodded, his face scrunching in sympathy. “Rough day, huh? Busting out alliteration just like that... wait just a minute.” Without waiting for a reply, he scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling his cushion citadel, and vanished into the kitchen with the purposeful stride of someone who’d just had a terrible idea.
Twig groaned, bracing for disaster. The last time Dave had “helped” in the kitchen, he’d tried to “taste-test” her moondew syrup and ended up with a tongue that glowed for two days. She half-expected to hear a crash or smell something combusting. Instead, there was only the clatter of crockery, a muffled curse, and the faint hum of the hearth-spell she’d taught him to stoke.
Minutes later, Dave reappeared, balancing a tray with the cautious pride of a child presenting a lopsided drawing. On it sat a plate of cookies—lumpy, slightly charred at the edges, and dusted with what Twig hoped was sugar. Beside them was a steaming mug of tea, its surface swirling with an alarming amount of honey and a single, defiant tea leaf floating like a shipwrecked sailor.
“Here,” Dave said, setting the tray on the table with a flourish. “I know it’s not your fancy fae grub, but, like, it’s from the heart, yeah? Figured you needed a pick-me-up after squaring up with that Bramble-dude.”
Twig scoffed. "Bah! Bramblethorn’s botany is but a barrage of befuddling, backward blights! I don't need..." she paused and stared at the offering, then at Dave, who was rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks tinged pink under her scrutiny. “You… baked these?” she asked, her voice caught between disbelief and something softer she refused to name. “For me?”
“Yeah, well,” Dave mumbled, shifting from foot to foot, “you’re kinda my crew now, Twig. You’re stuck with me, so I gotta watch out for you, right? Plus, I didn’t burn the place down, so, y’know, gold star for effort.”
Twig’s gaze flicked to the cookies, their uneven shapes oddly endearing, like stones smoothed by a river. She picked one up, its warmth seeping into her fingers, and took a tentative bite. It was too sweet, slightly crunchy in the wrong places, and tasted faintly of the thyme Dave had probably mistaken for cinnamon. It was, in short, a disaster. And yet, her chest tightened with a warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth.
“You’re still a walking catastrophe,” she said, her voice softer than she meant, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Dave’s grin returned, bright as a rogue sunbeam. “And you’re still my favorite grump, boss.”
Over time, Twig and Dave fell into an odd, messy routine that somehow worked. Her cottage, once a tidy haven of fae magic, was now a chaotic mix of Dave’s human habits, as he incorporated himself into her life, boldly and without care, as usual. He was her human, and in some way, she was his fae.
Dave was still a walking disaster. He swiped her fairy-dusted candies, leaving glittery crumbs that drove her broom crazy—it had retreated to the attic after he tried to “arm-wrestle” it to “build trust.” He liked to poke into every corner, he'll call for her for most inane reasons, like getting her to open an enchanted door (until she gave up and wove a clause to let him through her doors) and once tried to sing to her magical hearth, butchering a tune so badly it sulked for days, spitting cold ashes. But then there were the moments that snuck up on her: Dave sitting with her after a long day, cracking dumb jokes about his old life—stuff like “late-night taco runs” or “binge-watching shows” that sounded as strange to her as her magic did to him. He’d listen when she ranted about rival fae or broken charms, nodding like he got it, even when he’d ask something ridiculous like, “Can you make someone’s hat smell like feet forever? That’d be hilarious.”
Twig fought hard against liking him. She’d snap at his messes, curse his socks to itch when he broke her rules, and swear she’d trade him for a quiet pixie. But deep down, she knew better. He’d sit with her when her garden got hit by a rival’s curse, tossing out goofy ideas to fix it, and she never admitted it, but some of them did work. Sock-smelling hat? Old Bramblethorn hated it so much, she added that curse into her repertoire. When her wings ached from undoing spells, Dave will hum—awfully, but with genuine care—until she relaxed. She’d never admit it, not even to the stars, but Dave grew on her, and she was getting used to his presence.
And if, one day, Twig found herself casting a spell to give Dave wolf ears just to see him happy, well… that was her secret to keep.