#foxglove is looking at all of these people they met like a week ago and is just. so concerned

[incorrectgalvania]

Vonia: I love you guys, you're the best thing that's happened to me. Evanara: We're the best thing that's ever happened to you? Vonai: Yes! Foxglove: I'm starting to feel a little sorry for you.

#foxglove is looking at all of these people they met like a week ago and is just. so concerned #incorrect galvania #galvania campaign #incorrect dnd quotes #incorrect dnd #incorrect quotes #vonia #evanara #foxglove

[melanielocke]

Conceal don't Feel - Two

Love is an Open Door

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month @writeordie-4 @amchara

AO3

Previous chapter: One: Do You Wanna Build a Snowman

Next chapter: For the First Time in Forever (to be posted)

Cordelia had never been so disappointed in her entire life. She’d been promised a guest, someone closer to her and Alastair’s age, someone who could end her days of loneliness and be her friend. Father had told her about it himself on one of his better days, he’d invited someone of her generation to come help Alastair. She knew the guest would be there mainly for her brother, of course, but Alastair hated being around people and she was sure whoever the guest was would have plenty of time to spend with her instead. She’d longed for someone to end her loneliness for such a long time she had started fantasizing about the person who would be staying until she’d gotten some admittedly unrealistic expectations. Instead, Charles Fairchild had arrived.

He wasn’t as close to her age as had been promised. Instead, he was eight years older than her, which she guessed was technically her generation, but he found himself far too mature to spend time with silly little girls like her. Not to mention, of course, that he was here for Alastair, and Alastair alone. With Father sick so often and Mother filling in, Alastair needed someone to teach him how to be a king. Somehow, her brother tolerated Charles’ presence whereas he still told Cordelia to go away and leave him alone whenever she approached him. After a few weeks she learned Charles had a younger brother around Cordelia’s age, but of course he hadn’t been invited.

With a groan, she returned to her practice with cortana. It was all she had these days, all she cared about. Even if she was all alone and her brother had barely spoken to her in years, she had been gifted the family sword, both a great honor and responsibility. She wondered sometimes why Alastair had chosen to gift her cortana, as it was tradition the sword went to the heir to the throne.

‘I knew it was important to you,’ was all he’d said when she’d asked, but for Cordelia that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Giving her a powerful sword that was rightfully his because he knew it was important to her implied he loved her, yet nothing else Alastair did or said showed he even cared about her a little bit. If he loved her, he would spend time with her, not hide in his room and yell at her to go away.

Nowadays, he would only ever spend times with Charles, because of course while Cordelia wasn’t good enough for him, Charles was everything. They deserved each other, Cordelia had decided. They were both boring and stupid and could only ever talk about politics. The only time Charles paid Cordelia any mind was when he told her a princess shouldn’t be eating so much chocolate and maybe she should try losing some weight. He had a point, princesses were supposed to be slim and small and Cordelia wasn’t, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it. She didn’t understand why Alastair followed Charles around like some lost puppy. He used to shut the world out, and it seemed like he’d opened the door, but right after Charles had entered it had shut down with full force once more.

She wished she could let it go, and forget about her brother, but she couldn’t. She still remembered the fun they used to have when they were little, how he’d looked out for her and helped her build the most amazing snowmen. It had all happened so sudden, one day they were playing in the snow together, the next he wouldn’t leave his room and refused to even speak to her. Perhaps there was an explanation, something that would make it all make sense. But then why was Charles the exception, and what did Alastair see in him?

***

When Charles arrived in Arendelle, Alastair redoubled his resolve to get this power under control, to never let it show. Letting Thomas see had been a mistake. He’d trusted Thomas, had cared for him, and now they would never see each other again and how could he be sure Thomas hadn’t shared his secret? He had no reason to assume Charles would even accept the way he was. He could never know.

‘The palace of Arendelle is beautiful,’ Charles said. ‘A different style from the palace of the southern isles. Not that that is still in use, it has been turned into a museum. A real shame.’

Charles made no effort to hide the disdain in his voice as he said the word museum.

‘Why?’ Alastair asked.

‘Because there’s no monarchy anymore,’ Charles said. ‘My mother was the Queen of the Southern Isles until two years ago. She ended the monarchy and was elected as president instead. She thought it unfitting for an elected leader to live in a grand palace, so she decided it should be a museum instead to preserve our country’s history.’

Alastair stared at Charles with wide eyes. ‘That’s a possibility? I could just end the monarchy and have elections for a leader? And whoever has good ideas on how to improve the country could just sign up?’

He imagined all sorts of people would be willing to give it a try, and Alastair had never wanted the throne anyway. He had no idea how he’d be king and meet with cabinet members and foreign officials and never show the ice that rested inside of him.

Charles chuckled, as if he’d just said something ridiculous.

‘Perhaps not,’ he said quietly, already feeling stupid.

‘Being a Crown Prince is an honor, Alastair, a great privilege. Who in their right mind would give that up? Why would you not want to be king?’

Alastair sighed. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just a lot of responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

‘That’s alright. That’s why I’m here. I might not be a prince anymore, but I have a lot of experience being one and later I helped with my mother’s presidential campaign and presidency. I know how to run a country.’

His friendship with Charles might have been a bit rocky at first, but Alastair soon learnt to trust him more. It was a bit like with Thomas, when Charles was near Alastair felt calmer and could control the ice.

Charles was knowledgeable and took his time to educate Alastair on everything he thought was important for a future king. He was often willing to make time for Alastair, even when it was not convenient for him, and Alastair thought as long as Charles was here, everything was going to be alright.

‘What will you do, when you return to the southern isles?’ Alastair asked him one day.

‘Run for president myself,’ Charles said. ‘It’s not the same as being king, but there’s still much good I can do for the southern isles. My mother has done a good job, but I fear she is too sentimental. I can make my country strong again, that is all I ever wanted.

Don’t worry, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. You still need plenty of my help, and I think together we can set up some better trade routes, build an alliance and find new ways in which we can help each other. I think both Arendelle and the Southern Isles could benefit from a closer relationship.’

Alastair was intrigued. Alliances with foreign kingdoms were what he feared the most of being king. He wasn’t charming, too blunt and straight forward to flatter, but perhaps with Charles he could get started on a good alliance without those skills. ‘Of course. Whatever you need.’

***

Cordelia was beyond excited. Alastair had asked her to join him for a picnic on the palace grounds this afternoon. This would be her chance to get her brother back and a picnic was a decent start. Perhaps someday coming winter they could build a snowman again. Cordelia firmly believed you were never too old to build a snowman.

She picked out her nicest dress, eternally grateful it still fit as she was always growing out of her clothes, and went out to meet Alastair in the gardens. For once he wasn’t with Charles, which was nice because Cordelia did not want to talk about politics all afternoon. She had more important things to discuss.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Alastair said.

He was tense, Cordelia could tell. It was hard to read his moods with Alastair, he rarely showed any emotion, but she had learnt to recognize the slight tension in his shoulders, his stiff demeanor, as if he was forcing himself to speak. She wondered why he would be tense.

‘Of course I came,’ Cordelia said. ‘As far as I know you’re still my only brother.’

‘I’m sorry, for the past years,’ Alastair said. ‘I know you must have been very alone.’

Cordelia nodded. ‘Yes. I know you have to study and prepare for being king and all, but why can’t we at least open the gates every once in a while? Maybe invite some girls my age, or even Charles’ younger brother?’

She knew spending a lot of time with a boy her age would be considered inappropriate, but that was still preferable to keeping the company of the portraits on the wall. She had so little experience with social interaction she didn’t even know how to speak to someone her age, and Father expected her to get married when she was older. How was she supposed to do that when she never met anyone? There was no way she was marrying Charles.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alastair said quietly. ‘We can’t do that.’

‘Father could invite Charles,’ Cordelia protested. ‘Surely we can invite someone else. I still don’t have a lady in waiting.’

‘That’ll have to wait, Layla. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.’

Alastair had called her Layla since she was a little girl, after a girl in a story their mother used to tell them, and it was a bit of a weak spot of hers. Still, she was determined not to let it go, because nothing Alastair said made any sense.

‘But why?’ Cordelia asked. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ Alastair bit at her.

There was that temper she remembered from his childhood. It was good to see he still felt anything at all, but Cordelia did not want to make him angry the first time she’d spoken to him in years. Perhaps she should be a little more tactful about this instead of forcing answers out of him. One thing she knew for sure though, there was something Alastair knew and she didn’t. Perhaps more than one thing, Alastair always seemed to know much more than he let on. It was infuriating.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and she hoped he would believe her apology was sincere. ‘I just wish I could have friends too.’

‘Maybe when you’re older,’ Alastair said. ‘I’ll do what I can, alright? But no promises.’

Cordelia decided to accept that for now. ‘Your life must have been very boring too. I mean, you have company, but it’s Charles. That might actually be worse than being alone.’

Alastair rolled his eyes. ‘He’s not boring. He’s a politician, and a very good one. He knows everything there is about being king, even if he won’t be one himself anymore. It is very generous of him to come here and help me.’

Cordelia made a face. ‘I don’t like him. Most of the time he ignores me, which honestly is fine, but he also tells me I eat way too much chocolate and need to lose weight.’

Her weight had become a bit of an insecurity lately. She was at the end of her growth spurt and quite tall, which she liked, she was even taller than Alastair, but while she’d stopped growing in length, she kept getting wider and had to throw out dresses all the time. Her mother had told her this was normal for girls her age, but Cordelia was pretty sure most girls her age were much thinner than she was, and princesses were expected to be small and skinny.

If Charles was to be believed, it was because of all the sweets she ate, and reminding her of it was hurtful, not to mention he was always rude and condescending about it, as if she couldn’t possibly know what was good for her.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll ask him not to bother you,’ Alastair promised. ‘But I really need him here, alright? I will be king one day, and I desperately need his help.’

Cordelia snorted. ‘Maybe if you wanted to learn how to be a better king, you could actually go outside and spend time with the people of Arendelle instead of hiding here in the castle.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Alastair said stiffly.

He was worried. Cordelia couldn’t tell what it was, but she was determined to find out.

‘Are you scared to leave the palace?’ Cordelia asked. ‘I read a book some time back about someone who was scared to leave their house. It was very intriguing.’

‘I’m not scared, Cordelia,’ Alastair hissed, but something about his stiff mannerism revealed otherwise.

She nodded. ‘Alright, so you have a fear of going outside like that character in the book. Maybe there’s a doctor somewhere who can help you overcome your fear since I have no idea how it’s done and I imagine dragging you outside might make it worse. But that’s alright, I could go out and into the city for you and report back what I learn. We could be a great team, like we used to be.’

‘No, Cordelia, that’s not… I’m not afraid.’ He stopped abruptly, twisting his fingers together.

Alastair was wearing a pair of fancy black gloves. Now that she noticed, he always wore gloves. Perhaps if he was scared of going outside, he was also scared of dirt? The palace was cleaned, of course, but some rooms weren’t cleaned as often because of the limited staff and would collect dust. She did remember her brother had always been rather neat, that had to be it.

‘We’re done here,’ Alastair said. ‘Goodbye.’

He stood up and walked away. They hadn’t even eaten anything yet. Cordelia ran after him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back inside. I changed my mind, I don’t want to have a picnic with you.’

Cordelia didn’t understand. He’d invited her, he’d wanted to spend time with her. Had she done something wrong to change his mind? It didn’t make any sense, she might have been a little pushy, but he had to understand it was for his own good, right?

‘Why? Am I suddenly not good enough for you anymore?’ Cordelia yelled, grabbing his shoulder.

‘Leave me alone, Cordelia,’ Alastair hissed. ‘I mean it.’

Cordelia was taken back by the sudden vehemence in his voice.

‘Fine, go back inside to stupid Charles and his stupid lessons!’ she yelled after him as he walked inside.

He didn’t look back, not even once. As if she was nothing. Great, that was her one chance to win back her brother, to improve her situation here somewhat. Now she had no idea what to do.

She returned to the picnic site and collapsed onto the blanket she’d laid out for the two of them. She stuffed some chocolate into her mouth. Chocolate she’d specifically requested for Alastair, because she knew he liked anything sweet, and loved chocolate most of all. Cordelia did too, curse stupid Charles and his stupid comments about her eating habits. She was the princess, she could eat as much chocolate as she wanted. She needed some way to cope with being alone all the time and if Charles thought it was bad for her maybe he should go find her a friend. As it was, she returned to days of loneliness and practicing with cortana. What else was she supposed to do?

***

‘Your father didn’t show up to our meeting again,’ Charles said. ‘We were supposed to discuss your progress weekly, but most of the time he isn’t there. Do you know if he’s alright?’

‘He’s just sick,’ Alastair said, terrified Charles would find out about his father’s drinking. ‘No one knows what’s wrong with him, but it’s been getting worse. Mother has taken over most of his tasks so he can rest. Thanks to you, I can start helping out too. I’ve been working on my correspondence, and I was wondering if you could double check my letter to the Duke of Weselton?’

Charles nodded. ‘I’ll look at your letter. I am sorry to hear about your father’s illness, Alastair, I know it’s been hard on you. How’s your sister under all this?’

Alastair sighed. A couple of months ago, he’d thought he was making progress. Around Charles he felt so much better, he felt as if the ice wasn’t even there unless he called for it. He had thought maybe he could give his sister another chance and he’d invited her to a picnic. If everything had gone well and he’d felt in control around her, he could have told her the truth there, and show her what he was capable of. But when he’d met with Cordelia, everything came back in full force and he’d have to fight with every bit of his willpower to repress his fear and keep the ice inside of him. Cordelia was still mad about his sudden departure, but he’d had no other choice if he wanted to keep her safe. When he’d gotten back to his bedroom, he’d lost control and caused a snowstorm. While he thought his control had improved since Charles had come, the size of any outburst that slipped through had grown.

He was lucky Cordelia hadn’t seen it and at least now that Father was drunk all the time, he wouldn’t notice and put Alastair in chains. He knew it was all his fault though, his father wouldn’t have started drinking if it weren’t for him.

‘I think it’s difficult for her,’ Alastair said. ‘She mentioned you made some comments about her eating habits the other day. I know you mean well, but she doesn’t like it.’

‘I’m just concerned for her. It’s unhealthy to eat so much chocolate,’ Charles insisted. ‘She’ll thank me when she doesn’t have to throw out another of her custom made gowns.’

Alastair didn’t think it was fair to shame her for growing out of clothes when he did the same. He’d started his growth spurt lately and most of his suits had become too short. They weren’t thrown away either, they were sold second hand, as were Cordelia’s old gowns.

‘I think she’s insecure about how she looks,’ Alastair said. ‘And she has plenty to worry about, I don’t think she should be worrying about her weight on top of that. Your comments aren’t helping her.’

He didn’t understand why his control was so much worse around Cordelia. A long time ago, he’d hurt her, and he was terrified it would happen again. Perhaps that was different with Charles. With Charles he could not feel, like he was supposed to.

The problem, of course, was that with Charles he did feel. Just like he had with Thomas. It had not appeared as fast as it had with Thomas, but it was so much stronger now that he’d gotten to know Charles, had spent nearly a year with him.

He wanted Charles. Loved him, even. Alastair didn’t understand why he felt this way. Years ago, he’d met his cousin Jem who’d told him how he loved both Will and Tessa romantically. Alastair couldn’t imagine loving more than one person at the same time, nor could he imagine loving a woman, but perhaps some men longed for the love of other men instead of women.

Perhaps being in love was what calmed his moods, as long as he wasn’t scared. Right now, he wasn’t, not yet. He knew it was unlikely Charles felt the same way. That was alright, because he still wanted to be near him and then everything would be fine.

‘You know, I always found it unusual how empty this castle is,’ Charles said one day. ‘No one else ever stays, your parents always travel to meet foreign leaders and never invite anyone over. There aren’t half as many cleaners and servants as there were in my old palace.’

‘We minimized the staff,’ Alastair said. ‘It seems wasteful to spend money on staff when that could be spent on improving the kingdom.’

‘You don’t even have friends,’ Charles said. ‘No other noblemen visit, ever. You don’t have any companions, nor a page. You sleep alone. It’s odd.’

Alastair frowned. ‘How is it odd that I sleep alone?’

‘When I was still a prince, I had a page. A boy around my age, who shared my bed at night. It was normal at home, for noblemen and women to have a page or lady in waiting share their bed. A good way to make sure your virtue remains intact and you do not share your bed with a woman you are not married to.’

Alastair wasn’t sure that would be effective. Who was to say nothing improper happened between the nobleman and the person who shared their bed?

‘There’s no one here I could lose my virtue to,’ Alastair said. ‘But I know what you mean, my mother does share her bed with Risa, her lady in waiting. My father doesn’t though, he sleeps alone.’

No one could find out he was a drunk. No one would believe in him as a king anymore, and therefore it was up to Alastair to keep anyone from finding out, just like he had to keep everyone from finding out about the ice inside of him.

‘I imagine you don’t have a page anymore at home?’ Alastair asked.

‘We had a fall out shortly before my mother gave up the crown,’ Charles said in a tone that indicated he did not want to talk about it.

Charles did not bring the topic up again for some time, not until he was complaining about his younger brother one day.

‘He’s been campaigning for the right for men to love other men,’ Charles said with a sigh. ‘And for women to love women. Here I was thinking he’d never give up on being silly and going out partying, but this is worse.’

Alastair tilted his head. ‘Why? Is he not fighting for a good cause?’

‘He will make everything much harder for me, for our family,’ Charles said. ‘People are shunning him, of course. They’re wondering, why is he campaigning for this, what does it mean about him? And my brother does not have the good sense to hide he likes both men and women.’

So Charles’ brother was like his cousin Jem, then? Alastair had not met Matthew Fairchild, but it was difficult to hear Charles talk like this. He felt a familiar tingling in his fingers, a warning he might lose control. Something he had not yet felt around Charles.

‘That is very brave of him,’ Alastair said.

‘I prefer to think of it as foolish,’ Charles said. ‘The people won’t accept him, he won’t change a thing. He’ll just make everything harder for himself, and for me. People will watch us more closely. No one batted an eye when Daniel, my former page, shared my bed for years.’

Alastair gasped. ‘You mean to say you love men?’

‘Unfortunately I do. It’s not easy for someone like me. I have to keep it a secret, or I risk losing everything. No one would vote for a man like me to be president. But with the proper precautions, I’ve been quite successful at hiding my affections and desires while still indulging in them. I wish my brother understood that.’

Alastair put his hand on Charles’ and felt the tingling fade. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, but he wouldn’t lose control. ‘Does your brother know about you?’

‘No. I never wanted him to. You’re the first person I’ve told after Daniel, I know I can trust you to keep my secret.’

Alastair felt special to be entrusted with such a secret, and could it mean Charles returned his feelings? Had Charles told him because he hoped Alastair might want to be with him?

‘When I’m king, I will do what your brother has been campaigning for, I will change the laws and allow two men or two women to be together,’ Alastair promised. ‘Get married, even.’

Charles waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly, Alastair.’

His heart sank, the tingling increased. He had to tell Charles about his affections, or else everything would become snow and ice.

‘But I’m like you,’ Alastair said. ‘I like men. And I don’t want to hide forever. What’s even the point in being king if I can’t change such things?’

‘They’ll cast you out, Alastair,’ Charles said. ‘Don’t waste your birthright on something the people will never accept. Best to keep your affections a secret. You’re a prince, you can pick any boy you like to be your page or companion and share your bed. No one would suspect a thing.’

Charles put his hand on Alastair’s shoulder, a bit too long for it to be called friendly, right?

‘What about you?’ Alastair asked. ‘I feel choosing a page to be my love would be unfair. Like, would he even get a say in that? It wouldn’t be like that with you.’

Charles smiled and cupped his cheek with his hand. It was smooth, the hand of someone who had not done manual labor. ‘You’re in love with me, aren’t you?’ he said, his voice gentle.

Alastair rubbed his hands together, forcing the tingling to stop. He felt frost underneath his gloves, but it was still hidden. Conceal, don’t feel.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘I suspected as much,’ Charles said. ‘I like you too, Alastair. You’re smart and beautiful, and you will be a great king someday. But this has to be a secret. You understand that, don’t you? I will be with you, but only as long as you can keep your affections concealed.’

Alastair nodded. ‘Of course.’

Then Charles kissed him, and it was like fire, a sudden heat that melted his frozen heart, that stopped the tingling in his fingers, that calmed the storm inside of him. Perhaps love was the answer after all.

Alastair and Charles explored much more than just kissing together. Charles came to share his bed, claiming it was improper how Alastair slept alone all night. No one suspected a thing, but then of course, there was no one who could suspect. It was the first time in years where Alastair felt he might be happy. Even if he was still too dangerous to be around his sister. He tried once more. No promises this time, he just sought her out in her room to see if they could talk. The storm returned almost immediately and Alastair realized his sister would never be safe if he went near her. The only one he could be around was Charles.

It was amazing at first. Long nights together, Charles touching him, making love to him. He’d never known being touched by someone could feel so good, nor that it would melt the ice inside his heart. Charles knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted, and Alastair was happy to oblige.

It was wonderful outside of the bedroom too. He loved how Charles would gently touch his shoulder, his wrist as he guided him through their lessons. But it didn’t take long for the secrecy of it all to start to weigh on him. Charles’ younger brother had fled farther south for his own safety, confirming Charles’ beliefs it was better to keep their love a secret. Alastair was scared the same might happen to him, but what could possibly be worse than people finding out he was a monster with ice in his heart?

Perhaps it would be better to leave, to flee into the woods and snow touched mountains and make his home there. The cold didn’t bother him, he would survive. But Charles could not come with him there, and so he stayed. Even while Charles mocked his ideas, told him he was still too young to understand what it was to rule a kingdom and treated him like was a child despite being old enough to be Charles’ lover.

Once he’d been in control around Charles, but not anymore. He wasn’t sure why it had gotten worse, why he was so scared Charles would leave him, that he wasn’t good enough anymore. He redoubled his resolve, made sure to read everything Charles asked him to, be everything his lover needed him to be. Charles was all he had, he didn’t think he could survive being abandoned. They stayed like this for several years. Alastair never took his gloves, not even when they had sex, and never explained why. Charles thought it was odd, but had come to accept it.

Even when he lost control, the gloves kept it in for a little longer, offered a bit of protection, and the time to get away before the storm began. Whenever he didn’t trust himself anymore, he went to his own private bathroom, a place even Charles wasn’t allowed to enter. Now that Charles shared his bed, his bedroom wasn’t a safe place to lose control anymore and he couldn’t exactly ask Charles to leave. So instead, this bathroom had frozen several times over, and whenever he was going to lose control he just told Charles he needed to use the bathroom. At this point, all the pipes had broken, so nothing could be used, but everything had been cut off from the water network long ago and his outbursts didn’t affect the other bathrooms. Charles had not uncovered his secret, and although it was difficult to keep it from him, it was for the best.

***

Cordelia took her father’s hand. ‘Where are you going? Are you sure you’re well enough to travel?’

‘I’m feeling much better, Cordelia dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back before you know it.’

Cordelia wasn’t sure where exactly her parents would be traveling. It wasn’t the first time he left, of course, to meet with foreign nobles, but this time he would be going on a much longer journey, and it had been a while since he’d traveled anywhere. He’d been too sick and Mother had written letters to keep up relations instead.

‘Can’t I come with you?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Not this time,’ her father said. ‘But I promise on my next journey you can come with me. It’s almost time for you to be presented to the world. But this is something I have to do myself, I’m afraid.’

The idea of being presented to the world sounded good, but perhaps that would be a bit much all at once. Perhaps it would be nicer to start with a smaller group of people who could be her friends.

‘What if the people won’t like me?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Of course they will. You are beautiful, compassionate and nurturing, what’s not to like?’

Cordelia could always count on her father to tell her she was beautiful, even if not long ago she’d had to throw out nearly all of her gowns because she’d gained too much weight to fit into them.

‘I’ll still be here, azizam,’ her mother said, which surprised her.

‘Oh, I thought you were going too,’ Cordelia said.

‘I was, but Alastair insisted he was not ready to take over while I was gone and needed me to stay,’ her mother explained. ‘I know that’s not true and Alastair is more than ready, but I thought staying would put his mind at ease.’

Cordelia supposed that should make her less lonely, but her mother spent all her time on filling in for her father and she wasn’t sure where that left her. She knew everyone was keeping something from her, but she couldn’t figure out what and it was frustrating. She’d tried asking her father, who had told her not to worry, that everything would be alright in the end. Then she’d asked her mother, who’d told her that her brother was going through a difficult time, without offering any explanation. Apparently, boys his age often went through times like this, except in Alastair’s case that had been years now. Not that Cordelia knew any other boys Alastair’s age to compare his behavior to, but that was hardly her fault.

It turned out her father wasn’t back before she knew it. It took months to even get word from him. Of course, it was a long journey by ship and it made sense they did not hear anything at first, but after a couple of months Cordelia began to worry. They should have heard something by now, what could have become of him?

‘He’ll be alright, Cordelia,’ her mother had said. ‘We’ll hear from him soon enough. He must have decided to stay longer than intended and it would take time for a letter to reach us.’

But Cordelia could tell her mother was worried too, more so with every passing day during which they did not hear from Elias. Several months after he’d first left, a messenger came.

‘I am terribly sorry to bring you this news, Your Majesty,’ the messenger said, addressing her mother. ‘The King’s ship went down in the southern seas. There were no survivors.’

Cordelia had been in shock at first. Then she’d burst into tears. Mother had cried too, although a bit more concealed. Alastair though, had not shown a thing. He’d taken the news quietly, asked a few questions, and then retreated to his room. As if he didn’t feel a thing, as if he didn’t care.

The funeral was a quiet ceremony, and Alastair didn’t attend. She had been forced to ask Charles where he was and why he hadn’t come to his own father’s funeral. Charles didn’t know the answer either, said something about Alastair being upset and indisposed, but she could tell it didn’t make sense to him either.

Determined not to let him slip away from her like he always did, she went to his room after the funeral, knocking on the door. No response. When she was younger, Alastair would yell at her to go away, he would get angry that she had the nerve to bother him. As awful as that was, his silence was worse.

‘Please, Alastair,’ she said. ‘I know you’re in there. I don’t know why you didn’t come to the funeral, and maybe it was just too hard… But people asked about you, where you’ve been. And I want to be there for you. Just let me in, and we can talk about.’

‘Leave me alone, Cordelia!’ she heard from the other side of the door. He didn’t open it. ‘I don’t care Father is dead, that’s why I didn’t go the funeral. You shouldn’t either.’

It was not the answer she’d expected, although it wasn’t the first time it had seemed like Alastair did not love Father. Sometimes she wondered if Alastair could feel anything at all. She guessed not. There was ice inside his heart, and Cordelia did not know how to reach him anymore. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

With Father gone, her mother was Queen-Regent for now, taking on all of Father’s duties with some help from Alastair here and there until his coronation. Her mother was pregnant, and Cordelia didn’t think it would be good for her to spend so much time working while expecting a child. At least the pregnancy meant that once the baby was here, she would have someone to play with.

In four months, Alastair would turn twenty one and would be crowned king. He only ever spent time preparing for his coronation and his reign, Charles always hovering around him. It was impossible to catch him alone.

Of course, a coronation brought opportunities. Alastair couldn’t be crowned in a small, private ceremony, people from all over the country and even beyond would be invited. Cordelia would finally have a chance to meet actual real life people.

***

Alastair did not attend his father’s funeral. He’d expected knowing his father was gone would bring relief. No more hiding the empty bottles, no more covering up his sickness. No risk Cordelia would find out. Most of all, no risk Father would decide he was too dangerous and would chain him in the dungeons. He had never forgotten that day and even now he still had nightmares. Father had always been cruel to him, and he thought his death would set Alastair free. Instead, he felt empty, he felt a horrible guilt for hating a man who was now dead. He felt the snow and ice tingling against his fingers, seeking release. He pushed it back down with all he had. Conceal, don’t feel, that was what his father had taught him. No emotion, push it all down. Alright then, he would not feel. He would not mourn Father, would not care that he was gone. He would not attend the funeral and pay his respects, it was too dangerous anyway, and Father did not deserve that.

He knew people would ask why, where he’d been, and he made something up about being too sick and overcome with grief to attend. It was a lie. Even without the risk of exposing his ice, he would not have wanted to attend. He hated his father, and he couldn’t bear to listen to people speak on what a great king he’d been. Worse, what a great father he’d been. And there was no one he could talk to. Charles didn’t know what Father was really like, he believed in the lie of his illness. Cordelia was the same, worse even, for she adored Father, she always had. He’d considered telling her the truth, but that would be selfish. It would break her heart, and for what? And Mother had loved Father. Now that he was gone, she wanted to remember the good parts. She was having another baby, and was devastated the baby would never meet his father. Lucky child, he thought. That almost sounded like he resented the baby for getting the safe and carefree childhood he had never had, but that wasn’t true. He was almost glad Father was gone for their sake, and he hoped the baby would grow up happy and loved and protected, even if Alastair could provide none of that himself. It was too dangerous and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to the baby because of him.

***

‘Alastair, are you in there?’

No response. Sona had gotten used to that at this point. She had grown more worried every day. Alastair was to be king in a couple of months, but he had barely left his private quarters since Elias’ death. The only person he spoke to was Charles, and even then Charles had confided in her that he felt Alastair pull away from him. That he wasn’t sure Alastair was ready to be king.

She’d thought, perhaps, as his mother she could reach him. Charles didn’t know about the ice despite them being very close. But with her and Cordelia, all Alastair did was push them away.

He had seemed happy, at least, when she’d told him of her pregnancy, excited to meet the new baby. Mostly, he’d been terrified though and Sona thought perhaps Alastair was scared he’d hurt the baby. She didn’t know what to do anymore. She had to protect her baby, of course, but Alastair was her child too and she didn’t know how to reach him.

Sona knocked on the bedroom door once more. He couldn’t hide in there forever. It was Charles who opened, wearing a dressing robe. Sona knew Charles had been sleeping in Alastair’s bedroom for the past years. It was a way, apparently, to make sure Alastair’s virtue was intact for marriage. Not that Alastair had shown any interest in getting married and with his ice, Sona feared it was too dangerous. She wasn’t sure how Alastair had managed to keep his ice from Charles while sharing a bed, but that was impressive, right?

It pained her, she wanted nothing more than for Alastair to be happy, but she didn’t know how. She’d considered going back to Tessa, had asked Elias to reconsider, but he’d refused. ‘Alastair belongs here,’ Elias used to say. ‘That witch will only take him away from us.’

And now he was to be crowned king and it was too late. At least Charles had been good for him, right? Sona had noticed the way Alastair lit up around Charles, the way he seemed so eager to please him.

‘Your Majesty,’ Charles addressed her. ‘If I knew you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.’

‘I am sorry,’ Sona said. ‘Did I wake you? I didn’t realize you tucked in early, I’ve always been a late sleeper myself. I was just looking for Alastair, is he here?’

‘No, he must have left when I was asleep. Usually he goes to the bathroom, his own private one. Even I am not allowed in there. He’s very attached to his privacy.’

Sona knew about the bathroom, the place he went to when he lost control. It was good for him to have such a place right? Somewhere it didn’t matter if the ice became too much for him, because no one would get hurt.

Sona forced a smile. ‘Thank you Charles. I think I’ll look for him there.’

‘I don’t think he’d like that.’

‘He’s my son, and I am worried about him.’

‘He’s been showing progress in his lessons lately,’ Charles said. ‘I do not think you have to worry.’

Sona just nodded, and closed the door. Charles was smart, responsible, and he knew politics, but sometimes she felt he didn’t know Alastair, didn’t understand him. Risa hated Charles, acted as if he’d stolen Alastair away from them, but Sona felt that was a bit too simplistic. It was a difficult situation for everyone, and they were all doing the best they could. Alastair had chosen to spend his time around Charles, and if that was what made him feel better, who was she to judge?

Sona knocked on the bathroom door. No response.

‘Alastair, I’m coming in!’ she called.

She didn’t like invading his privacy, but at least he’d be forced to acknowledge he was in there if he wanted to stop her. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps he wasn’t in the bathroom after all, but it couldn’t hurt to check.

She pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Had Alastair locked himself in there? When she pulled a little harder, it broke open and Sona realized why she’d been unable to open the door. It was frozen. Everything in the bathroom was frozen, about half a meter of snow lying on the floor. It was a good thing the door opened to the outside, or she would not have gotten it open at all.

Alastair was lying on the snow, covered in a thin summer blanket. The cold had never bothered him, but he had always liked to hold a blanket when he slept. When he was little, he would sleep with a thin summer blanket in the coldest days of winter, perfectly content.

Should she wake him? He seemed peaceful, at least, now that he was asleep. But he had lost control in here before falling asleep, and she wanted to know what had happened. He hadn’t responded well to his father’s death, and she knew Elias and Alastair had never had the best relationship, but instead of grieving with her and Cordelia, he’d shut them out even more. Sona didn’t think he was alright.

Before she could make a decision, Alastair opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position. Sona wrapped her arms around herself, it was freezing cold in here. That couldn’t be good for the baby, but she was determined to talk to her son.

‘What happened, azizam?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, maman,’ he said. ‘I lost control.’

‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘What happened?’

‘I was with Charles,’ he said. ‘He told me he’d been writing with the Duke of Weselton.’

Sona frowned. ‘What’s wrong with that? He’s one of our closest trading partners. Charles has not sabotaged our relationship with Weselton, has he?’

‘No, not like that. You see, the Duke has a daughter around my age and no other heir, and Charles wants to marry her. She will be here for the coronation, and Charles intends to propose there. He thinks the Duke is a powerful ally for him as well as for us. And the laws in Weselton are pretty backward, so if the Duke dies his daughter’s husband will inherit the title, the lands, everything.’

Sona knew Charles liked power, of course. Risa hated him for it, thought he couldn’t be trusted, but Sona couldn’t help but see that even if Charles was a little too power hungry for his own good, Alastair adored him. But if he took the title and became Duke of Weselton, why would that upset Alastair so much? Wouldn’t he be happy for his friend?

‘What does any of that have to do with you?’

Alastair sighed. ‘I know, it’s stupid. But he’ll leave me alone if he marries her. He’d go live in Weselton in the Duke’s palace. He cannot stay here anymore. He’s all I have, I couldn’t bear it if he left.’

Sona took his hand. It was ice cold. ‘You always knew he would return home someday, right? Charles was here to teach you and prepare you, and he has done that. You are ready to be king, joon-am. I know controlling the ice is hard, but you’re smart and compassionate and you will do fine if he’s not there.’

Secretly Sona thought perhaps Alastair would do even better without Charles there. She knew Alastair was kinder, and she feared perhaps it came from a place of self loathing but Alastair was not the kind of king who’d put his own needs before anyone else’s.

Alastair nodded weakly. ‘But I’d be all alone. When Charles and I first became friends, it was the first time I could control myself. As long as it was going well, I mean. I did sometimes lose control when he was upset with me, but he never saw. I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone.’

Alastair was crying. The tears froze into snowflakes before they even reached his cheeks. Watching her son cry had always been one of the strangest thing, as if he started snowing. It was heartbreaking to watch, and Sona wished she could hug him, but she knew Alastair wouldn’t let her. He was far too scared he’d hurt the baby.

‘You’re going to be alright,’ Sona said. ‘You’re lonely, I know that. Cordelia is too. But the coronation offers opportunities. Perhaps you’ll meet someone else who helps calm your moods and your ice. You could invite someone to stay, if you want, open the gates.’

Alastair shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. Charles is the only one I can trust. I tried, maman. I tried with Cordelia, but every time I go near her I am so scared I’ll hurt her and then the ice takes over.’

‘Perhaps we should return to Tessa,’ Sona suggested.

‘No. The coronation is too close. This curse, it can’t be controlled. Best to be alone, and do what’s right for Arendelle.’

Sona guessed if Alastair wouldn’t return to the village, she’d try to send an invitation for the coronation. Perhaps Tessa could come here and help figure out why Alastair couldn’t control the ice. It was the least she could do for her son.

#Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Sona Carstairs #Charles Fairchild #Conceal don't feel #Frozen AU #fanfiction #the last hours #tlh

[kai-n-ali]

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter One

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his. 

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 5K

Chapter Two ❀ Chapter Three

                               Chapter 1: Citron (Ill-natured Beauty)

   The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

   She wasn’t impressed.

   Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk scent from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

    Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

    When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil. 

    The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

    The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

    That newsboy cap was just ridiculous.

    Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

    He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

    Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: how disappointing.

    She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

    Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

    Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

    The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, how do I know you? Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

    She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

    Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

    Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

    Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

    Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

    “Eleanor.”

    There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

    “It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” Not to you, she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

    “Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

    There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

    Then she ruined it.

    “What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name Tommy?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

    The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

    And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

    “Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

    “Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

    Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

    “Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

    Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

    Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

    Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. Everlasting love. Not that Thomas would know that.

    From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

    The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

    But it felt right.

    Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

    Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

    He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

    “Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

    “Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

    For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

    “Language,” she chided.

    “D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

    Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

    Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

    The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. Adorable, Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

    “I know his name.” I’ve met his wife.

    “You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

    “Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. Worse than the devil? “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

    “Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

    Huh. “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

   Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

   Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

    The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

    That damn bell chimed.

    It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

    “Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of “why the hell not?” air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

    If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

    Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. Get it together.

    “’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

    While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

    “That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

    But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

    “No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

    The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

    “Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

    (On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)

    Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

    She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. Smug bastard. “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. Why’re you here again, Thomas? She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. You make it very hard to behave. She set down the brush with a clatter.

    “I can do that.”

    She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby. Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. Rudeness. Bluntness. And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. Childishness. And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. You puzzle me.

    In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library, and that included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

    Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

    Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

    She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. Fuck. Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. Fuck.

    “What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

    But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

    Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

    It reminded her of his wife.

    The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

    “If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

    “You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

    Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

    That hadn’t been necessary.

    The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

    Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

    At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

    (“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)

    Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

    “What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

    But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. Well.

    In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

    She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

    Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

    “Yeah?”

    “Yeah.”

    They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

    He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. How were they so blue? Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

    Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. What the honest fuck.

    Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

    And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

#tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x ofc #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #bbc pb #bbc #thomas shelby #ofc #original character #arthur shelby #ada shelby #ada thorne #polly gray #michael gray #linda shelby #lizzie stark #lizzie shelby #charlie shelby #jessie eden #luca changretta #season four of peaky blinders #season 4 #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #bisexuality #lgbtq #tw child abuse #tw antisemitism

[lesbian-percy-weasley]

Chapter 2: A Crown of Real Flowers

Ship: Perciver

Content warning: none

Description: It had been a month since Percival met the strange boy in the woods. He didn’t think he would meet him again. Especially not on the last day of summer. But what he found even more surprising is the gift this boy brought him

AN: So the first chapter of this fic doesn’t show up in the tags for some reason. If you want to read it go to my page or my Ao3 (Gay-Natasha-Saves-The-World) and of course, enjoy!

🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿

It had been nearly a month since Percival had met that boy in the woods. Every so often he would cross his mind. When he went back into the clearing in the woods, when he was in the village and spotted a bit of light green fabric, and sometimes even randomly.

He had decided that day that he shall hate the boy but now he was asking himself if he really did. Perhaps the boy just had odd mannerisms. Like Mr. Ficklesworth, the bard from the village near their house. He had some strange customs that seemed to come from nowhere. If he weren’t a faun like Percival he would assume it was cultural differences.

But enough about Mr. FIcklesworth! This isn’t his story. Percival was still going foraging alone every week for his mother. He had made sure he never got distracted as he had before. The last thing he wanted was for his family to think he couldn’t do the simple task of foraging. He always went on a Thursday. He liked the routine of it. Every other day of the week he could be helping his brothers in the field, going into the village, watching his younger siblings but he knew exactly what he was to do on Thursdays.

He’d grab the same things he always did and started his journey in the same forest. He enjoyed the sameness of all of it. It made him feel safe. And today was such a beautiful day out. Charles had told him it would be the last day like this until spring came again so he was going to enjoy every second of it.

The forest was calmer than normal but it didn’t feel unusual. It felt serene and peaceful like all the animals and plants knew it was the last days of summer. Percival wanted nothing more to explore it but he knew he had to stick to the trails and the foraging spots. He didn’t want anyone worrying about him. But this time his mother only wanted him to get berries. Perhaps he would have time to explore just a bit.

Once again, he found himself in the clearing. He knew that blackberries grew wild just on the edge of the clearing. Should be easy enough to get. He took off his cloak and his satchel and went to work picking.

He didn’t particularly enjoy picking blackberries. They were a pain to get for you had to reach into the bush to pick the best ones. That meant getting pricked by the thorns about one hundred times. His hands were already scarred from how much he had done it over the years. But he didn’t whine. I was just a blackberry thorn there are much worse things to be annoyed by.

He had filled up about half of his bucket before he heard a distinct rustling in the trees. He huffed at this. For once he had hoped the wind spirits would leave the forest alone. But here they were causing problems and disturbing the calmness of the day. Percival thought he had ought to be used to them by now, but they filled him with so much rage a simple rustling of leaves could ruin his day.

But he couldn’t let them know they got to him so he continued to pick berries until the basket was full. Surprisingly, there hadn’t been another disturbance in the forest. He smiled peacefully. He looked at the sun and saw it was only about 10 in the afternoon. This was absolutely perfect. Almost too perfect.

He went down to the stream where he met the boy a month ago and sat down. He placed the basket against a tree, making sure the wind couldn’t knock it down. He let the water run across his feet and finally relaxed. But to his dismay, it was soon to be interrupted.

A few minutes after he had started relaxing by the creek, he felt a strange weight on his head. He opened one eye to see an ivy leaf hanging over it. He reached to grab whatever was put on his head. He had assumed it was just something from a tree that blew over onto his head put to his surprise it was a flower crown.

Now he was even more confused. He picked it up from his head to look at it. The flowers alternated between green carnations, green gerbera daisies, purple dahlias, and purple foxglove which were woven onto a bed of ivy. He had seen flower crowns before. The girls in the village had them often to give to boys they liked but they always used wildflowers from the forest. They didn’t look anything like this one.

Whilst he was pondering where this crown could’ve come from, he felt a sudden presence next to him. He cautiously turned his head to see the boy from the month before sitting next to him. Percival was frightened of course. He let out a yelp and tried to get away from him. This attempt only naturally resulted in him falling straight into the creek.

The boy was of course embarrassed by this. He didn’t mean to scare him. He rushed over to help him at once. Percival grabbed the boy's hand and lifted himself out of the creek.

“You should be more careful when greeting people.” Percival took off his now drenched cloak and set it on a log. “I am incredibly sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” “It’s alright but please don’t make a habit out of scaring people.” He sat down in his previous spot.

“I find it quite amusing how I seem to always find you in a quarrel with the creek.” the boy sat down right beside him. “I and the creek get along quite well when you’re not around.” Percival scoffed as he moved wet curls out of his face. “I suppose you’re the one that made the flower crown.” The boy beamed with pride.

“Yes. In fact, I spent all of yesterday in the garden trying to find the perfect flowers for it.” Percival picked it back up again examining it. “So I assume you think these are real flowers as compared to the lowly cornflower.” The boy shrugged at this. “You said you didn’t have money for flowers so I thought I’d give you some.”

He set the crown back down next to his other things. “Well, thank you for the crown.” He smiled at the boy. His attire had changed from the previous encounter. His pants were now a marvelous shade of dark blue instead of the previous light green and he donned a cloak made out of a green tartan. They sat in still and peaceful silence for a while. Percival could feel the sun dry his hair, his skin, and his shirt. It pained him to admit that he enjoyed relaxing with someone compared to relaxing alone.

An hour must've passed before the boy spoke again. “I don’t believe you’ve ever told me your name.” “As if I would be dumb enough to give a random stranger my name.” Percival scoffed. His parents and brothers had told him many times to not give away his name to people. You never know whose intentions are pure and who's trying to manipulate you.

“I did not ask you to give me your name I only asked for you to tell me it so I have something to call you.” The boy said, crossing his arms. “How do I know I can trust you?” “It can be a nickname if you like.” Percival thought about this for a while. It was extremely foolish to tell anyone you barely know your name. If his family knew he was even considering telling it to a boy he met twice in the woods they would most certainly reprimand him.

“If I tell you mine will you tell me yours?” Percival asked, crossing his arms as well. “Deal.” The boy had a huge grin on his face. He let out a huge sigh and said “I can tell you my name is Percy.” He said, extending his hand. “And I can tell you my name is Ollie.” He reached out and shook Percival’s hand.

“Well, I must be getting back home before it gets too late,” Percival said while getting up to gather his things. Luckily his cloak was now dry from the sun. He put it back on and grabbed his satchel and the basket full of berries. He waved goodbye and started walking away. He didn’t get very far before he was stopped.

“Wait!” Oliver yelled causing Percival to turn around. “You forgot your flower crown, Percy.” He said holding it. Percival bent down a little, allowing him to put it on his head. It sat askew but Percival didn’t mind. “There. Pretty flowers for a pretty boy.” He looked up at him with a slight blush. No one had ever called him pretty before.

They stood there for a while just staring at each other before Percival said something. “If you wish to meet with me again, my mum usually sends me foraging on Thursdays. I suspect you can find your way home without me.” The boy nodded in response. “I expect to find you here on Thursday, Percy.” “And I’ll be waiting for you, Ollie.”

They both parted ways. Heading to their respective homes. Percival couldn’t seem to get Oliver’s words out of his mind. ‘Pretty flowers for a pretty boy’. He had to admit that the flowers were a great deal pretty but did Oliver really think he was pretty? But there was no time to dwell on it.

He knew he had to hide the crown before he got home. The last thing he wanted was his family interrogating and lecturing him. He wasn’t very fond of the idea of them finding out about his new friend. He put the crown in his empty satchel and headed the rest of the way home.

Once he got home, he greeted his family, gave the basket of berries to his mother, and hurried off to his room. He opened the satchel and took out the crown. He couldn’t help but admire the beauty of it. It wasn’t just the flowers but the fact that someone made it just for him. Never had he gotten anything that was just for him. He put it into a box under his bed to make sure no one besides him would ever find it. He had decided it was his and his alone.

#harry potter #hogwarts #percy weasley #oliver wood #perciver #fanfiction #percy weasley x oliver wood #faerie au #faerie #flower crown #gay #friends to lovers #cottagecore

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 3

Peter wants validation, David wants his boyfriend and Nightingale probably just wants a drink at this point.

I felt weird just leaving that situation as it was and going off to Bev’s, but there didn’t seem to be anything else for me to do, and it was nearing evening, and I did confirm I was going to be there for dinner. Besides, if anything else weird happened, I was sure Molly could hold down the fort.

I told Beverley the whole story, and she was... well, she was entertained, I guess, but I could tell something was bothering her. I sat down with her on the couch, tucked her feet into my lap and started to rub her ankles - she didn’t deal with much in the way of morning sickness, and she wasn’t showing yet, but apparently her feet were swelling like mad and it drove her to distraction - but that didn’t seem to be it.

“There’s two of them now,” she said when I asked. “That’s weird. We only ever dealt with Nightingale, and he was the only one left, and it was okay, and you’re fine, but...”

“Hey, thanks,” I said.

“You know what I mean. You’re not like the Nightingale, and you know I mean that as a compliment. But this other guy, his boyfriend or whatever... he’s going to be very Old Folly, isn’t he?”

I thought that over. I tried to remember what I’d been told about Mellenby before, the few scraps I’d gotten in passing from Nightingale and Hugh Oswald, and how that measured up against my first impression of him. It was inconclusive; there was just very little information. “Can’t tell yet.”

Beverley rested her head on my chest. “Ty won’t be too happy.”

I kept my thoughts on that to myself.

-----

I was woken in the morning by my phone ringing. Bev turned over in bed with an annoyed grumble and swatted her hand in my direction in an entreaty to do something about the noise, so I picked it up. It was the Folly - not Nightingale, who had recently taken to actually using his cellphone for convenience’s sake, but the Folly’s landline. This got me slightly worried, so I answered it.

“Yeah?”

I was treated to complete silence on the other end. There wasn’t even the sound of breath, or if there was, it was very quiet.

My worry mounted, because why would anyone pick up the Folly’s ancient bakelite phone, dial my number and then stand there in silence? Who did that sort of thing?

Then I tried, “Molly?”

There was a small scraping sound, like someone was tapping a fingernail against the receiver.

“Molly, what’s up?”

Tap, tap. If she was trying to morse her concerns, she wasn’t doing a great job.

Beverley had woken up properly by now, and peeked out from under the blanket giving me a look of confusion.

“Do you want me to... should I come over?”

Tap, tap. Tap. It seemed to grow in urgency.

“What’s happening, have they burnt the house down?”

Scratch. Scratch.

“I’ll be on my way... I guess.”

-----

The Folly was still standing when I arrived there, but something was very much amiss. Foxglove was waiting for me by the back door, and she gave me a silent, deeply troubled look that boded ill as she gestured for me to go upstairs. I headed for the breakfast room - surely Molly would have prepared a whole spread, and I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and I reckoned I was sure to run into Nightingale there.

The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

Mellenby’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy. Apart from that, he cleaned up pretty well, I noted: cleaned and parted at the side, his hair was curly, surprisingly so for a white guy. He was wearing a rather ancient dark blue suit that he’d probably left behind here before going off to war and all the rest; many rooms within the Folly had simply been sealed off with their former owners’ possessions all still inside, as if they might come back and use them again. That suit hung a little loosely on him; I suspected he’d lost weight in the war and never gained it back, having spent the last seventy-odd years in a magical stasis. He was tucking into his breakfast with good appetite, but sneaking furtive glances at Nightingale. Nightingale was staring resolutely in the opposite direction. Molly was serving them coffee in the most passive-aggressive manner I had ever seen her serve anything, and I’ve been on the receiving end of Molly’s ire a couple times.

It’s not my relationship drama, I decided. No need to get involved. I simply plonked myself down across from them and grabbed a piece of toast. “Morning.”

“Ah.” Nightingale looked up in a masterful imitation of someone just now noticing the other people in the room with them. “Good morning, Peter. You’re here early.”

“Couldn’t pass up Molly’s breakfast, sir.” Just then, Molly happened to swish by behind him, so I gave her a grin. She repaid me with an arched eyebrow and a perfectly normal cup of hot coffee for my trouble. It felt sort of good to be the only one present on Molly’s good side for once, especially as Mellenby winced after one sip of his coffee and even Nightingale frowned after trying it.

“Very mature, Molly,” he said. “What even did I do?”

Molly glared at him, and then towards the carpet covering most of the floor.

“Oh, really? Because I burnt one tiny hole into the Axminster? No one but us ever sees that rug.”

“Molly probably puts a lot of work into maintaining the carpets,” Mellenby said quietly. “Especially since there’s no other staff here now. Let’s try not to drag her into this.”

Nightingale picked up the Telegraph and rustled it pointedly. “Oh, now he’s the gentleman.”

Mellenby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Thomas?”

“Can any of you pass the scrambled eggs?” I asked, still not getting involved.

Their hands bumped together as they both tried to reach for the plate first. (I steadfastly refused to roll my eyes.) Mellenby’s cuff hiked up a bit and I could catch a glimpse at a kind of cast-iron wristlet he now wore. I’d seen this before on Varvara. Did this technology really come from the Nazis?

He must have seen me looking, because he fiddled with it. “...Just wish you’d take this off me, is all,” he said sullenly.

“Not until the lab results are in.” Feigning perfect calm with only middling success, Nightingale picked up his pen and turned to the crossword. He took another sip of his coffee and for a second looked like he’d bitten on a lemon.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said, looking up from my eggs. “What is Molly pissed about, sir?”

“It’s nothing,” Nightingale said. “Events... may have transpired and I might have dropped some ash off a cigarette and lightly singed the carpet in the reading room last night, is all.”

I risked a half-grin. “Events?”

He shot me a look communicating he had seen and interpreted my facial expression and just so’s I knew, he resented the implication.

“There was a... somewhat heated discussion,” Mellenby cut in. (Meaning they’d been fighting rather than fucking.)

“Heated is not quite the word I’d use,” Nightingale said.

“Not quite? Thomas, it’s a miracle your voice isn’t hoarse this morning.”

“Enough of that.” Nightingale tapped his pen against the newspaper - he still hadn’t gotten started on the crossword yet. “Peter, when you’re done I’d like you to head downstairs and get some practice in while we wait for Abdul to call.”

I nodded and hummed something affirmative around a mouthful of food. Across the table, Mellenby’s face lit up.

“Oh, may I be of assistance?” he asked. “I always wanted-”

“No.” Nightingale lowered the paper. “I would rather read your exhaustive treatise on quantum theory - or whatever it was called - again than permit you to interfere with Peter’s studies in any manner.”

There was a second of quiet as we all digested that statement. Even Molly, who had been about to leave the room with some of the empty plates, stopped and stood in apprehension of what was to come, her shoulders rigid and drawn up almost to her ears.

Then Mellenby muttered, “I thought you liked that study.”

At last, Nightingale began filling in his bloody crossword. “No, it was dead boring.”

“It was my life’s work anyhow,” Mellenby said quietly. “Even if you never understood it.”

“And we both know where your life’s work led us.” Nightingale tossed the paper down onto the tabletop, where it landed with a thwack. “Your dangerous nonsense must not be encouraged, and I will especially not allow it to distract Peter.”

I wasn’t really loving being discussed in such a way, like I wasn’t right there at the breakfast table with them. It felt like being five again. But honestly, I would only get mad about that later. Right that moment, I was way too busy staring at them in rapt attention as they argued.

“Please, Thomas, don’t!” Mellenby got out of his seat looking hurt, looking slighted, and I knew he was going to cry again. “How can you say these things! You never used to... what happened to you? What happened to the man I fell in love with?”

I genuinely couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Reader, holy fuck.

Nightingale also rose to his feet. “That was a hundred years ago, David. A lot has happened since then, some of which you even had the good grace to be present for. I was in a war, for starters, you might remember it.”

“Oh, I might remember it?” Up to this point, Mellenby had seemed soft, and sad, and apologetic. Now I could see he was getting peeved. “I came home from said war three weeks ago, and I slept for a while, and now here you are telling me a new century has dawned. I did not experience the eighty years since then, I have not had the luxury of time to heal all wounds.”

Nightingale’s eyes widened. His fist met the table, making me flinch and all the dishes rattle. “The luxury?” he asked. “The fucking luxury?!”

I had never heard him raise his voice like that outside of active combat. It broadsided me, but not as much as the f-bomb.

I got up and quickly downed the rest of my normal coffee, even if it was too hot and I singed by tongue a little. “I’ll be at the firing range, yeah? If you need me.” Then I made my escape, right past Molly, whom I tried to give a supportive and encouraging smile. I don’t think they heard me at all. I was halfway down the hallway when the first china dish shattered.

-----

Nightingale joined me at the firing range later, as I was just getting done chucking a few fireballs at my least favorite target. I don’t mean to brag, but I was pretty happy with how they were coming along in terms of speed and strength. Against a tank, my chances were probably still slim, but I was certain I was getting there. When I say ‘joined me’ I mean I ducked aside as Nightingale pulverized a few targets with uncharacteristic aggression. Soon we’d have to get new ones again.

“You’re making progress,” he said, and internally I preened a bit at the rare compliment.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied in a sufficiently casual and manly voice. “You just got done breaking dishes up there?”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean to break a cup. I’ll have to apologize to Molly later, and about the carpet as well while I’m at it. He’s right, we shouldn’t drag her into this, she’s done more than enough for us.”

I didn’t have to ask who he was. “Is it... wrong that I kind of do want to talk to him about his quantum theories?”

Nightingale gave me an impressive scowl. “When your apprenticeship ends,” he said, “you’re free to experiment in any way you see fit, even, I suppose, with David’s nonsense. But as long as I have a say in it, I would encourage you to master the correct use of the formae before you go on tweaking them and utilizing them for all sorts of frivolities. We must become familiar with the function of a thing before we can take it apart. Even David always used to hold to that.”

I nodded. I hadn’t really been expecting much else. “But what if he knows something that would be immediately useful? In a tight spot, I mean, or for a case.”

Nightingale looked at me, a little too wide-eyed. “I should hope not,” he said. “David ended up devoting most of his... inventiveness to the war effort. Not only would I empathically loathe to equip you with any of the nasty little spells he came up with, and dearly hope you wouldn’t find yourself in a situation fit to use them, but you would not enjoy possession or knowledge of them. Besides, it has been quiet.”

It was true, it had been rather quiet since Lesley had left me handcuffed to Martin Chorley’s corpse. She hadn’t been in contact lately, and she proved all but impossible to find. She might have left town, there was no way to tell. Besides, would I want to use a ‘nasty little spell’ on Lesley May? I’d rather not be faced with that choice, and I reckoned Nightingale knew that.

“We’re talking some sort of... battle magic,” I guessed.

“Close-combat practice, is what we said.” Nightingale crossed his arms, as if having to shield himself against a sudden cold. “Battle magic makes it sound so... heroic. I wouldn’t have you romanticize it, yes, it was mostly ways to kill. Multiple targets at a broader scope. Single targets at wider ranges, snipers and the such. At close range, quickly and painlessly, slowly while causing pain. The works. Many of these creations were volatile and messy, tenth-order or higher disasters. Nothing I’d want any apprentice of mine to learn.”

I frowned. I found I really, really didn’t want to think on ‘slowly while causing pain’. “A tenth-order spell on a battlefield? Who does that?”

“I,” Nightingale said simply. It wasn’t to showcase his talent. His voice was hollow, his eyes far-off and dull, looking back at something not here, something I was fairly glad I wasn’t seeing. “David was lucky to have me on hand.”

“Were you together through the whole of it?”

“Well, most of it. We did what we could to ensure we’d stay together, and command knew we made an effective team.”

I decided what the hell, I’d just go for it. I was curious. Mellenby had just been chucked into my life, no one had deigned to explain anything to me, and I wanted information. “You guys were in love love, huh?”

Nightingale huffed. “Quite. How would you like to try a new forma?”

It was a blatant attempt at distraction. A part of me wanted to fall for it. “How did that work?” I asked anyway.

“Clandestinely.” Nightingale rolled up his sleeves. “Why don’t we step over into the lab?”

We had just about gotten around to that when Molly appeared in the doorway, handing Nightingale his phone. If she still held a grudge about a broken cup, she didn’t show it, but she maybe handed the phone over a bit more coolly than usual.

“Oh, it must be Abdul with the test results. Thank you, Molly.” Nightingale answered the phone. What ensued was one of these situations where I stood there listening to Nightingale’s side of the conversation and entertained myself by mentally trying to fill in the gaps on Walid’s end. Which wasn’t all that easy, because Nightingale mostly said “Yes” and “Hm” and “No, that’s perfectly alright with me”.

“Well, the results are in,” he told me after he’d hung up. “They’re about what you’d expect.”

“So... he’s a completely normal human person?” I ventured.

Nightingale nodded. “Still, we should visit the cemetary, to make sure.”

It’s like you don’t want it to actually be him, I thought. What’s with that? I didn’t say it out loud. One does not simply psychoanalyze one’s boss. What I ended up asking was, “I thought the signare check was already foolproof?”

“To the best of our knowledge, it is,” Nightingale admitted. “But I’d like to tie up all loose ends here.” He sighed and leaned against one of the desks, and for a moment he looked... well, he never looks his age, but he looked weary, for a second. “Is that reasonable?” he asked. “I like to think I’m comporting myself reasonably, generally. But when it comes to this situation, I have my doubts.”

I opted for what I thought was safest. “That’s for you to judge, sir.”

“I appreciate your genuine insight, Peter,” Nightingale said. And sure, he looked past me at the ceiling as he said it, but it still totally counted.

I guess I must have looked or sounded surprised when I replied, “Do you, sir?” because he gave me a peculiar glance and said, “Yes, of course. You’ve had some very sound ideas while I’ve had you here. Your efforts are bringing the Folly into the modern world in a way I could never have executed and would never have thought to. Surely you must know that.”

“Sir,” I said neutrally.

“Oh, come now,” Nightingale insisted. “I must have told you that at some point.”

I cleared my throat. “Usually you say I’m easily distracted and accident-prone.” I grinned and tried to make it sound like a little inside joke between us, light-hearted banter, nothing serious. Nothing I was taking seriously. It probably came out wrong, and I felt silly about it.

Nightingale fiddled with his collar, looking almost a bit sheepish. “I have perhaps not been the most forthcoming in terms of positive feedback.”

He didn’t have to say it, but I knew he wasn’t a natural teacher. He hadn’t wanted to be, and it didn’t come easily to him. But he’d been - he was - the only one for the job. It really wasn’t worth dwelling on. “Here’s some honest insight, sir,” I said, “maybe the magical handcuffs are a bit much.”

“I don’t think they are,” Nightingale said. So much for incorporating my opinions. “We should not have a fully trained practitioner with David’s creativity and expertise running around unchecked whom we cannot fully trust.”

“Can we not fully trust your boyfriend, sir?” I asked straight out, and Nightingale shook his head.

“He’s not my... he was that. It was a while ago.”

“Then what is he?”

Nightingale took a second to mull that over. “He’s... his status is pending,” he said. “Now, I believe I was about to show you a new forma, so please focus.”

#rivers of london #david mellenby lives AU #helloooo!!! #now i'm very tired

[foolish-gold]

Ok so a week or two back I drew a couple of ocs inspired by @crimson-chains Bois series and I decided to write a short piece about how my two got together!

Shirley Temple and Blueberry Cheesecake have been borrowed from the lovely @punkpillywiggin!

It takes all of two seconds for Chocolate Marquise to spot Champagne, once she's safely sequestered herself in one of the quieter corners of the ballroom and started looking at anything other than the walls. She's not dancing, but is surrounded by a small crowd and, with the help of her friend...Shirley Temple? (Marquise really needs to pay more attention to things other than Champagne at these things) is dazzling the crowd. 

Both girls are gorgeous, of course, dark skinned and bright eyed and charming in a way that Marquise has never been able to imitate (not that she's ever really tried, but the point still stands.) But Marquise has been hopelessly gone on Champagne for...god, over a decade at this point. 

The first time they met was gratingly awkward. Champagne was already comfortably settled into her sparkling socialite role, even at sixteen, and her and Shirley Temple had insisted on introductions to everyone at the first few balls they attended. Unfortunately one of these happened to also be Marquise's introduction to high society, having just been allowed into the family business after repeated begging and a handful of tests proving that she'd take it seriously. The problem being that Marquise had wanted in on the business not the parties, no matter how many times her parents insisted that networking is absolutely crucial. Years down the line, she'd realise they were right, but sixteen-year-old-Marquise just knew that she hated dresses and heels and was pretty sure she'd never be able to remember people's names (or at least act like she remembered.) 

Which is when Champagne and Shirley Temple appeared, flanking an older gentleman who was presumably related to one of them, who was introducing them to anyone they pointed him at. Marquise's own father had had to introduce her because she'd frozen. After everyone but Marquise making pleasant small talk for a while (and several pointed attempts to drag Marquise into the conversation,) she'd managed to escape out into the garden which, while cold, was at least only populated by the very few others also trying to avoid conversations.

It was quiet, and something about being surrounded by nothing but plants made Marquise never want to return to the actual party. The plants wouldn't expect her to make small talk or dance well or pretend that stilettos are comfortable. She'd found an intricately carved stone bench lurking in a flowerbed filled with tall grasses and flowers. Her father could come and find her when he wanted to leave.

But then, an hour or so later, Champagne had been sent to find and retrieve her. And instead she'd sat on the other end of the bench and, after a few silent moments, began quietly rambling about the foxgloves in the flowerbed opposite. She was quiet enough that Marquise could have tuned her out, and she didn't press for a response, just sat and rambled until Marquise gathered herself enough to take her hand and lead her back to the ballroom.

Marquise didn't exactly fall then and there, but it was a close thing.

Marquise had quickly learnt she preferred suits to dresses, how to stop herself from freezing anytime someone talked to her, and a decent selection of ballroom dances. It had helped with the anxiety of formal events, but it didn't stop Champagne seeking her out any time she retreated to whatever gardens the various venues had and rambling quietly about plants.

But currently it's far too soon to attempt any sort of retreat. And Marquise does actually have to find the head of an electricity company her father wants to do some business deal (that he never bothered to brief Marquise on) with. So she's got to make contact, network a bit, leave the lady with a good impression, and hope that she'll get a seat at the table when the actual negotiations happen. She probably will.

Marquise successfully finds the woman and makes pleasant small talk with her until an internal timer goes off and she excuses herself. A long enough conversation to stick in the memory, not long enough to bore. Or to make Marquise want to stab herself with a fork. But it's over now. 

Marquise makes her way back around the edge of the ballroom, carefully avoiding eye contact with about five people she vaguely recognises from similar events and a couple she's pretty sure are business partners with her father. On her way, she picks up a couple of wine glasses and spends the rest of the journey trying to not look like she's carrying two. She hovers somewhat near the crowd around Shirley Temple and Champagne until Blueberry Cheesecake spots her and extracts herself. Marquise brightens significantly.

She's been pining after Champagne for years, sure, and the moments they spend together are wonderful soft things that she wouldn't trade for the world, but Blueberry is a good friend. Shirley Temple's girlfriend, an excellent dancer, and most importantly, just about as awkward at these events as Marquise is. It's a friendship built on shared discomfort and not one of these events goes by that Marquise doesn't thank any listening deity that Blueberry is there to make standing in an obscure corner of the room look like socialisation rather than avoidance. 

Blueberry also doesn't tease her mercilessly about her pining. Which is always a plus. She does give Marquise a very knowing look in place of a greeting which is honestly fair. Marquise hands her one of the glasses. She waits until Blueberry has taken a sip before speaking.

"So if I were, perhaps, maybe, considering actually asking Champagne out, do you think tonight would be a good choice? You know. Hypothetically, based on anything you've noticed about her mood, of course."

Marquise is barely through the "maybe" before Blueberry's turned to her with a look of barely suppressed shock and glee. She's known about Marquise's pining basically since they met and has been gently pushing her to act on it pretty much the entire time. Marquise has, in turn, been deflecting the entire time.

"Yes. Do it. If you don't I'll...uh," she fishes for an appropriate threat for a second, "I'll get Shirley to follow you around all evening."

Blueberry grins and Marquise gasps, only a bit hyperbolically. 

"You wouldn't!"

She only gets a grin in response.

"Well I was planning on asking her out anyway, so. Rude for assuming that I'd chicken out."

"Am I wrong though?"

Marquise thinks about the many, many previous opportunities she'd had to actually ask Champagne out.

"I don't have to answer that."

She takes a sip.

"Anyway. Tell me about your latest performance, I hear you charmed another critic?"

Blueberry's smile softens as she launches into a description of a performance from a couple of weeks ago. Marquise had been planning on watching, but had got stuck on a business trip on the other side of the country at just the wrong time. Still, now she gets to chat to Blueberry about something that isn't her love life, so. You win some you lose some.

About an hour later, Shirley appears, all bright smiles and pink & gold hair. She whisks her girlfriend onto the dance floor with a wink to her companion and oh. That's Champagne. Marquise shouldn't be surprised given they were clearly together earlier and, to be fair, it's not really Champagne's presence that surprises her, rather it's that Shirley has clearly deliberately left Champagne with Marquise. 

Marquise isn't sure whether to thank or curse her for it.

Champagne smiles at her.

"May I have this dance?"

Marquise stares at the offered hand for just long enough that Champagne visibly hesitates.

"I...yes."

Champagne laughs at that, bubbly and light and clearly tinged with relief, before Marquise takes her hand and is led onto the dance floor.

Champagne leads her in some dance style that Marquise learnt but never learnt the name for. She's grateful because with the way Champagne is looking at her, she's pretty sure she'd just freeze if she was expected to lead. It's slow and simple, the steps come easily despite it being...too long since she last danced.

"I hear you managed to pull off…" Champagne hesitates slightly, "some sort of important business deal?"

Champagne visibly stifles the wince that Marquise gives her for that question.

"Trust me, you do not want to talk about that. It was. Pretty boring even for me, and I actually cared about the outcome. However, you said something about lavender being a good starter plant and now I need you to tell me what I should plant with it because I have no idea what I'm doing."

Champagne laughs at that and launches into an explanation of various options.

It's surprisingly easy to keep the conversation going, though perhaps it shouldn't be surprising given how many times Champagne has followed her into gardens or winding corridors. The dancing itself becomes incidental until Marquise, in a fit of confidence, dips Champagne. She goes willingly and easily and that startles Marquise almost more than her own actions.

She holds Champagne in the dip too long. Enough that their eyes lock and her breath hitches in her throat and she almost drops her. Instead, Champagne subtly adjusts her own feet so she's less at risk of falling and glances almost pointedly at Marquise's lips. Marquise is suddenly awfully aware of every point of contact between them. 

Before she can start overthinking absolutely everything, Champagne leans up and kisses her.

It takes a moment before she can even think to reciprocate. But she manages it and straightens up, dragging Champagne with her. Champagne is still kissing her. It's...perfect. Sweet and soft and a little desperate and for the first time it occurs to Marquise that maybe all the pining had been a bit mutual.

Eventually Marquise comes back to herself enough to hear someone wolf-whistle and. Ah. Right. That's Shirley Temple. Marquise and Champagne are still in the middle of the ballroom. Champagne breaks the kiss and smiles at Marquise and fuck she still looks perfect.

"Shall we take this to the garden?" Champagne's voice is very slightly breathless and it takes an incredible amount of self control for Marquise to nod instead of kissing her again.

It's honestly probably a miracle that she doesn't stumble on the way out of the ballroom, hand in hand with the love of her life, but she manages it. She leads Champagne to a bench surrounded by foxgloves and kisses her under the stars.

#my writing #my oc #other's ocs #writeblr #writblr #gay #high society lesbians #long post

[roraruu]

wip: wretched and divine

tw: body horror, talking about blood. even more vamp au. i have a problem w this au i wrote like 3k alone today n had an epiphany in second cup over a plot point lmfao

“Relax.”

His voice is melodic and sweet. It would have been calming, had he not been a vampire and she not a hunter. Is it that charm he works ever so magically? That power he has over people?

Perhaps he is like foxglove. She remembers picking some as a child, thinking it would be a good offering to the Earth Mother’s idol. When she came back from the forest with handfuls of it one of the elder priestess’s swatted it out of her tiny hand and scorched it with her fire spell. She was warned that while it looked quite beautiful, it would kill anyone who ate it and that Mila would smite her. Such a tiny thing instilled so much fear into Silque’s feeble heart.

He speaks again, this time lower and sweeter like wine offered at the feet of the idol. Her journal is heavy in her lap, the pen loose between her fingers.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He says almost touching her elbow but stopping, as if something pulls at his arm. His gaze holds hers again, eyes a dark red. A ring of violet hangs under his eyes; it cannot be bruising for blood doesn’t run through his veins anymore. It must be a longing left over, a lust that his body has for humanly things like sleep and food and warmth.

“Somehow I don’t believe that.” Silque says, turning her gaze back to the ground.

“I can’t touch you at all right now. Even if I wanted to.”

Her brow furrows. Could he read her mind? He must have noticed her heady gaze when he pulled his hands away from her. “Why not?”

He laughs, from the top of the lungs again. “Get writing.” He says with what almost looks like a grin. She lights a lantern that she had taken from the Priory with a fire spell.

She open the journal, flipping through the pages, past sermons and prayers and hymns that she had sat up writing in the night. The spine cracks and she flattens the pages out underneath her thin white fingers. She untwists the cap of the pen, resting it against the page.

“Ready,” She says, glancing to him.

The history is rich like a good meal. Words fall from his mouth like raindrops, heavy but small. She takes down everything in tiny, precise cursive.

“Vampires can’t touch anyone or thing that’s under Mila’s divine protection.” He says. “That thing on your neck has her holy tears in it. You’re safe.”

“And if I wasn’t wearing it?” She asks.

“Still wouldn’t touch you.”

He had touched her before, thrown her around when she had found the bandits that harmed Lady Celica. “Somehow I doubt that.” She says, turning her eyes back to the pages.

“Believe whatever you want, Silque.” He says, getting up. His ruined boots kick against the forest ground. He paces slowly amongst fallen leaves and grains of sand.

The grove is dark tonight. No bright moon or stars to give off much light. For a while they wandered, not sure where to stop and speak. Writing and walking at the same time is not an easy feat.

He throws his tattered cloak to her. “You’re shivering.” He says.

She didn’t realize that she was. Her fingers shy from blood stains and slashes.

“Sir Python is open to your questions.”

“Are you truly a sir?” She asks.

He frowns. “I meant about what I am, not who I am.” He says.

“You said that if I came with you, you would tell me whatever I wanted to.”

“I didn’t say whatever—“

“Then I’m going back to the priory.” She pushes his cloak off of her lap, closes her journal and grabs the lantern.

“Wait, stop.” Python scrambles for words. “Gods, Silque would you just—“

He touches her wrist, hand ice cold. He hisses, pulling back quickly and cussing loudly. Her eyes widen. Did she do that?

“Python?” She says as he holds his wrist tightly to himself.

“Just stops okay.” He winces again.

“Gods I don’t know if my white magic will...”

“You’ve got gauze?” He asks.

She nods. She always carries some, no matter the place or time. An injury can happen whenever. She pulls it from her pocket, cutting a long piece off with her holy dagger. She holds it out to him and watches as he opens his palm. The skin turns gray and dark. He cusses again and wraps it.

Her own hand wound aches. She bites down on her lip. She didn’t mean to hurt him—

Gods what was she saying? He was trying to kill her not even two weeks ago. And now she was concerned that she had hurt him? This was apart of her job as a cleric, to protect the island from the undead be it Terrors is vampires or him.

“Divinity runs deep in you.” He says. “I said it before, when you die, they’re gonna saint you.”

She frowns, looking awkwardly back to her journal as if it will carry her away. If she is divine he must be wretched.

“Sniper in the rebel army.” He says, breaking the silence.

She looks to him. He stares off at the cloak before picking it up again. “I hated it.” He says. “Died in a battle against the main army.”

She frowns. “Did you... have anyone?” She asks.

He glances to her and then laughs bitterly. For the undead, he is too joyful. Terrors can barely make human words, yet he laughs and snarls just like any other being. “Do I look like the sorta guy who has a girl and brats?” He asks.

Take away the bloodstained outfit that makes him look like a destitute beggar, maybe clean him up with a trim of the hair, shave and—nope, he wouldn’t fit that wholesome look or life.

“I didn’t mean a wife and child,” She says. “Parents? Siblings? Comrades?”

His face falls a little. Then he dips his head in a nod. “Yeah I guess I had someone.” He mutters.

“Do they know about you now?”

“No. The poor bastard probably thinks I’m dead. I don’t know what the army forged in their records.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Right, he is technically dead. Gods, she needs a constant reminder of that. She opens her journal again, moving the lantern close to the blanket pages. She drops him personally, although she would love more details on how he became this way, who did this to him...

“So anything that has been blessed by the Mother cannot be touched?” Silque asks.

He looks dazed for a moment, as if pulled from reverie by her voice. “Pretty much. Rivers we can’t cross, they’re her blood. Can’t do anything to anyone in them either.” He explains.

“So when I stood in the river—“

“You were under her protection.” He laughs lightly again. “Seems she hasn’t abandoned the holy at least.”

His gnarled hand points to her neck, the little white ornament that protects her. “You’re wearing her blessing right now.”

She glances down to it before tucking it under the collar of her dress where it nestled into the V of her collarbone. She jots down more notes, trying to focus on the page.

“How is a vampire created?” She asks, glancing up.

“Bite. Bad burial. Curse.” He says.

Her gaze narrows on him. “How were you created?”

He smirks. “You seem a little too interested in me, say, do I occupy all your thoughts, cleric?”

She shakes her head. “I want to know why you were made this way. Compare it to the theories in my texts.” She says. A faint heart washes over her neck and ears.

“I was cursed. Some witch came after me because I apparently broke her heart.” He laughs bitterly.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re a prude.”

“So this witch cursed you?”

“She compared my way to a vamp’s bloodlust. Didn’t know she dabbled in curse.” He says. “I don’t know what happened to her afterwards.”

She pulls out a provision. An orange taken from the priory pantry. It really begins to get cold and she wraps herself in his cloak. It is thick and worn, both old and young. She notices him smirk when she begins to peel her orange.

“Do you miss food?” She asks, glancing up to him.

“You make it sound like I’m a ghost.” He says.

“I meant actual food, from the earth, from the sea.”

“Oh that.” He mumbles. Then shrugs. “Not really. I guess I miss alcohol a little but, I don’t. Blood can compare to it easily.”

“And how often do you feed? Roughly?”

“Whenever I’m thirsty.”

“My texts say every moon—“

He laughs loud and hard. “Gods, if I could only wait that long.” He says. “I find myself thirsty every couple of days. Those bandits from the other night are keeping me okay for the time being.”

She nods, quickly writing down that thirst depends. She bites her lip. “And... off the record... when we met earlier you said everyone has their own smell.” She says.

His brow raises. His gaze narrows as he comes into the light. “And?”

“And what do I smell like?” she asks.

He stays quiet for a moment, then slides a little into the light. She can see the gauntness in his cheekbones, the harsh curve of his brow, the circles of purple under his eyes. He leans close, almost too close, right to the edge of her hair and takes a deep breath in. Softly, he laughs.

“Good.”

It sends a shiver down her spine, then a nervous shake of her hands. “No I mean, what do I smell like?”

“Like the earth. Soft and...” he stops. “Like spring.”

The heat spreads to her cheeks. She smells like spring, she smells good to him. She—

“I want to tell you something before you ask anything else.” He says lowly.

She nods, closing her journal momentarily. Her fingers curl over the cover and into the pages.

“Don’t ever give your blood away.” He orders, voice serious now. His eyes glint in the light.

“Why?” Silque asks.

“It’s bad behaviour. You should know that as a cleric.” He says, glancing to the grass under his hand. “A vamp could get hooked on your blood and you’d never know peace again.”

“It can’t be only that.” She pushes. “Is this a tactic to corner me?”

“No this is for your own good. Don’t even give it to me, it’s not payment.” He says. “You don’t want this.”

“How are you sure of what I want?”

“You love Mila right?”

She stops. This is a dividing line. Like the gates of the cemetery or the posts of the priory. It is something he or she shouldn’t cross.

Slowly she nods. “Then that should be enough for you.” He says. “Don’t go against her. She loves the living not the dead. The divine, not the wretched.”

“Alright.” Silque says, still a little unconvinced.

“Silque, it’s like a blood bond.” He explains. “It connects one to two and it can’t be undone without consequence.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’d die.”

Her hands tighten around the journal. She takes a nervous breath and nods. “I see.”

“Don’t ever give it away. For your sake.”

“Yes. I won’t she says.”

He murmurs a quiet ‘good’ and they slowly begin talking about him again. They listen to calls of nightbirds and the sounds of the rushing river. She takes down notes dutifully, filling pages upon pages until the sun begins to rise, washing the land in red and orange and pink. He gets up from their seat at the grove and she pulls off the cloak handing it to him. With a swift fling, he spreads it over his shoulders and gives her a side glance.

“See you next moon.”

“How can you be certain?” She asks.

He smirks and winks his red eye. “I know how you like a book.”

It sends a flush to her cheeks. “Wait, you didn’t tell me why you want the diadem!” Before the words can escape her lips, he’s gone leaving her alone.

Silque begins back towards the Priory, mulling over what could have happened had he taken her blood. She would have been bound to him and he to her. Could she have hidden in the priory? Hiding like a hierophant or seer to Mila’s vision? Or would his bloodlust found a way to lull her out of the Priory and end her life?

It scares her to think about it. Her feet drag along the dirt ground, the grass thinning along the more trodden areas that connect the Priory to the towns and Greatport. When she is finally on holy ground, she breathes a sigh. Calmness washes over her, although it only lasts a moment.

When she enters the priory, there is chaos.

Lady Celica holds Genny close. Mae and Boey are gone. When the door shuts, the cleric and Priestess look up with wide eyes.

“Silque!” Genny exclaims, pulling herself away from Celica and rushing towards her. Her little arms wrap around Silque’s body, surprising her. She pats Genny’s back and drops her journal. “You’re back!”

“Sister Silque! Where were you?” Celica asks.

Another wave of heat washes over Silque. What could she say? That she was fraternizing with the enemy, the one they are to kill? That the divine was becoming friendly with the wretched?

Celica leans close to her ear, just as Python had done hours ago. Her face washes with red as Celica speaks. “Mae thought you were seeing a gentleman friend—“

“N-No!” Silque exclaims a little too loudly. She apologizes quickly “I just stepped out early this morning. It seems I caused worry, I apologize.”

“Genny wanted to say some rites with you this morning and when she came to your room, you were gone.” She says. “No note or anything. Nomah sent Boey and Mae out to search for you.”

“We thought you had left, your journal was gone too!” Genny exclaims before hugging her tightly again. Silque places a comforting hand on her back, patting twice before shaking her head.

“I’m terribly sorry for the worry. I only went for a walk to clear my thoughts and make some notes by the river.” Silque says as Celica stoops down to pick up her book. She hands it to Silque. “I thought I would only be a few moments, but I suppose I was wrong.”

“Promise you won’t leave without telling us again, Silque.” Genny says, holding out her pinkie. “The Priory wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Silque forces a thin smile and knots her pinkie with Genny’s. Silque wipes away Genny’s tear tracks as Celica touches her shoulder.

“Yes, you have to be more careful Sister Silque.” Celica insists. “Had you been out at sundown, you might’ve run into that horrible vampire. I know you can handle yourself but...”

“I understand, Sister Celica.” Silque says.

“I just thank Mila you’re safe.” Celica says again. “I’ll go find Boey and Mae and tell them that you’re safe.”

Silque nods and Genny takes her hand. “Should we go say our morning rites?” She asks, and Silque can’t say no to such a plead. Hand in hand, they walk to the idol room, and Silque ignores how tired she is.

#fire emblem echoes #fe echoes #vamp au #silque #python #wip #fanfiction #ru writes #aha can yall tell ive been listening to hozier a lot

[tiffany-of-wales]

Tag meme

tagged by: @latristereina

I learnt a lot about my dear friend and I hope you learn something new too about me😀

jasmine; what mythical creature do you wish actually existed? -- I'm not really into mythical creatures but I quite enjoy mountain trolls particularly in "Herr Mannelig" legend

lavender; soundcloud or vinyls? -- I have no idea how soundcloud works as it is not popular in Russia but I use vinyls neither🤷🏻‍♀️

primrose; what book does everyone right now need to read? -- Hmm, good question. I guess, "To kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee as it is deep and sensual. Anyway, I highly recommend you all "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District" by Nikolai Leskov

lunar mist; do you like wearing other people’s shirts/jackets? -- My mother often shares clothes with me but I enjoy my own shirts and jackets too

bird of paradise; what was the best thing that happened to you this month? -- I passed my math exam) Actually, I enjoy every day of my life.

gardenia; what’s a promise you’ve recently made to yourself? -- That I will try to be more pious and good in my thoughts.

lion’s fairytale; would you rather be the sky, the ocean or the forests? -- The forests

whirling butterflies; would you kiss the last person you kissed again? -- As I am ill now, no🍵😥

marmalade skies; do you plan your outfits? -- Of course!

apricot drift; how do you feel right now?--Tired, ill but ready to recover

everlasting daisy; what’s the last dream you remember having? -- It is very awkward but... Me being a wife to Ewan McGregor🤣

queen’s cup; what are you craving right now? -- Hmm... Going to Rome?

lavender dream; turn ons/offs? -- shy smiles/lack of manners

water lilly; when was the last time you cried? -- A week ago, I guess

lily of the valley; did the one person who hurt you most in your life apologize?

-- I do not remeber it, to be honest, but I forgave this person anyway😊

winterberry; do you bite or lick your ice cream? -- Both

honey perfume; favorite movie ever? -- "The Two Popes" or "Angels&Demons". I cannot choose. But if I really have yo, "The Two Popes"

desert rose; do you like yourself? -- I do

snapdragon; have you ever met or seen in person a celebrity? -- A few times

night owl; how many countries have you visited? -- Twenty... It is a long list, to be honest🌍

heliotrope; have you ever been in a castle?

-- Many times. I love Middle Ages culture, so I never miss a chance to visit a castle

creams and sky; what’s the craziest/bravest thing you’ve done? -- Ohh, I do crazy things a lot🤣 Perhaps, when I told my literature teacher that I ship two men of an infamous Russian classical book

lantana; what’s on your mind right now? -- "War and Peace" by Lev Tolstoy

pumpkin patch; what’s your zodiac sign?

-- Gemini... But does it matter?

tulip; name 5 facts about yourself.

1. My favourite actor is Jeremy Irons

2. I have a cat

3. My favourite female historical characters are Lucrezia Borgia and Margaret Beaufort

4. I live in Moscow

5. Tiffany isn't my true name

daphne; do you believe in karma?

Only in God's will. So yes and no

queen of the meadow; ever been in love?

In a romantic way - no

wisteria; whom do you admire and why?

My parents as they are independent, full of joy, hopes and they really love me

angel’s face; what was your favorite bedtime story as a child?

Cinderella

remember me; did you make someone laugh today?

My parents

iris; do you believe in ghosts?

No

lilac; if you could go back in time which time period would you visit?

Late XV century, I guess

caramel kisses; would you want to live forever? why/why not? -- In my religion our souls never die. But if you mean on Earth, no

primula; what makes you sad?

Suffering of innocent creatures

rain lily; was today typical? why/why not?

No, as I have my holidays

queen anne’s lace; who do you trust the most?

My family

Lady’s slipper; what did you have for breakfast today?

Pancakes🍛

forget me not; do you have any regrets looking back in your life?

No regrets

lunaria; what’s your favorite fictional universe?

ASOIAF, I guess

violet; favorite tv show?

The Borgias, probably

sunflower; share a favorite quote.

God answers all the prayers, but sometimes his answer is 'no'

snowdrop; what does your ideal day look like?

Like my typical day

tiger lily; do you have any hobbies?

Lots of, but my favourite is writing

peony; share a small random book passage that means something to you.

Can't think of any right now

tea rose; what’s something you always wanted to do but were too scared?

I don't know

honeysuckle; do you usually date people your age or older/younger?

I have never been in a relationship🤣

sweet pea; who means the world to you?

My family and my friends

love in the mist; best books you’ve ever read?

Ricard III, The Help, In the name of the Family, Margaret Beaufort: The Mother of a Dynasty

foxglove; who is your favorite cartoon character?

Cartoon? Anne Shirley, probably but I know there is also a book

magnolia; coffee or tea?

Tea

crown imperial; would you rather be extremely rich or extremely loved?

Loved, of course

snowflake; are you a dog or a cat person?

A cat person

bell flower; what is your biggest addiction?

Tumblr😂

cosmos; do you ever think about the galaxy?

No, I am not interested in it

moonflower; what’s your favorite color?

The colour of cardinal hat😂

freesia; do you have a good relationship with your parents and siblings? why/why not?

Yes, because... We love and respect each other

sundrop; are you a morning or a night person?

A morning person

poppy; have you ever dealt with a mental illness?

No, thank God

clover; how would your friends describe you?

Pious, childish (someone call me 'sweetly innocent'💕) and a bit of crazy😂

dandelion; do you consider yourself and extrovert or an introvert?

Extrovert

lilly; what’s something you love watching/reading but you are too embarrassed to admit you do?

Say yes to a Dress😂

anemone; describe yourself in 3 words.

Religious, optimistic and traveller

lotus; best memory as a child?

Going to French Disneyland🌟

angelonia; what is your eye and hair color?

Dark chocolate🍪

dahlia; do you like crystals?

No, not really

buttercup; if you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?

I would end poverty

baby’s breath; what’s your hogwarts house?

I don't like Harry Potter, so none

calendula; biggest pet peeve?

Lack of manners

blanker flower; would you rather go to a cocktail party with your best friends or stay home and read a book/watch a movie with your pet?

Cocktail party, aye😊

blazing star; share a secret.

No, thank you

carnation; would you rather live longer or happier?

I'd rather live righteous which means happier to me, but I cannot know how long I will live. I won't suggest

petunia; who’s story is your biggest inspiration in life? why?

Margaret Beaufort because she was clever, kind and full of hopes no matter what

bluebell; do you wear glasses?

Yes

nymphea; forest or river?

River

orchid; do you like exercise?

No, but I do it anyway🥦

pansy; do you like poetry?

Write or read? Anyway, yes

morning glory; any special talent that you have?

Writing, I guess

I tag: @madonna-la-cardinalessa @the-musical-thot @stellio-vulgaris

if they want, of course.

#tag game #fun #about me #personal

[ofphcenixes]

DEAR LIBBY [ self para 001 ].

trigger warnings: death, mentions of cancer, abduction, violence, pregnancy. 

there once was a boy named blue hawthorne. some say he was like a p h o e n i x ; although he suffers the lowest of lows, he always rises from the ashes for the fate that befalls him. but perhaps there comes a time where the flame that burns in his heart burns so hot that it consumes all oxygen that is left — and that very flame is left to die. 

sunday at 11:43pm — october thirteenth, 2019

her shift ended two hours ago. nearly three now. and she was nowhere to be seen. not a trace. not a whisper. not a sight. no proof that she had ever stepped foot there that day.

sitting up on the bonnet of his car, his head nested in his hands, the luminescence radiating from the theatre seemed like a cruel joke to him now. each time his head flicked up from its place in thick sorrow, he couldn’t help but scan the lobby that was aflutter with workers and police personnel. the blond was told to wait outside, and he watched as his heart continued to palpitate in his chest. 

“may i interrupt for a moment ?”

letting out a yelp, blue lifted his head from his knees as he looked into the eyes of an older man before him; angelo. blue recognised his face as a co-owner of the theatre, a title he shared with his wife. they were always kind to blue, and accommodating to the blond who spent more time at the theatre than some of their part time workers. over the months that he’d been visiting libby, he’d gotten to know the man. his taste in films, how he met his wife, how they’d fallen in love. how they don’t make popcorn like they used to. mourning the popularity of sarsaparilla (which blue sometimes orders, just to appease angelo). 

wiping his eyes, blue slid off his car and landed on his feet with a crunch, his breath visible due to the chill in the october air. he extended his hand to give the man a firm handshake, and angelo smiled at him with kindness at the gesture. “they told me to wait out here,” blue commented quietly, gesturing to one of multiple police cars that abutted the curb of the theatre. “sorry for disappearing. i imagine you are incredibly busy.” each syllable was laced with an irrevocable sadness. for some, this could be considered incriminating. it had only been a few hours, after all. no one else was the wiser that libby wasn’t the only missing student. maybe she’d just found her own way home. maybe she clocked out sick without telling anyone. maybe blue knew more than he was saying. 

but that couldn’t be true. blue, even though he struggled to accept it, could feel the truth deeply rooted at the core of his stomach. every second that ticked by, he couldn’t help but dance with the fact that his libby would never disappear without a trace like this. after spending almost an hour on the phone to ivy to confirm she hadn’t planned to meet up with her, blue was all too aware that something untoward pulsed through the town of ashmont. the very startling thought, which blue was still struggling to accept, latched in his throat and he found himself clinging onto his car as angelo looked on at him. 

“busy is one word for it,” angelo sighed, analyising the pain that resided in the footballer’s eyes. “i really must return inside, as the police have further inquiries.” about the last he saw of libby. before she disappeared. evidence. clues. the usual, for ashmont these days.“but, i saw you waiting outside, and i wanted to give you this.” 

it was then that angelo placed a book in his hands. although blue had always been kind and friendly to the man, they certainly weren’t in close acquaintance. the gift surprised him. but that’s when he realised. the book smelled strongly of roses and lillies of the valley, and a delicate yet familiar bookmark peaked through the pages. this was libby’s book. 

“where did you find this ?” blue gently removed the book from angelo’s hands, his fingers trailing over the cover of ‘persepolis‘. for a second, he even found himself admiring the art on the cover. 

“among her personal belongings in her locker. most had to be seized for the duration of the investigation, however... this was different. i thought it would find a better home with you than an evidence locker. it’s what i would want if sara was the one that...” angelo stopped, shook his head, before tapping the book in blue’s hands reassuringly. “it is yours.” 

blue then grabbed angelo and pulled him into a hug. he eclipsed the man in height and so blue’s head awkwardly hung over his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. in a day that had only been clouded in darkness, he still got to have a bit of libby with him. a bit of the woman he loved. 

and so as angelo disappeared back into the theatre, blue sat on his bonnet once more. however, this time, his thoughts weren’t stalled on horrors he couldn’t even imagine. they were indulged in the last words and pictures that libby had read. and in a way, they were still together. even if only for a moment, they were still together. 

thursday at 2:12pm  — october seventeenth, 2019

“we can offer you mineral water, tea, carbonated sodas, coffee... something stronger, if you need it.” 

blue hadn’t stopped crying since it had happened. it took him days to get off the caustic bottles that had become a life blood to him, at the behest of a best friend that forgave his past indiscretions when he saw how rapidly blue was falling apart. he felt guilty about that. and he felt guilty now too, as he sat in the kensington sitting room, their - he wanted to call her a maid ? - offered him some sort of liquid anesthetic. did he really look that awful ? 

in the wake of libby’s disappearance, richard (the workaholic that he was) seemed to be in and out of rooms with a phone pressed to his ear. this wasn’t uncharacteristic of libby’s father, and for all the years he’d known him blue had never seen that man without work at hand, building relations or preparing for a legislative campaign. but this time it was different. he wasn’t clinging to a phone as a modicum of power, expelling his energies and desires into the universe as he sought to change it. no, he gripped to that phone like it was a goddamn lifeline, anchoring him to any semblance of reality that could be found in what could only be described as a nightmare. his only daughter, gone from the world. 

even charlotte kensington, her rested expression always drawn in lines of contempt (on the blond especially) had been painted with grief. he’d never seen her with as much as a hair out of place, nor anything less than immaculate posture. but charlotte was also beside herself, looking to windows in the hopes to see her daughter evaporate into the space that consumed her field of vision. as for libby’s brothers, they seemed to keep their distance, and much like their father opted to keep themselves occupied to ensure their minds can be awash with anything other than what was a grim reality for all of them. 

“coffee would be, good thanks.” it was evident by the blond’s crestfallen expression that he had absolutely no interest in the coffee, but the maid simply smiled at him softly before trickling out of the room. richie soon slid his phone into his pocket, his stare as vacant as the sitting room. despite being so ornate and meticulously organised, it felt sterile. cold. blue watched as richie’s hand snaked around charlotte’s, neither looking up  but clasping onto one another to steady themselves. blue remained alone in the sofa opposite them. 

“thank you for the flowers. it was very thoughtful,” charlotte deadpanned, red rising in blue’s cheeks. it was clear that libby’s mother had never liked him. even when he and lib were children, she always seemed to have a prejudice against he and his mother. going through old photo albums after his mother’s death, blue was surprised to see that his mother and charlotte shared a lot of photos together in their high school yearbook. his mother used to be like them, after all. wealthy beyond belief. aristocratic. proper. that was, until she gave it all up. to have him. 

“they’re not much but....” blue paused, a painful scratching deep within his throat, everybody's eyes affixed to the arrangement of foxgloves  —  libby’s favourite flower.  “i can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. if there’s anything you need...” blue trailed off, his eyes feeling hot once more. it seemed the red rims were a permanent fixture, and were mere days away before they were tattooed permanently to his skin. richie looked at blue thoughtfully for a moment, before, squeezing his wife’s hand. 

“i think you can imagine quite well what we’re going through, son.” 

although his grief would only eclipse in the days that were to come, for a singular moment blue looked up from his melancholic gaze into the eyes of libby’s father. it was strange; blue had never had a father of his own, and by proxy of his childhood friendship with libby (and holden — meaning that blue was always a plus one to family functions such as christmas and thanksgivings), richie had watched blue grow up. with no family of his own, the words richie expelled meant more than blue could ever articulate. here were two people, both who loved libby kensington more than anything in the world, and he... still supported blue. even though his wife certainly had not given her blessing, and even though he’d only come to learn of their relationship a few weeks ago at the ashmont art gallery opening. it was one word, one syllable. but that small act of validation, of kindness.... it meant everything to blue. and he smiled for the first time since libby had disappeared. 

sunday at 5:38pm  — october twentieth, 2019

never had blue run so fast in his entire life. for once, blue wasn’t anchored at the police station or at the kensington estate. it had been two weeks, and blue was torn apart inside waiting. waiting for news, waiting for truth. to distract him, holden had forced blue to watch movies with him that sunday afternoon. there was still tension, friction. but as each day since holden learned the truth of blue and libby passed by, it was clear to him that blue wasn’t interesting in libby in only a carnal or frivolous way. in everything he did, it was clear the depths to his love for her. and although blue struggled to vocalise it to the man who had been his home for nearly ten years now, the pair didn’t need words to communicate. it was a simple truth. blue hawthorne loves libby kensington.

but as the pair were sitting down to watch another inane action movie, blue’s phone began to buzz in his lap. he recognised the number that appeared on his phone almost immediately; it was the number of a young police officer (michael ?) telling him what had happened. 

libby had been found. 

alive. 

he didn’t even have time to say anything to holden other than “they found her” before he was out the door. stumbling down the steps as he shot himself to his car. the next twenty minutes were a blur. his speeding fines were most likely ready to be shipped in the next few days, but blue couldn’t give a fuck. he even struggled to regulate his breathing as he sped towards the ashmont hospital, where he knew she’d be. 

not pausing to think whether he’d be allowed inside, or even wanted in close proximity to her, blue sped to the closest (free) car park surrounding the hospital before booking it into the lobby. out of breath and with anxiety woven all across his face, the receptionist motioned him to the icu, where blue took off like a bolt of lightning. 

he wanted to savour this moment. as he entered through the doorway to see libby’s family pacing within the waiting area, he felt his heart skip a beat. this was it. this was actually happening. the woman he loved... she was okay. 

every night since she’d disappeared, he’d gone to sleep and dreamed of this moment. what he would do, what he would say. the thoughts that crossed his mind. what he’d first say to libby the second their eyes reconnected. if he’d kiss her, or keep his distance. how he’d try to hold back the tears. how hard he’d hold her hand. how he could possibly comfort her in the time of greatest need. but then it happened. 

beep, beep. 

blue looked down to his phone, stopping in the entryway for a second. the anxiety that filled him replaced the relief that flooded his body within seconds, and he went on to open a familiar notification. reading about the killer’s abhorrent sense of pride in kidnapping libby, rosa and danny had his stomach tied in knots. part of him... wondered if he wanted to know what happened to libby. the details. how she could ever recover from this. 

but then he read it. 

the secret. 

a secret. 

her secret. 

or.... their secret. 

blue’s phone fell out of his hand and collided with the sterile white linoleum. the sound elicited attention from richie, who beelined to blue in the moment that he saw him. but blue’s heart had stopped beating. he was no longer breathing. his face paled, and he felt a million corrosive knives slither down his throat and slice him to pieces. 

he was... a father. 

“they’re not allowing any visitors at the moment, i’m sorry.” richie looked at blue with deep sympathy, a fatherly smile on his face that was immovable. his daughter had been found. his little girl that he loved more than anything was safe. but blue didn’t even hear what he said  — his entire world was too busy crumbling as he faced an irrefutable fact. an unchanging mistake. an irrevocable mark on the relationship that he and libby had built. 

blue swallowed hard, before looking at the doors into her icu unit before glancing back to richie for a moment. “i... would you be able to give this to her for me ?” he asked shortly, handing over the copy of persepolis, a love letter hidden within the pages that blue had already forgotten resided within. he was shaking, which richie mistakenly attributed to the catharsis of finding libby alive. richie scooped up the phone blue had left on the ground, his eyes searching for a way to comfort the blond. but there was no way he could.

“of course i can. it’ll mean a lot to lizzy that you came. but go home, rest. i can let you know when you’re allowed to see her.”

at that point, neither knew that libby had suffered trauma induced memory loss. and richie didn’t know that blue had fathered a child his daughter had given birth to, lying to both of them in the process. 

richie grabbed blue for a hug, and the blond could no longer hold back the tears as richie rubbed his back and told him things were going to be better now. that things were okay. that they’d all recover. 

but would they ?

because all blue has ever wanted since his mother had passed was a family to call his own.

and in one moment, he gained one and lost one all in the same breath.

monday at 5:59am — october twenty first, 2019 (trigger warning: death)

"i don’t know what to do. you raised me to be a good man but... i don’t think i am. not anymore. a good man wouldn’t leave the woman he loves after she’s been to fucking hell and back, but i can’t, i can’t....”

the sky was overcast, and blue was shaking. holding his letterman jacket close to his chest, he had fallen to his knees as his world continued to spin around him. a mausoleum of wilted flowers were sprinkled across margarette hawthorne’s grave, and blue couldn’t stop the wave of tears that shook his body with such acute violence that he found his voice silenced for ten minutes or so. 

he visited his mother at least once a week, and she was the only reason that blue remained in ashmont after he turned eighteen and escaped the tyrannical rule of his grandparents. she was always there for him when he needed her. and he had promised her the very same, and always came back in his times of deep and utter depression. blue isn’t the most spiritual person in the world. but his mother was his first best friend, and he would always give her a space in his life. he had to. there’s no way he could be without her. 

“i’m so in love with her mom, but she... she lied to me. she didn’t trust me. i can’t... i can’t do this.” his breathing stopped and started with the volition of a backfired engine, and in lieu of smoke was a trail of condensation as the cool air swirled around the blond. he felt as though his heart had quite literally been torn in half. 

he was happy libby had been found. he was happy she was safe. he had not slept for the fortnight she was gone, and finally he knew she was okay so he could be okay. but the reality was, what he felt for her... all he ever wanted was a family. someone to love other than himself. the more he thought about what libby did, he had no issues with what she decided to do after. it is her body, after all. and blue had no say in the matter. but... he deserved to know. and what hurts for the blond is not that he has living, breathing family of his own that he didn;t know about. it’s that libby has known, for years, that he was a father. for the months they’d been in a relationship, she knew and had never told him. every morning she would wake to his face on her pillow, the thoughts of their child dancing in her mind, but she remained silent. every kissed they shared, the truth was lost on her lips. libby didn’t trust him with the facts, and blue was not sure if his heart would ever be the same again. he’d felt heartbreak. he’d felt rejection. he’d felt abandonment. he’d felt betrayal. but in his life, he had never felt anything like this.

“i would do anything for that woman. if she... if she’d told me. about. the child. i would have fucking dropped out of school. gotten a shitty job and worked as hard as i fucking could to provide for that kid. and if she didn’t want the baby, i could have at least... been there for her. fuck. fuck fuck fuck.”

blue lost track of time, and how long he spent there crying. no one there disturbed him, thinking he was mourning the loss of a loved one. and in a way, he was. he was crying for the daughter he’d never get to meet. 

he couldn’t help but wonder if he was selfish. maybe he deserved this. perhaps this was penance for the man he was in his youth, and all the mistakes he made. and what made things worse, he truly had no one to talk to about this. holden was far too close to the situation, and he did not at all feel it fair to burden another soul with the anguish that had filled his soul and caused him to lose his breath. 

if blue had been a better man, maybe he would have gotten the truth. maybe libby would have trusted him. maybe things would have been better. different. maybe blue would be part of a family again.

“i let lib down. i let you down. i let... her down.”

her — a young girl, four years old. bright blue eyes, and curly blond ringlets. an infectious laugh. a penchant for shapes, and a lover of barn animals. hates her vegetables, just like her dad. loves to read, just like her mom. and her favourite colour is blue.

friday to sunday — january ninth-eleventh, 2015

with the stress of college looming, it only made sense that holden and blue would take a weekend to, ahem, ‘unwind’. blue was certainly a different man when he was eighteen. in fact, that was the very truth. he wasn’t a man; he was a boy. his deep rooted abandonment issues and his need to please people saw him flitting from bad influence to bad influence, always accompanied by an illicit high and a companion in his bed. his fear of rejection had even paved the way for impenetrable walls that no one could breach, the blond refusing to let anyone get close. the only person who is perhaps exempt from this is his ex girlfriend delilah, who he cared for deeply but was so afraid of any feelings that could develop he called it off. one of his largest flaws was his cowardice, and blue wasn’t blind to that. he just refused to do anything about it. 

so when his best friend offered a getaway to new york for a couple of days with no financial burdens attached, blue couldn’t do anything but say yes. what he hadn’t accounted for was that holden was very much in the city to find an intimacy in a room full of strangers. a new face every single night. although blue had been assured this was a boys’ weekend, blue had no qualms with holden’s indelible plans. after all, he was paying for this trip. he could toss blue off at staten island and he’d have no say in the matter. 

but as holden disappeared into a sea of people, blue couldn’t help but follow his own social media to see a familiar face was also in the city. libby. she had been looking at columbia as a university, among many others. blue remembered distinctly that she had her heart set on princeton, but lib was always the type to plan ahead. to think beyond first choices. and he couldn’t say he was disappointed to know she was around.

catching one another in the same city was serendipitous. and for an afternoon, the years of their indifference melted. the smog of the city and the precipitation of immature rainfalls followed them as they walked about new york together. stopping for pizza, connected at the hip. like they had never ceased to be the best friends they were when they were eleven. 

after grabbing pizza at a hole-in-the-wall establishment, the awkward question arose of what the pair had planned next. either, part ways or continue their adventures. with nothing but innocence in mind, blue asked libby to come back to his hotel. libby accepted. 

there are many ways this evening could have ended. many things that could have happened. and all assumptions would be wrong, on the grounds that this isn’t just any regular couple. this was blue and libby. arriving at the apartment, drying off with the towels that sat in the bathroom, then flopping onto the king sized bed. a safe distance was established that entire night, and whilst movies played in the background, neither blue nor libby took any notice. their eyes were glued to one another, and at times, a hesitant brush of hands would occur as they readjusted their position. but on that night, as the forever burning lights of new york city continued to gleam, they talked. they talked and talked and talked for hours until their throats were sore. and in what felt like an instant, they weren’t acquaintances anymore. the memories of their childhood clear in mind, all the feelings that blue had for libby came rushing back. he now knew why he dropped hand-drawn cartoons in her locker even though they didn’t talk anymore. why he always sought out her eye in the hallway when they headed to class. why he always looked for libby on the quad when he ran out for a football game. 

he never got over her. 

and in the night following, he showed her. he made clear to her his feelings as they fell under covers, painting constellations of affection in each crevice of skin. he kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone before, and the two writhed in their passions for a night. a night that both of them had been wanting for a long time. a night that neither of them could forget.

in the dawn of sunday, blue kissed libby on the forehead. her phone sparked up on the nightstand as a familiar name popped up. jules bernard. a man that libby was always in the company of, a man that understood everything libby had to say. a man who... was better than he was. and despite the feelings that governed his actions the night before, blue choked on the anxiety of possibly being abandoned once more. for someone who was actually worthy of libby.

and so blue said goodbye to the woman he was meant to be with, unknowingly leaving her with the culmination of their love in his wake. 

a child.

blue’s letter in persepolis  — written on friday, october eighteenth, 2019. 

dear libby,

i don’t know why i’m writing this letter. hell, i don’t even know if you can read this letter. my writing doesn’t make sense and i’m sure i’m spelling things wrong. you were always good at that, helping me be better. literate, lmao. picking up the little things. my tutors have even noticed how much better my work has been since i’ve been with you. although since i had no skills to start with i don’t know if that means anything but... credit where credit is due.

in case you’re ever unsure, i fucking love you, libby kensington. you’ve been gone for five days now and i.... we are going to find you. one day you’ll read this and smile because i never gave up hope. that i was here, waiting for you. 

i know we’ve only been dating for seven or eight months now, even though i’ve had feelings for you much longer. we joke about it sometimes, the future. all i’m really certain of is that... you’re going to be in it. i hope you want to be. i haven’t really... considered what it would be like without you. your dad called me son the other day and i honestly haven’t gotten over it. people talk about soulmates a lot and i don’t know if i believe in that. all i really know is that i don’t make sense without you anymore. i’m not a poet, i’m not nicolas sparks or whoever else is supposed to make you fall in love in writing or on screen. shrek perhaps. but there’s no francis without libby. not anymore.

maybe, in some far off world, there’s a version of us out there that don’t go the distance. that don’t end up together. maybe one of us actually goes through with ballet and makes a name for ourselves. maybe we were born in different cities or even countries. maybe we were born to sink on the fucking titanic, i don’t know. there is one thing i do know, though. 

we aren’t one of the versions of us that don’t end up together.

i’m not good at letter writing. i am good at rambling though, as you know. i’m also good at finding original meme sources, and cross-stitching (don’t tell anyone that last one). but being without you for this past week and not knowing if you’re okay has been nothing short of hell. i’ve been to hell before, and i came back. i know what it’s like. and this, this is fucking something else. i could not wish the grief i’ve felt on any fucking person, no matter how worthy. i fucking miss you. i need you to be okay. forget your mom or your dad, your brothers, your friends. fuck, even forget me. come back for you. and if you need one more reason why, here’s all i can offer:

i think i’m always going to be in love with you, lib. no matter what happens between us. always. i’m always going to be here.

so you better return to me. to us. to the world. 

because i am never going to be ready to let you go. 

signed, francis...

your francis.

[at the bottom is a hand drawn picture of cute otters holding hands. otters, one of libby’s favourite animals.]

#( blue & libby ! ) #( blue ; self para ! ) #ok ya girl is pathetic at photoshop so you get a Gif instead of a banner lmfao #did somebody say... oof? #ALSO THIS TOOK ME SO LONG AND ITS STILL GARBAGE IM SORRY

[cassiopeia-black-brenda]

My ghost girl

Alright, I'm very excited about this one. This is a request from sihyeoku (@wattpad) I absolutely love the plot they thought out. And I was very excited to write this. I hope it will come out alright and that they will love this.

Master list

No one's pov.

It was an early Friday morning, it was January, and it was chilly outside, Neville had gotten up early to go to the library to return the books he had loaned on the new plant professor Sprout had shown him. He had spent all weekend reading about it and was excited to talk with Professor Spout about it. He walked past the greenhouses when something caught his eye. The new plant from Professor Sprout was standing outside the greenhouse. ’’I got to put it back inside the greenhouse before it goes missing’’. Neville reached for he plants when I suddenly floated away from him. ’’Hey! Wait!’’ Neville rushed after the plant, the plant sped up through the cold and empty corridors and went out through the big doors. Neville quickly tried to follow it, but he was getting tired. ’’Wait up!’’ The plant turned before going into the forbidden forest. Neville ran after it again waiting at the edge of the forest. He wanted to bring the plant back but the forbidden forest was forbidden for a reason. He looks around, no one would believe them if he told them the plant had floated off into the forbidden forest and they would call him a coward for not going after it. With one last look at the castle Neville entered the forest, he walked around a bit until he saw the plant again and rushed after it. The plant slowed down in the middle of a small green patch surrounded by trees, flowers and many kinds of herbs. The plant was put down in a nice spot between other magical plants that Neville had seen in the greenhouses before. He walked over to the plant and looked at it. ’’None of the books said anything about it being able to fly off, in fact I’ve never seen a plant fly before.’’

Suddenly this misty figure comes out from between the trees, Neville tenses up and backs away. When the figure comes closer, the figure becomes clearer, and the shape takes the form of a young female. Neville guesses that she has to be around his age. The girl is transparent like most of the Hogwarts ghost. ’’You’re a ghost, you made the flower fly!’’ Neville exclaims. The girl backs away, scared at the sudden rise of Neville’s volume. ’’Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’’ Neville apologized sheepishly. ’’Who are you?’’ The ghost girl shook her head. ’’Who have you been?’’ Again she shook her head, looking at the flowers. ’’How long have you been here” not even the shake of her head this time. ’’Do you live at Hogwarts?’’ nothing again. ’’Do you like herbology?’’ The girl looked at him and nodded. ’’Great, I love herbology.’’ Neville took a step closer to the girl. ’’Are all these plants and flowers yours?’’ She nodded again. ’’This is beautiful, do you have a favourite?’’ The girl nodded again, and floated to the other side of the flowers patch. ’’Foxglove’’ Neville nodded, surprised she had talked. ’’I love all the colours.’’ ’’we often use it in potions, we used it for the Halloween potions this year.’’ Neville hadn’t thought before he spoke. The girl nodded. ’’I love it flowers, we used to call them Witches fingers.’’ She smiles, Neville thought she had a pretty smile. And so they continued talking, enjoying the company and sharing their interest.

After a while they heard voices, the girl disappears and Neville checks his watch, first period had just started. ’’I’m late’’ Neville hurriedly stands up. He’s about to run before changing his mind and turning to where the girl had been a few seconds ago. ’’I’ll come back later, I have a plant I would like to show you.’’ Neville makes a run for the castle. A small voice calls after him. ’’Thank you Neville.’’ Neville turns around but he can’t find her. He smiles before turning around again and starts running again. When Neville is out of range, the voice speaks again. ’’My name is Flora.’’ When Neville arrived at the greenhouses, the class had already started. Neville tried to catch his breath, while professor Sprout came over to him. ’’I’m sorry I’m late professor.’’ ’’It’s quite alright Neville, I told the rest to start on the assignment I gave last lesson.’’ Neville nodded. He had already started on it and only had to do a few things, this gave him some time to think about the girl he had met that morning.

He returned to the spot in the forbidden forest after all his classes. Neville couldn’t she the girl and started to look around. ’’That is niffler‘ fancy, those are rare, the copper leaves seem to be shining here. That is some sneezewort, you can see it by the white flower leaves. These are umbrella flowers, professor Sprout grows these in greenhouse three.’’ Neville looked around father, putting the plant he had taken with him on the ground. ’’This are some nice vervains, they have big spikes, bigger than he ones from professor Sprout.’’ Neville crouched down and touched a small white flower. ’’Galanthus Nivalis, these are really nice, they are fully ripe, and even professor Snape would want these.’’ ’’Which plant is this?’’ Neville turned around quickly, losing his balance and falling. ’’I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you… again.’’ ’’It’s… It’s okay’’ ’’What plant is this?’’ Neville picked up the plant to show it to her better. ’’This is Valerian, professor Sprout taught us how to grow it last week. It’s a mundane plant which if used right could have magical properties. Its flowers change from pink to white depending on how ripe it is. It’s used in both cooking and potion making. People used to think this flowers could heal all illnesses.’’ The girl had nodded along his entire story, her eyes never leaving the flower he was holding. ’’Fascinating’’ They kept on talking about all the plants until it started to get dark, Neville headed back to the castle but not before promising to come back to her tomorrow. ’’See you tomorrow… What is your name?’’ The girl looked at him. ’’My name, My name is Flora, Flora Oxbrew. I’ll see you again, till then Neville.’’ She smiled and disappeared again. Neville nodded and headed for the castle, ’’Flora… It’s a nice name, it fits her.’’ Neville couldn’t get her out of his head after that.

The following day when Neville returned to the spot in the forbidden forest after class, he was determined to learn more about Flora. At first, like usually, she didn’t show herself. ’’Flora?’’ Neville looked around, as a form started to take shape behind him, following him while he looked around. ’’Hi Neville.’’ Flora said while she floated out from behind him. Neville turned around quickly. ’’Hi’’ He looks intently at her, she looked like the other ghosts, but she seemed much younger than the other ghosts. ’’How old are you?’’ ’’Me?’’ Flora asks. ’’I don’t know for sure. Over a hundred years’’ ’’You look much younger than the other ghost.’’ Neville frowned. ’’How old were you when you died?’’ this time flora frowned. ’’I was thirteen.’’ ’’How?’’ ’’How what?’’ ’’How did you die?’’ Neville asked softly. Flora created some distance between the two of them. ’’I don’t want to talk about it.’’ She said harshly. ’’I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’’ Suddenly, his shoes seemed really interesting. ’’What Hogwarts house were you in?’’ ’’I am a Hufflepuff, you’re wearing red, so you must be in Gryffindor.’’ ’’Yeah, I don’t know why. I’m not brave or daring like the others are.’’ ’’there are more forms of bravery, than acting though.’’ Flora smiled at him. Neville didn’t want to go against her, but he had never felt brave. “Neville?’’ He looked up to her. ’’Yes?’’ ’’Which year are you in?’’ ’’I’m a third year.’’ ’’Really?’’ ’’yes why?’’ ’’I used to be a third year too’’ She floated to the other side of the clearing. ’’Never made it to my fourth year.’’ ’’What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.’’ ’’It’s nothing important.’’ ’’You sure?’’ ’’Yeah.’’ They chatted a bit more, before Neville headed back to the castle. ’’I’ll see you tomorrow, right?.’’ Neville nodded ’’see you tomorrow.’’

When Neville got back inside the castle, he headed straight to the library. He was going to do some research about her. He looked into a book abut old Hogwarts students. He knew her house, so he knew he needed to look for a Hufflepuff student, from a long time ago, with the name Flora Oxbrew. He found that she had been expelled after her third year, he also found that there had been a murder in that same year. His first thought was about the chamber of secrets from last year. But Harry had told him about the young you-know-who, that had controlled Ginny Weasley to open the chamber, and that was a quite a few years later than when Flora had been expelled. ’’Hi Neville.’’ Neville hadn’t heard her coming, he turned around to greed Hermione. ’’Hi Hermione, how are you?’’ ’’Oh, I’m fine, I’m trying to find some information to help Hagrid. What are you studying?’’ ’’Just some old students.’’ ’’Hmm, I’ve read about that mystery. It was said that a third year Hufflepuff had killed a fourth year Ravenclaw. The Hufflepuff student was convicted, obviously, she was expelled, and the ministry of the time took her wand, and told the current headmaster that he could decide on how he wanted her to be punished. There are, however, no documents about what the headmaster of that time did to her.’’ Hermione looked at the book Neville had in front of him. ’’Yeah that’s her, that is the student who was convicted of the murder. It was later found out, that she however had not committed the murder, apparently the headmaster of that time had framed her, they suspect that she knew who had really done it. The headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black had killed the fourth year Ravenclaw himself. They only found out after his dead that he had done it, but they never found out what he had done to the girl, they suspect however that he had killed her as well.’’ She smiled at him. ’’Why are you looking into this?’’ ’’Oh, uhm, I uhm, got, got curious about the history of Hogwarts, and I, uhm, came across this.’’ ’’Ahh, I see, it is very interesting.’’ She kept nodding. ’’Well I have to go to Hagrid, see you later Neville.’’ ’’yeah see you later.’’

When he went back the next day, his intention was to ask her what had really happened. When he arrives at the clearing again. He straight off calls her name. ’’Flora?’’ ’’Yes Neville, you seem urgent. Is something wrong?’’ ’’No, nothing is wrong, I, I did some research yesterday and I, I, saw your name.’’ He didn’t want to tell her that he had been looking for information about her specifically. He thought that she might find him creepy if she found out. ’’Oh’’ She seemed taken aback by his statement. ’’Uhm, What did you find?’’ Neville would normally have looked at his shoes or anything but the person he was talking to, but now he looked her directly in the eye. ’’I found out about what happened.’’ Flora jumped away from him. She looked him dead in the eye before she disappeared. ’’Wait!’’ ’’Wait! come back!.’’ ’’I know it wasn’t you, I know you didn’t kill anyone.’’ He looked frankly around the clearing. ’’Please, I know you didn’t do it, please.’’ Flora reappeared. She was crying. Neville had ran into moaning Myrtle enough to know what a crying ghost looked like. ’’Please don’t cry, I know you did nothing wrong.’’ A sob left her. ’’I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it.’’ another sob. ’’Believe me it wasn’t me.’’ Neville wanted to comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t. He would go directly through her, and that would probably upset her even more. He sat in front of her and spoke softly to her. ’’I know you’re innocent, I know that you didn’t do it, I know that you didn’t kill anyone; I believe you.’’ ’’How can you believe me?’’ ’’Because I know what happened, because I know you.’’ Flora looked up at him, her sobs subsiding. ’’Thank you.’’

Flora smiled much more often, she had made a friend, and that friend believed her. Neville tried to visit her daily, but sometimes school got in the way. Flora often wanted to hug Neville to thank him, but after trying that one time, she remembered that she was in fact still dead, even though she hadn’t felt this good ever since the accident. Today was another happy day for her. Neville had just learned about another plant and was showing it to her, telling her everything, Professor Sprout had told him. Flora loved these moments when Neville was smiling and talking abut his passion. She knew he often felt bad, with the bullying and not being the best at charms and potions. He finished talking and put the plant down. ’’I was wondering…’’ She looked up at him and nodded. ’’About what happened…’’ Flora looked him in the eye, she had an idea what this was about, and she didn’t like it. ’’When what happened?’’ she asked timidly. ’’About what happened when the headmaster punished you?’’ She knew it. ’’I don’t like talking about it, I don’t like thinking about it.’’ ’’You don’t have to; I was just wondering, I already know that the headmaster of that time was headmaster Black, I know he properly killed that student, and blamed you for it.’’ ’’I knew he had done it, that’s why he blamed me.’’ ’’I know, But he must have done something terrible for you to die and come back as a ghost.’’ ’’He did’’ she fell silent, Neville didn’t want to push her. ’’I found something about you in a book, it spoke about how you had been convicted and how the headmaster would serve you a good punishment for the murder you had committed. It also said, that they later found out it hadn’t been you. After the headmaster had died, they found out it had most likely been him. They had never been fully able to prove he had done it, but they had enough prove that you hadn’t done it.’’ Neville looked at her face, she had a faraway look on her face but there was a small trace of a smile. ’’They had searched for you, but they never found you or your body, they suspected that he had most likely killed you.’’ ’’In the long run he has, but he did not directly kill me.’’ Neville was surprised he didn’t think that she would talk with him about this. ’’In fact he had given the command but he didn’t do it himself.’’ ’’The command for what? And to who?’’ ’’I don’t know who that man was… ’’ Neville didn’t want to prop, but she had been silent for a few minutes now. ’’He commanded that man to use the spell, than he left.’’ Neville couldn’t help himself. ’’What spell?’’ She shook her head, she couldn’t say it, she would not speak those words out loud. ’’A dark spell, a spell for torture.’’ ’’What!’’ ’’There was a table attached to the left wall, close to what was the entrance. On that table there were tools, magical and muggle tools.’’ Neville stayed silent, waiting for her to go on. She needed time, he realised that. ’’Headmaster Black had me transported to a dark room, there were no windows, it was somewhere deep in the dungeons. There were a lot of sticky spot on the ground, there was mold in all the corners. The wall in front of us opened to a very small opening, headmaster Black pushed me inside. Chains wrapped around me when I hit the ground, and forced me to the back wall. The headmaster stepped inside and another man followed him, they were whispering to each other, I couldn’t hear anything. He had used a spell that made me deaf. He nodded to the man and left without looking at me. The door disappeared again, and the other man, a tall, broad man with black hair and grey eyes which held no emotion at all. That man looked like the headmaster, but he didn’t look human anymore, he had scares all over him. His hair was greying but he looked to young for that. He didn’t look at me at first. He raised his wand and pointed at the table, I don’t know if he had said a spell or not, I still couldn’t hear. The man than slowly turned around and I could hear his boots stepping on the ground, it was echoing all around me. He pointed his wand at me, I wanted to move, I wanted to scream but I was frozen. He stepped closer to me, his hands were still, he wand still pointed at me. That moment was terrible. He moved too slow, his steps sounded so heavy, and all I wanted was to get out of here. When he stopped moving was when I was certain I was going to do die, but that didn’t happen. His voice was cold but very soft. But those words I will never forget. ’’It has to be done.’’ I didn’t get the change to ask him what? ’’Transmogrifian Torture’’.

She fell silent her hands were shaking. Neville felt terrible how could he comfort her?

‘’The table rattled, one by one the tools started moving, while I saw the tools moving towards me I could already feel intense pain in my back. The man walked towards the wall, the door appeared again, he looked at me, he said something, but I didn’t hear him, I had started screaming in pain the tools were swirling all around me, and inflicted pain all over my body without even touching me. When the tools went back to the table, I noticed that the chains had loosened a bit. I could move around a bit. My clothes seemed soaked with blood, but there were no actual wounds on my body. Some time passed before the wall moved again. A house-elf came in with a small plate of food, just enough for me to stay alive. The elf put the plate down in front of me and left. The elf came every day, I believed that he came three hours after the man had come back and said the spell again. He came twice a day. I don’t know how long this went on, I had outgrown my clothes and I didn’t get any new ones, there was no toilet and the room was never cleaned. It must have been years. The man had suddenly stopped coming and so did the house-elf, I died from dehydration, starvation and the pain. And than I woke as a ghost, without a choice.’’

’’Flora this is terrible, how could they do this to you? Why did he do this.’’ ’’I knew he had killed him. He was a terrible man, he loved punishment, he was unfair, he favoured Slytherin. He was changing the school, many of us were afraid of what he was doing. The student he killed had found out. And headmaster Black knew that, and right before he killed him, he was trying to tell me. He killed him right on the spot before he could tell me, I never found out what his plan was.’’ ’’According to Hermione, a girl in my year, he didn’t stay headmaster for long.’’ ’’That’s a relief, Hogwarts is a lot better now, then it was back then.’’ ’’That must have been so hard for you.’’ Flora shook her head. ’’I don’t want to think about it.’’ ’’It wasn’t right. Nearly headless Nick told us, that you sort of have a choice in coming back or not.’’ ’’I didn’t have a choice. I wanted to die and never come back. Some decide they want to live in a way, but I wanted to feel nothing, to be gone. It didn’t happen, I woke up, feeling all the pain, remembering everything, I woke in that room they had tortured me in. At first I thought I must have just fallen asleep, but the chains around my wrist where not attached to the wall.’’ She showed him her arms, the chains had wrapped themselves around her arms completely, and Neville wondered how he had never seen them before. ’’I could move’’ she continued ’’I thought that maybe I could finally get out. I walked to the wall, I wanted to hit it to call for help. But I went through the wall. I was terrified. At the other side of the wall, was a damply and dirty corridor, no one had been in there for years. There were a few other rooms, or more like cells. At the end of the corridor was a mirror. And when I looked into it, it was like I had never aged since the day they had brought me in. I had no idea how many years had passed, all I knew was that I was free of my restrains, but.’’ she fell silent and Neville saw her disappear as she had done so often. ’’I understand that it , must have so hard for you.’’ suddenly she was back, right in front of him. ’’How can you understand, no one can understand.’’ Neville was taken aback by the anger in her voice. He wanted to explain to her, that he did know what she must have gone through, his parents went through the same in a way. ’’My parents’’ he started carefully and softly. ’’were tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange.’’ He watched her reaction. ’’They lost their minds, and they don’t remember much, they were two of the best aurors and according to some, they’re facing a worse fate than dead. I understand how you feel, because of them.’’ Flora lowered her head. ’’I’m sorry.’’ ’’It’s okay.’’ Neville said. ’’I’m proud to be their son, I love yo- them a lot. And I wish there was something I could do to help you. I can’t help them, noting can be done to restore their brains. But maybe there is something that can be done, so you can fully die…’’ ’’You would want to help me?’’ She sounded timid when she asked, almost as if she were afraid. ’’Of course I lov- care about you, so of course I want to help you, if I could.’’ the smile he gave her made he happier than she had been in years. ’’Thank you Neville’’

That night Neville couldn’t sleep, he wanted to help her, but he didn’t know how. He had asked Hermione about it. She had told him in that in some cases people who died were brought back as ghosts for punishment or because there was something that they had to finish before they could go. She had done nothing wrong, so it couldn’t be punishment. The people who had done it to her, were dead and gone, so that couldn’t be it either. Neville couldn’t figure out what she could possibly have to do, before she would be allowed to die fully. Neville decided that he would go to the common room and read his herbology book, to get his mind of things. He sat down on one of the couches and started reading, a few minutes later Fred, George and Lee walked into the common room. ’’Hi Neville, what you up to.’’ Neville looked up at them. ’’Nothing, couldn’t sleep, what’s in the bag?’’ ’’Nothing much, some prank materials we wanted to use on the Slytherins tonight, but it’s that night again.’’ ’’What you mean?’’ ’’Don’t you know?’’ Fred said. ’’One night each year, screams can be heard coming from somewhere in the dungeons.’’ George said. ’’according to the ghost, it’s a girl that has been screaming each year, for over a hundred years.’’ Lee added. ’’No one knows where exactly it comes from.’’ Fred went on. ’’We think it might be somewhere behind the hidden room at the back of the dungeons.’’ George added. ’’We never explored there because the map said it was truly haunted.’’ ’’we tried but the screams are non stop, as soon as you go through the hidden entrance.’’ “But only on this day you can hear her screams through the entire dungeons.’’ ’’there terrible, agonizing.’’ ’’We are not going to the dungeons with those screams.’’ Neville nodded when they finished talking, he was never sure who of the twins were talking, but if they said it was so terrible that they wouldn’t prank the Slytherins then it must really be terrible. ’’We’re going to bed, reckon you do the same.’’ Neville nodded again, and the four of them went to their dorms. Neville decided to ask Flora if she knew about the screams from the dungeons.

Neville had asked her about it and she said she didn’t know about the screams, she did know about the hidden room at the back of the dungeons, it was the room in which she was kept. Neville had done some more research and though that maybe if they managed to remove her body from that room that maybe she would be free. Flora said that she didn’t want him to go there, and Neville didn’t know how to get in there. He didn’t want to ask the twins, so he had to convince Flora to show him. He had tried but each time he started about it she would disappear.

’’I want to help you, and I can’t help you be free if I can’t get into that room.’’ Neville called around the clearing. She had disappeared again, but he had to keep trying. She meant a lot to him, and she was unhappy being a ghost, so he wanted to help her, even if that meant he would lose her. ’’Please just let me help you.’’ ’’What you doing Neville?’’ Neville turned around to see Fred and George looking puzzled at him. ’’yeah who you talking to?’’ Neville looked at them, if Flora didn’t want to help maybe they would. ’’umm, there this ghost, who comes here a lot, and she umm.’’ They nodded and looked at him. ’’I want to help her, her body is in that room at the back of the dungeons.’’ They nodded again. ’’Is she the one screaming?’’ Neville shook his head. ’’I’m not sure.’’ ’’What you want to do?’’ ’’I think that if her body was removed from that room, that she would be free.’’ They nodded. ’’But she doesn’t want to go there.’’ ’’Aright then.’’ The twins said at the same time. ’’If the screaming stops if we get the body out, then we can prank the Slytherins and then we have a new hiding spot.’’ ’’We?’’ Neville asked. ’’Yup, we will help you get the body out.’’ ’’Yup don’t you worry.’’ ’’Thank you.’’ ’’Don’t thank us yet.’’ ’’We go tonight, be in the common room at midnight.’’ Neville nodded, the twins turned around and left. ’’I’m going to set you free, so you can be happy.’’ Neville said. He left the clearing. ’’Because I love you.’’

Neville had come down to the common room a little before midnight. Fred, George and Lee had just come down the stairs and handed him some earplugs. ’’We are going to need these.’’ ’’Let’s hurry.’’ The walked towards the dungeons. One of the twins took out a piece of parchment and tapped it with his wand. ’’I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good.’’ ’’coast is clear, let’s hurry.’’ They entered the dungeons, and Neville followed the three trouble makers closely. ’’What is that parchment for?’’ ’’It’s a map.’’ They turned a corner and reached the back wall. Lee went to the corner and one of the twins went to the other and they tapped there wands to it. A small door appeared and the other twin signed him to follow. ’’alright George and Lee will stay out there, and we will get the body out. Do you know where it is?’’ Neville nodded. ’’In a locked room at the end.’’ ’’Great, we have to go through the corridor.’’ Neville nodded and followed Fred. suddenly he heard a scream and frantically looked around. ’’That is what we were talking about. Try to not get too distracted and upset about it.’’ Neville nodded and followed Fred, while the screams got louder and more terrifying. they reached the corridor, it was dirty, there were cells on both sides of the corridor. ’’Never been this far.’’ Fred said. ’’The room should be at the back.’’ Fred nodded. They reached the end. ’’Seems like a dead end.’’ Neville though about what flora had told him. ’’she told me that the door from the room appeared and disappeared.’’ Fred though for a moment. He pointed his wand at the wall. ’’Alohomora!’’ nothing happened. Neville started to lose hope. Fred pointed his wand at the wall again. ’’Alberto!’’ the bricks started to move and a door formed. Neville looked at Fred in surprise. Neville hadn’t heard about that spell again. ’’Alberto is like alohomora, it’s just less known.’’ Neville nodded, Fred signed for him to enter the room. Neville opened the door, and a smell of rotting flesh washed over them. Fred propped him to keep going. Neville entered the room, the first thing he noticed was all the dirt, and the table with rusting tools. ’’Do you mind if I use a cleaning spell, the smell is killing me.’’ Neville nodded. ’’Scourgify’’ ’’Tergeo’’ The room looked a lot better and Neville could see more than he had before. He looked around and suddenly saw her body. Her hair was a lot longer than it was in her ghost form, her face looked older, he clothes where falling apart. her arms and legs were chained to the wall. ’’alohomora.’’ Neville turned to Fred to see him pointing his wand at the chains. her body slumped to the ground, now she was released. Fred suddenly took a step back, and Neville saw Flora. ’’you really freed my body.’’ she asked him looking at the body on the floor. ’’Of course. I told you that I wanted to help, I wanted you to be happy.’’ Neville looked at where Fred was, only to see that Fred had left him and Flora alone. Flora turned to him. ’’Thank you, Neville.’’ Neville smiled at her as she disappeared. He looked around the room once more, he noticed that her body was gone as well.’’ He left the room and noticed that Fred had cleaned the corridor as well. ’’You alright Neville?’’ He looked up at Fred, George and Lee. ’’yeah, she’s free.’’ They nodded and the four of them went back to the Gryffindor tower.

The year passed quickly with the capture and escape of Sirius Black and the reassignment of Remus Lupin. Neville missed hanging out with Flora. He noticed that Fred and George had decided to not prank him for a while, which he was grateful about. They hadn’t said anything about what had happened and didn’t mention it. He was certain they had used the hidden room to hide from Filch and Snape to escape detention. summer vacation had come and gone by and Neville was starting his fourth year. He was watching the first years get sorted and ate the meal at the end of the feast he stood up to follow the rest of Gryffindor to the tower, they were all talking about the Triwizard tournament. ’’Neville!’’ Neville turned around to see that a girl wearing Hufflepuff robes had called his name. ’’Yes can I help you?’’ the girl nodded. ’’I wanted to thank you for setting me free.’’ Neville looked at her in confusion. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Neville looked closely at the face. ’’It’s me Flora.’’ Neville looked taken aback. ’’but.. ’’ ’’You set me free,’’ she said. ’’and… I love you too Neville.’’ She gave him a smile before running off to follow the rest of the Hufflepuffs to their common room. ’’Oi Neville mate.’’ Neville looked at Fred, George and Lee who were all grinning at him. ’’Come on, let’s go.’’ ’’Yeah staring at her is not going to help you remember the password.’’ The three of them laughed before heading to the common room. Neville looked at where the Hufflepuffs had left before catching up to Fred, George and Lee. ’’What is the password?’’ ’’It’s blobuster pus.’’ Neville nodded and though to himself that this would be a great year.

I hope you liked this. If there anything you're not happy with, please tell me

Tags:

#neville longbottom #self written #hogwarts #ghost #OC

[pookapics]

Steve Rogers x Witch!Reader : Love is a Curse (Inspired by Practical Magic) - Chapter 1 - The Meet Cute

(YN) : your name (LN) : last name (HC) : hair colour (EC) : eye colour   

Chapter 2 - https://protectthelesbians.tumblr.com/post/185063448398/steve-rogers-x-witchreader-love-is-a-curse

Flashback

Narrator POV

The old-withered hand of your grandmother held yours tightly as you watched them lower the coffins into

the ground.

The coffins of your father and mother.

They died only a week apart from each other. The mutterings of the funeral attendees surround you, this is so overwhelming for only an 8 year old child. Your aunts had styled your (HL) (HC) hair to make you look a lot older than you did, you wanted to be strong for your family but the longing for your parents would always linger and eat away at you. Family friends approached you left-right and centre, patronising you about how your parents were in heaven with the angels.

This is why children traditionally  don’t attend the funerals.

But your family isn’t necessarily ‘traditional’.

Amongst all the mutters of sorrow and grieving, there was whispers of the curse which haunts the family and has once again taken two lives. The curse was cast centuries ago, by an ancestor of yours by the name Maria (L/N). She was tried for witchcraft by those who saw her gifts to be wicked and sinful. But somehow, she escaped her capture and escaped with only the clothes on her back and her ever-growing child in her belly, a child of a man who seemed enchanted by the young witch at the time. The love-struck enchantress truly  thought her lover, a wealthy lord would take her hand and wed her, making sure that their child would not be out of wedlock and would not forever be called a ‘bastard’.

But witches never get happily ever afters in these stories.

He never came to her, he promised her he would. But he never did.

She waited in a desolate piece of land, waiting. But as her child grew inside her, the sorrow and anger she felt towards her once lover grew and grew. This sorrow grew into a spell before becoming a curse. A curse that would put endanger any man who fell in love with a (L/N) woman. This curse would prevail for generations and generations, though many tried to break the curse, none succeeded.

You were the next generation, you would eventually see the same fate as your mother. For you see, your mother heard the sound of the death-watch beetle, a harbinger of death. She knew that the man she loved was doomed to die. It was easier to tell a child that her mother died of a ‘broken heart’ but secretly you  knew the truth. You saw the pain in your mother’s eyes after your father died and then, only a week later. You were orphaned.

You now lived with your aunts in their home outside of New York, the old house was much more comforting than the home where both of your parents had perished. One night, when the aunts were sleeping in their rooms, you sneaked into the greenhouse which you and the aunts tended to. From the earth grew tall foxglove plants, their deep purple petals lured anyone who did not see the hidden danger to their beauty or the belladonna, the herb which would help anyone drift away with a little bit of it slipped into their drink. You wandered around the greenhouse, collecting herbs and plants from high and low, you filled a small wooden bowl with petals, leaves and berries. You started the incantation that you had written in your small spell book, which had flowers pasted over the cover.

He will hear my call a mile away.

He’ll whistle my favourite song.

You picked the petals from a few of the roses, letting them gently fall into the bowl, the floral smell tickled your nose as you continued the spell.

He will be a gentleman, like a prince charming

He can flip pancakes in the air

He’ll be marvelously kind

And his favourite shape will be a star

You picked a flower which resembles the shape of a star, twiddling it in your fingers before placing it into the bowl gently, admiring the little flowers

And he’ll have two blue eyes, the colour of the sky.’

You picked a pair of bluebells, placing them into the bowl and turned around and tried to head upstairs when you came face to face with your Aunt Francis and Jet, wearing their dressing-gowns and their hair wild and untameable. Aunt Francis rose her dark eyebrow at your small figure at the end of the staircase “What are you doing out of bed?” She clicked her nails against the bannister. You immediately hid the bowl behind your back and your tiny spell-book, they looked at you in disbelief as you stuttered out a “N-Nothing!” The aunts slowly approached you warily “You sure?” Aunt Jet asked, you nodded insistently. The aunts looked at you before in their heads giving you the benefit of the doubt, you had just lost your parents and would be grieving in a way the aunts just may not understand.

The aunts made their way back up the stairs and smiled “Don’t be cursin’ any neighbourhood boys at midnight.” they joked and walked back up to their rooms, you let out a sigh of relief “I won’t!” you held the bowl and spell book close to your chest and scuttled up the stairs to the balcony which was attached to your room.You kept reminding yourself as you muttered “The guy I will dream up doesn’t exist.. And if he doesn’t exist then i’ll never die of a broken heart..” you held the bowl close as the cold, brisk wind hit your face, stepping barefoot onto the creaky balcony. You held out the bowl over the edge of the balcony, you focused on the petals which began to levitate, flying up into the night sky and towards the moon. Soon, the petals were gone and the spell was complete.

You stood alone on the balcony, holding the empty bowl as you out loud repeated “I’ll never die of a broken heart..” you wandered back into your room, the spell started to slowly take form but in a way that your younger self did not intend.

Flash forward 13 years ~~~

With the spell long forgotten, you were currently rustling through your backpack, searching for a pen to use as you were in the middle of signing contracts with Fury concerning joining SHIELD. This was a major deal for you considering the gifts you had inherited from your family.

‘Finally I’ll get to help people..’ you smiled faintly as you told yourself that, you looked over the contract and signed the dotted lines with an elaborate swish and flick of your pen. You clicked your pen as you had signed everything, handing the contract back over to Fury. He nodded and slipped them back into his jacket’s inside pocket. “You ready?” He asked, this made your stomach feel slightly off but hey you were about to meet the world’s mightiest heroes, who wouldn’t be a little nervous. However, there was a lingering feeling, something niggling at you. It was a new sensation that couldn’t be exactly named. You ignored it briefly and just nodded to Fury’s question and spoke “I’m ready.” He opened the glass-doors “Well what are you waiting for, Agent?” You stepped out and turned back to ask Fury for the location of the others but he had already closed his office doors behind him

“Damn..” You muttered to yourself as you stepped into the hallway properly, searching for any other signs of life in this building. Your shoes clicked against the ground as you followed your intuition, stepping blindly down the hall in an attempt to find the others who were a part of your team. With each step, you let your eyes scan the rooms, still finding no signs of life. Letting out a sigh, your feet scuffed against the ground as you walked through the labyrinth like halls of the 'New Avengers Facility', this was starting to annoy you.

"Oh come on where is everyo-!?" You were muttering until you practically body slammed into something as you tightly turned a corner, you had partially winded yourself in the process, leaving you gasping. From the feeling of that collision, it felt as if you had face first slammed into a wall but no, you glanced up to see a pair of large sapphire eyes staring down at you.

It was Captain America.

Only you would have met America's sweetheart in this manner... By body-slamming yourself into him.

You usually would not be such as mess but your mind and body just melted in his presence, you cursed yourself at this wondering why your body had just decided not to work properly. Your mouth just fell open "U-Uhm.. I-I'm so sorry Sir!  I mean Captain America! Sir!" Your words seemed to just fall out of your mouth without your brain actually processing any of what you just said. Steve seemed taken aback by this, taking in your appearance and what you just spluttered out "Uhm Hello Ma'am." giving out his signature smile. You let out a smile "I'm the n-new recruit yeah yeah."

You wanted to kick yourself at how you were talking to him.

Why were you acting so flustered around him?

This whole situation was making your head spin, you came back to your senses when Steve asked if you wanted a companion on your way to the main lounge, you simply nodded and followed after the tall, blonde Avenger. You kept your bag close to you as you wandered through the halls with him, looking out of the large bay-windows. Steve glanced down at you “So, what’s your story ma’am?” You looked up at him “What do you mean?” You quirked an eyebrow at him as he chuckled “I mean. Where are you from? Who are you?” He asked, you giggled gently “Well isn’t that a deep question. Who am I?” You joked before truthfully answering “I’m (Y/N) (L/N) and I’ve lived in Scarsdale, New York since I was 8.” Steve grinned “Well nice to meet you (YN) from Scarsdale.”

You couldn’t help but smile at Steve, your cheeks were tinted pink “Well its been nice meeting you. Captain.” She expressed as they reached the lounge, many of the avengers were lounging around and waiting for updates on any missions instead of lounging around in their rooms. Natasha glanced over as well as Clint “You must be the new girl Fury mentioned.” She crossed one leg over the other and looked at you closely. As soon as Natasha spoke, the others turned their heads to look at you, inspecting you closely. You simply nodded “Yeah that's me.” the others just nodded and waved over and welcomed you warmly except Tony who seemed to have something on his mind, as if he was waiting to say something. When everyone had introduced themselves, Tony looked at Steve, who was still standing beside you, and then back to you and burst out “I’m Tony and I can already see that Steve’s called dibs.” Steve who had taken a sip of his water bottle had spat it out when Tony told that to (Y/N). You couldn’t help but let out a snort at that, though your cheeks matched Steve’s perfectly.

Steve, with his cheeks blazoned red “I’m only being polite Tony. I’ve not called ‘dibs’.” He put in air-quotes, you snickered at that as you wondered how this ‘old man’ learned to use air-quotes like that in such a sarcastic yet kind way. You nodded “He was being a gentleman, you may want to learn a few things from him, Stark.”

Tony POV

Tony looked shocked at the two of you, you two ganging up on him together made him realise that Steve had somehow, in the five minutes he knew you, had got attached to the new girl. ‘Well Well Well..’ He said in his head and watched the two exchange looks with each other, he thought back to old-Hollywood movies as he watched the two, he couldn’t help it considering this was involved with Steve after all! But he could help but think that this maybe just maybe was Steve and (Y/N) ‘Meet Cute’. The beginning of something to form between them.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the entrance of a tall, dark and mysterious shadow which entered the lounge.

It was Fury.

Fury walked into the middle of the room, everyone watched him even (Y/N). He knew that Fury’s entrance into the lounge meant this would be the formal announcement of (Y/N)’s position in the team. The avengers knew that things were only official when Fury told them himself.

(Y/N) POV

You watched Fury closely as he straightened out his jacket and looked around at the Avengers, he stood amongst them but still he wasn’t exactly one of them. He was still a superior.  Fury let out a cough before speaking “I see you have met the new recruit, welcoming (Y/N) into your ranks. Her gift will surely be needed in any missions which arise.” That is when you felt the eyes land on you once more, like they did when you first entered the lounge. You sighed ‘They probably weren’t expecting that.’ You simply rubbed your arm nervously and nodded, not disagreeing with Fury’s statement.

Steve was the first to pipe up “Wait.. So you have powers?” He questioned, looking at you intently and in some sort of disbelief. You pondered how you were going to phrase this for a moment, every sort of description you used sounded stupid inside your head. You were going to go with the one which sounded the least stupid. Well at least you think its the least stupid. ‘Here I go..’ You bigged yourself up inside your head, looking at all their faces but especially Steve’s. For some reason his eyes on you made you the most nervous as you gulped and prepared to tell your new colleagues of the dark mark on your family name, the reason you were bullied as a child, the reason you were considered for the job here with them. 

It was time.

End of Chapter 1 ~~~

#captain america #Steve Rogers #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #fanfic #series #fanfiction #witch #marvel #marvel mcu

[sixth-light]

Post-LS prompt #11

For @philomytha and @utrinque-paratus, combining two prompts (below the cut). Gen, Nightingale, [SPOILER], Molly, Peter. 

Nightingale (after Folly is empty after Op Jen is over/Peter gone) taking a lot of time to bond with Foxglove/getting to know her [utrinque-paratus] 

Molly introducing Foxglove to computers please? Or TV or other tech - if Nightingale and Molly get her to watch rugby and Downton Abbey, what will she get them to watch? [philomytha]

Thomas had read Peter’s report about what their new resident in the Folly had told him of her history, and listened to him tell it too, but it didn’t really strike him how hidden she had been kept until she crept into the tech cave while he was watching the rugby and stopped, staring openly, at the screen. 

“It’s a sport,” Thomas told her. “It’s called rugby.”

Foxglove tilted her head, eyes darting as on the screen, the ball changed hands. Wales were running the ball out wide - flick, flick, missed tackle, flick.

“Would you like me to explain how it’s played?” Thomas offered. Foxglove didn’t nod her head yes or shake it no, either; she just curled up on the chaise longue and continued to watch. He gave her a brief explanation, to be curteous, and then let the silence lie; if she was anything like Molly she wouldn’t mind. Molly never came in here while he was watching rugby – he thought she found it dull. It wasn’t anything like watching rugby while Peter was doing something on the computer, either. Peter talked, low mutters about what he was doing, if it was work-related, or whatever stray thoughts were drifting across his head. He hadn’t done that the first few months he’d been at the Folly and Thomas had taken it for the sign of trust it was and only very occasionally let it be irksome. 

It wasn’t that Foxglove was bad company, at all, but she was so very quiet. 

*

Shortly after half-time he saw that she had drifted over to the desktop computer and was running her fingertips over the keys. It was shut off right now. It occurred to Thomas, for the first time, that with Peter – away, he was going to have to start answering emails. Perhaps it was time to learn to do so on the computer, rather than dealing with the screen of his phone. He could ask Molly for help, if he needed it, or Abigail.

Damn Lesley, anyway. He hated feeling helpless. It was too much like being old. Once had been quite enough.   

“Molly can show you how to use that if you’d like,” he said to Foxglove. “You can use it to send messages, and – to speak with people.” He considered the web camera which Peter had purchased, he forgot when. “You could use it to speak to Peter, and see him, if you wanted. I’m afraid he won’t be able to come back here for some times. Likely several months.” 

Foxglove poked the mouse, frowning when it slid forward, but nodded. 

“Molly has told you this, or I hope she has,” Thomas added, “but if there’s anything you need, to be comfortable here – please ask. We’re – quieter than we were, with Peter gone, and the work of the last few months less…pressing.”

Foxglove managed to convey, with the aid of her ever-present sketchbook and a similar facility with firm looks and body language to Molly’s, that she wished to know where Peter was, and how he was doing. 

“He’s staying with – he’s moved in with his, er…” Thomas hadn’t quite grasped the subtleties of modern language around relationships. There hadn’t been much need. “His young lady. The people we work for are asking him questions about what happened at Covent Garden, and he can’t come back here until they’re all answered.”

Foxglove conveyed that this had not, in fact, answered her question, about how Peter was doing. 

“As well as can be expected,” Thomas told her. He’d visited two days ago, to take some of Peter’s things he’d forgotten and some he’d deliberately left, and conduct a lesson; they had got very behind on Peter’s lessons, with everything that had happened, and with the focus that had been required on practical matters. Attack and defence. Thomas couldn’t even remember the last time Peter had proposed an experiment regarding magic, let alone conducted one. Perhaps he would suggest to Abdul that Peter could use some academic questions to occupy his mind, while they all waited. After all, it wouldn’t do for Peter to think that Thomas had suggested it. 

Was he sad? Foxglove wanted to know.

“It’s been a very difficult time for him,” Thomas said. “I think…I think it will pass.” It had to, surely. You couldn’t run on a war footing forever, and he had known, in the last day or two before it had all come to a bloody conclusion, how little Peter had had left to give. A rest was what he needed. It had to be. 

Foxglove stayed until the end of the match, so perhaps she’d found some entertainment in it. 

*

As it turned out she hadn’t, or at least she never came into the room while Thomas was watching rugby again. But someone told her about the extraordinary range of television shows available in this day and age, because – and Thomas felt he didn’t even visit Peter’s lair of technological devices that often – it seemed that whenever he did, he found her watching something. It was almost always a travel show or a nature documentary; often she was sketching while she watched. Sometimes he sat and told her stories, if it was a place she’d been; she seemed to like that. If Molly was there, she gave him dirty looks. She had views about the sanctity of television viewing and they didn’t include talking during the programme, no matter how dull the chatter on the screen. Thomas perfectly understood this in a cinema but thought one’s own home should allow some more latitude. 

He thought Molly must have instructed Foxglove in the dark art of using the television and its associated paraphernalia, but when he said as much to Peter, Peter blamed Abigail as well. 

“They’ve been conspiring,” he said in Beverley’s living room, as they reviewed Greek verbs and pretended to not talk about anything to do with police work. The pretending was Peter – Thomas had every intention of not doing so, but Peter kept bringing the conversation around and Thomas didn’t always catch it in time. “I know because Abigail was texting me about what channels we had at the Folly. It’s probably good for her, though.”

“Abigail or Foxglove?”

“Both,” Peter said. “Abigail can’t get into that much trouble at the Folly.” 

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure this was true but supposed it helped Peter feel better to think so. 

That evening Molly and Foxglove were watching that baking show Molly and apparently half the nation loved so much. Molly was on the edge of the couch, hands buried in a cushion that looked in danger of being ripped in two at times, hissing alternately with indignation, appreciation, and laughter. Foxglove didn’t seem to care as much but would look up diligently whenever Molly got particularly excited. 

“Peter’s probably coming back the week after next,” Thomas told them. He hadn’t said so to Peter, not wanting to raise his hopes, but the Commissioner had indicated it when they’d met to discuss the new recruits, or the prospect thereof. But something about Peter’s manner had indicated he might have had an inkling anyway; Thomas was inclined to blame Tyburn. Apparently her animosity over Beverley’s pregnancy wasn’t at quite as high a pitch as it had, at one point, been.  

Molly looked at him sharply but then her attention was caught by something to do with ovens. Foxglove, less enthralled, sat up and clapped her hands together.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “I don’t think he plans to move back in on a full-time basis but you might have a little bit more competition for the television.” 

Molly made a warning noise, so he was obediently quiet. Foxglove didn’t look any less pleased. 

When Peter made his return, three weeks later – due to paperwork, the last defence of scoundrels – Molly welcomed him back gravely but with pleasure. Foxglove gave him a hug. 

“What - okay,” Peter said. “Okay, yeah, it’s good to see you too.” Then Toby came scrabbling across the atrium floor and threw himself up into Peter’s arms, licking at his face.

“You stayed with me last weekend!” Peter said, laughing. “Down, boy.” 

It felt like something clicking back into place, a weight not noticed until it was lifted. 

Peter stayed for dinner that evening, although he’d be going home eventually – as he should be, with Beverley in her current happy condition – but Foxglove insisted, afterwards, that he come with her to the tech cave. There was some show on about tropical birds. 

“Is this what we watch now?” Peter asked Thomas. “Bit of a change from the usual around here.” 

“When the mood strikes us,” Thomas said. Foxglove was flipping open her sketchbook. “Welcome home.”

#rivers of london #thomas nightingale #spoiler character one #molly from the folly #peter grant #tumblr fic #my fanfic #lies sleeping spoilers

[themichaelzane]

Jasmine - Morning glory

jasmine; what mythical creature do you wish actually existed?

“pegasus and phoenix for sure.”

lavender; soundcloud or vinyls?

“vinyls all the way.”

primrose; what book does everyone right now need to read?

“Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. A classic. Relevant to our times and the state of our society, and just a great book I’d say anyone could and should read.”

lunar mist; do you like wearing other people’s shirts/jackets?

“i wear my boyfriend’s clothes all the time.”

bird of paradise; what was the best thing that happened to you this month?

“@ray-moretti​ coming home, probably.”

gardenia; what’s a promise you’ve recently made to yourself?

“be better to @noolivertwist​. be more open. be honest.”

lion’s fairytale; would you rather be the sky, the ocean or the forests?

“the forest.”

whirling butterflies; would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

“i don’t know, would i? @casey-blythe​.”

marmalade skies; do you plan your outfits?

“no.”

apricot drift; how do you feel right now?

“tired.”

everlasting daisy; what’s the last dream you remember having?

“i vaguely remember being at an airport telling someone to let me through because g eazy was my husband.”

queen’s cup; what are you craving right now?

“@casey-blythe​.”

lavender dream; turn ons/offs?

“kisses on the neck, nice thighs, hands/kisses on my neck. can’t think of many turn offs right now, but that’s probably because i’m used to ollie and casey and i don’t think they do anything i don’t like.”

water lilly; when was the last time you cried? why?

“arguing with ollie.”

lily of the valley; did the one person who hurt you most in your life apologize?

“no. and i don’t expect him to.”

winterberry; do you bite or lick your ice cream?

“only a psychopath would bite into ice cream. lick.”

honey perfume; favorite movie ever?

“i can’t pick just one. it changes constantly. anything hitchcock, david fincher, tarantino. i love james dean and marilyn monroe. cary grant too.”

desert rose; do you like yourself?

“i put up with myself.”

snapdragon; have you ever met or seen in person a celebrity?

“i don’t think i have.”

night owl; how many countries have you visited?

“none.”

heliotrope; have you ever been in a castle?

“i’ve been to @noolivertwist​‘s old mansion?”

creams and sky; what’s the craziest/bravest thing you’ve done?

“most crazy shit i’ve done i wouldn’t call brave. just plain stupid.”

lantana; what’s on your mind right now?

“right now, in this very instant, i’m thinking about ollie.”

pumpkin patch; what’s your zodiac sign?

“virgo.”

tulip; name 5 facts about yourself.

“1. i2. hate3. listing4. facts5. about bonus: me.”

daphne; do you believe in karma?

“not really.”

queen of the meadow; ever been in love?

“madly so.”

angel’s face; what was your favorite bedtime story as a child?

“i don’t remember being read bedtime stories.”

remember me; did you make someone laugh today?

“oliver’s dad’s dick.”

iris; do you believe in ghosts?

“yes.”

lilac; if you could go back in time which time period would you visit?

“the 70′s.”

caramel kisses; would you want to live forever? why/why not?

“no, i barely wanna live now as it is.”

primula; what makes you sad?

“don’t get me started…”

rain lily; was today typical? why/why not?

“it was a typical day for the most part. nothing out of routine happened.”

queen anne’s lace; who do you trust the most?

“i would trust oliver with my life. casey too.”

lady’s slipper; what did you have for breakfast today?

“coffee and stale bread.”

forget me not; do you have any regrets looking back in your life?

“i wouldn’t change where my life is at right now. but, oliver once asked me to run away with him. i don’t regret not going because i’m happy now, things turned out suprisingly amazing for me. however, i do often wonder about that. daydream, maybe. who would he and i be if we’d run away? where would he have taken me? i wonder what we would’ve done there together. i think about us spending countless hours in bed, so long we don’t even know what day it is. the curious part of me wonders about it. the logical part of me knows my life would probably not be what it is now if i had done it.“

lunaria; what’s your favorite fictional universe?

“the galaxy from hitchiker’s guide to the universe, oz from the wonderful wizard of oz, and the harry potter universe.”

violet; favorite tv show?

“i don’t watch a lot of tv, but ollie got me into queer eye recently. my all time favorite might be dexter—but we don’t talk about that ending.”

sunflower; share a favorite quote.

“i had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” —jack kerouac

snowdrop; what does your ideal day look like?

“ollie and casey must be in it. anything else don’t matter much.”

tiger lily; do you have any hobbies?

“does having sex count as a hobby?”

tea rose; what’s something you always wanted to do but were too scared?

"love. but i’ve done it now.”

honeysuckle; do you usually date people your age or older/younger?

“i’ve never dated anyone younger than me.”

sweet pea; who means the world to you? why?

“casey because he is my first love and my soulmate. ollie because i’ve never known love like i do for him. i would do anything for them.”

foxglove; who is your favorite cartoon character?

"johnny bravo and the red guy from cow and chicken.”

magnolia; coffee or tea?

“coffee.”

crown imperial; would you rather be extremely rich or extremely loved?

"a few months ago my answer might’ve been different, but today it’s extremely loved.”

snowflake; are you a dog or a cat person?

“neither. but if i were to have a pet, i’d probably go for a cat. however, i do love my boyfriend’s dog widget a lot.”

bell flower; what is your biggest addiction?

"being sad and complaining about everything. i make myself sad for no reason. i just can’t stop. maybe one day i’ll kick the habit.

on a much lighter tone, though. maybe i’ll say my boyfriends, cause i can’t get enough of them.”

cosmos; do you ever think about the galaxy?

“yes. vast, infinite, fascinating.”

moonflower; what’s your favorite color?

“black.”

freesia; do you have a good relationship with your parents and siblings? why/why not?

“well, they’re dead.”

sundrop; are you a morning or a night person?

“night, maybe. evening, more like.”

poppy; have you ever dealt with a mental illness?

“i don’t think so.”

dandelion; do you consider yourself and extrovert or an introvert?

“introvert.”

lilly; what’s something you love watching/reading but you are too embarrassed to admit you do?

“fuck guilty pleasures. it’s 2019. if i wanna read john green books i goddamn will read a john green book.”

lotus; best memory as a child?

“it was my parents’ anniversary, they had plans but the nanny couldn’t make it. i told them to leave me in the house, but they wouldn’t do that and obviously i’d be scared shitless if they did cause i was a child. they ordered food, my mom set up the table with candles and shit, my dad went to the store and got her roses. we just had dinner and then we played and watched home movies. it was the last anniversary they spent together.”

angelonia; what is your eye and hair color?

“light brown eyes, dark brown hair.”

dahlia; do you like crystals?

“sure. they’re pretty. i don’t mind them.”

baby’s breath; what’s your hogwarts house?

“ravenclaw.”

calendula; biggest pet peeve?

“people who breathe loudly. i know it’s not their fault, i don’t judge or blame them, and i’m aware it’s a very irrational pet peeve to have. but my god does it make wanna stab myself with a spork.”

blanker flower; would you rather go to a cocktail party with your best friends or stay home and read a book/watch a movie with your pet?

“stay at home, always.”

blazing star; share a secret.

“i once broke into a random family’s basement on a really bad acid trip. i was far from home, and just too freaked out to make it home. spent the whole night there on the floor. made it out before anyone saw me. spent weeks thinking every time there was a knock on the door, that it was the cops coming for me. then again, i spent a lot of time thinking that while growing up.”

carnation; would you rather live longer or happier?

“happier.”

bluebell; do you wear glasses?

“i have a pair of reading glasses that look godawful on me. i’m supposed to use them all the time. i never do.”

nymphea; forest or river?

"forest, forest, forest.”

orchid; do you like exercise?

“yes. keeps my mind off of things. helps my mental health. body looking tight.”

pansy; do you like poetry?

“i love poetry.”

morning glory; any special talent that you have?

“i have no special talents, but how about a very useless one? I can dislocate both my shoulders and pop them back in again. i can also swallow a hot dog whole.”

#electric #and i can't stress this enough #CHAIR #about michael! #muse! #ama! #long post

[heyhihelloaus-blog]

Let Go ~Chapter 10~

May 3rd

Thursday

The paper felt real in my hands, but the words didn't.

“Banned from the property”

“Contract suspended due to inappropriate behavior”

“Any attempt to contact outside of lawyers will be met with additional legal action”

... and it was just over. I'm pulled back into the memory of that first day.

3 years ago

I had made a name for myself in the small world of personal security. I was good at losing paps and crazed fans. Really good. That was my specialty. I wasn’t apart of any team, I was freelance and available last minute. The longest job was a few months, and normally that was a tour of sorts. 

Some big company was asking for me. Headhunting for a long-term personal security guard. They asked for me, and they had been persistent. That was until I walked into the meeting room. Jin and his skeevy manager sat at the conference table immersed in their phones.

“Are you his secretary?” the manager asked, once he finally looked up. Insult plain on his face.

“I am Foxglove”

“You are a woman?”

“You have basic observation skills.”

Jin lets out a short laugh before covering his mouth and trying to look professional after a glare from his manager.

“Did you not want Foxglove?” I ask, false confusion in my voice.

“We do...” the manager begins and I can tell he is looking for the right words.

“You doubt my abilities because I am a woman” its not a question. I make direct eye contact with the manager.

“Who wouldn’t?” he laughs trying to lighten the mood looking to Jin to agree with him. Jin just sets his head on his hand, silent.

“A better man than you.” I turn towards the door. I don't need this.

“Wait” Jin calls “we would want to assess the skills of any new bodyguard, especially if they are to be my personal guard.”

“How do you wish to test my skill then?” I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued. I turn slowly back towards them.

“If you can get past my security guards to me by the end of the week the job is yours.”

I had already done recon for a week straight on him and his company. I never go in blind if I can help it. I show none of this on my face and merely ask “Against your current security?”

“Is that going to be a problem?” sneers the manager

“No. I was just curious if you planned to add additional help for this little test.”

The boss laughed until he turned red in the face.

“That won't be necessary “ he finally gets out, wiping a tear from his face.

I slid my card to Jin giving him a cold smile.

“I will be seeing you later.”

They would expect me to need prep time. They would expect me to start following them tomorrow at best. I am not a woman who wastes time

. I leave their building and lose their attempt at a tail in less than 5 minutes. Taking a long way round I still beat Jin to his apartment. It takes me a few minutes to get set up and then all I have to do is wait.

When he finally does come home I tranq him, tie him up, and place him into a large moving box, set the box on a hand truck and “move” him out. Dressed as someone from a moving company, no one even looked twice at me.

Jin finally wakes up to find himself tied to a chair in a mostly empty warehouse. The panic and confusion last until I step out from the shadows. I'm holding a small food container which I set on a nearby rickety table.

“Dinner?” I ask smirking at his utterly bemused face.

“How?...” he croaked.

I walk to him slowly flicking open my knife. His eyes go a little wide.

I keep eye contact with him and say  “I'm good at what I do. I'm prepared. I don't waste time” he doesn't notice me cut the zip ties until I start to walk away.

“I'm sorry for the way my manager treated you.”

“Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”  I continue walking away and from the shadows, I say “I’ve passed your test, your guards have alerted of your location, let me know your answer by the end of the week”  

Present. 

Did I end up staying three years out of spite? Because the manager didn't think I could do it? Did I stay the three years because I'd made a family with him and Bong-soon? Who knows at this point.

Three years? I've had his back for three fucking years. Now I sit in an almost empty park with a manila envelope clutched in my hands, fighting tears. It's over. One stupid party that I was tricked into going to.  I shouldn't have made friends. I should have moved on. I was a fool to think we were friends. 

I end up at the gym. I have too much pent up shit to just go home. I go home like this and Griz will want to talk. I don't want to talk about it. I can't talk about it yet. I lift weights for a while. But it doesn't help. I look for someone to spare with but the dangerous look in my eyes keeps them from saying yes. It's probably for the best. I find a mostly secluded punching bag. I place my headphones in and start wailing on the bag. It felt good to go all out. I wouldn't have been able to do this in the ring. I focus on my breathing and the impact of my punches. The world shrinks down to this. I plan to go until I can't. That way I can go home and pass out. I don't know how much time has passed when I feel a hand land on my back. No hesitation and I have whoever was attached to the hand pinned to the ground. Shit...

I take a deep breath and loosen my grip stepping away from them.

“Can I help you?” I make no move to help them up merely take out my headphones.  The man turns to face me on the mat.  I've seen them in the gym before, but we’ve never spoken. I've caught him eyeing me a couple times pretending that he wasn’t He has pale blonde hair and pale blue eyes. An almost baby face that I bet he uses to fool a lot of people. Oddly he has an amused look on his face.

“That is one way to say hello.”

He gets off the mat and dusts off his pants.

“Can I help you,” I repeat, not in the mood for small talk.

“To the point. I like it.” he holds out a card but I don't take it.

“Can you get to the point?”

“My name is Eric. How would you like to make some good money?”

“Doing what?” I still don't take the card.

“ Fighting,” he says simply hand not wavering in its offering position. I take the card slowly.

“Boxing? MMA? Kickboxing?” I look down at the light blue card that only his name and a number on it.

“Underground,” he says with a smile. “Where the real money is.”

“Why should I trust you?” I scoff.

“Why trust anyone?  Let me know if you're interested” and he walks away from me and out of the gym.  Not once looking back.

I look back down at the simple business card in my hands.

I think about the other offers I've had. Once word had gotten out that I was on the market they came flooding in. I'd give everyone the same answer. “I'm on vacation. A sabbatical of sorts.”  it was nice to know that I was still wanted, but I found that I couldn't even bear to look at the details of the offers. Standing at the gym covered in sweat I realize the reason. I was waiting for a phone call that was never going to come. I was holding out hope that I could pull my small makeshift family back together. I wasn't ready to face the fact that it was only a job. I tuck the card into my bag and turn back to the punching bag.

Underground fighting huh? There are worse ways to distract myself. 

=========

Well... that escalated quickly. 

BTS X Reader AU - Y/N has been a bodyguard for the actor Kim Seok-Jin for the last 3 years. In her spare time she tends to her garden, works out, and hangs out with her eccentric roommate. She is happy with her job but what happens when she gets a chance to live her dream again?

*Her code name in the personal security field is Foxglove.* 

<Chapter 9 / Chapter 11> 

#bts texts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts scenarios #bts fake texts #bangtang social media au #bangtang boys #bangtang fake texts #Let Go AU

[trashfics]

Foxgloves ://: Chapter 2

Summary: Y/N was content living a normal life. Well, as normal as her life could be with the power to stun and cause death (in extreme conditions) with just a touch of her hand. Let’s just say gloves are a girl’s best friend, not diamonds. When the Winter Soldier surfaced, she was called in by Director Nick Fury to assist Captain America in fighting against a corrupt SHIELD. To the world, she is known as Foxgloves, the girl with poisons touch. To her team, she’s a mystery, coming out of nowhere, with her amazing combat skills and poisonous touch, to be recruited into their little group of super humans. Nobody knew of her origin, until Helmut Zemo’s plans consist of more than exposing the Winter Soldier as Howard and Martha Stark’s killer. Warnings: Mild cursing, CA: Civil War Spoilers, Mentions of Human Experimentation, A Little Bit of Fluff. A/N: Second chapter, woo! Feedback is always welcome! (F/I/C = Favourite ice cream) Word Count: 2,500k+ Last Chapter: [X] {I lean against him, giving some comfort, and pull his phone out. Unlocking it, I pull up the latest text that reads “She’s gone. In her sleep.”}

After consoling Steve about the passing of his first love, I go back to my room and take a nice, warm shower to calm my mind. All the ‘what if’s’ were flowing in and out at 100 mph, causing the bubbling of a headache. Sighing, I put on some calming music and allow my brain to whisk me away from reality.

Flashback.

I awake to the sound of someone entering my cell. I hear a man’s rough voice speaking in a foreign language, Russian maybe.  The feeling of a heavily calloused hand startles me, causing my body to jerk away. The man grunts something out, pulling me to my feet and leading me out of isolation. I hear the crying and screaming of various people, kids to adults, as I walk through a slim hallway. Glancing into the cell closest to me, I see a boy around my age with eyes and patches of skin like a snake. In another, I see a woman, maybe in her 30’s, with pitch black wing protruding from her back, caked in dry blood.

A shiver runs down my spine as we stop at a heavily guarded door. Nausea floods my body and my senses are in overdrive. The man who brought me here types in a code, causing the metal doors to open. He shoves me in, his grip on my arm bruising. Bringing me up to a medical bed, he stops and commands me to lay down. I follow his orders, not wanting to be beaten, and climb onto the stiff mattress. An IV is stuck into my arm and I fall unconscious.

Flashback Ends.

A single tear falls down my cheek. I breath in a ragged breath as I turn the water off. I absolutely hated re-living those memories. The ones that remind me about how I gained my ‘powers’. Wrapping a towel around myself, I walk into my room and change into the classic ‘I’m not a superhero’ outfit, which consists of a baseball cap, sunglasses, a random t-shirt, jeans, a jacket, sneakers, and a pair of faux leather gloves. Taking the lift down to the lobby, I inform F.R.I.D.A.Y that I was going out. “If anyone ask where I am, please tell them at the park a few blocks away.”

Walking out of the lavish building, I start on my trek to the small park that grants me peace of mind. I first stumbled upon when I first started living in the tower. Being knew to New York and all, I was lost and walking aimlessly around. I was looking for a café or some quiet place to eat, but I ended up at a small park. This park had a calming aura about it, with its little pretzel stand and playground, crawling with children and parents alike. I sit down on a bench and look up at the sky. The sun was starting to set so the clouds were full of pinks, oranges, and lavenders.

A soft smile graces my lips as I hear the familiar ringing of the ice cream cart that comes around during the afternoons, allowing children to get a treat before returning home. I get up and walk towards the old man wearing a light blue button up and white apron. Looking up, he smiles noticing my presence. “Y/N, it’s nice to see you again.” he says making his way over to hug me.

Charles was the lovely ice cream peddler who help me find my way back to the tower after getting lost. After I started to frequent the park, we started talking and getting to know each other. I learned that his wife had passed a few years ago, leaving him with their aging basset hound, Duke. Sometimes Duke accompanies his owner, enjoying the attention he gets from the small children. In all honesty, Charles is like the grandfather I never had. I love hearing his stories about his childhood, the ups and downs.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, was startin’ to think you forgot about lil’ old me.” I chuckle lightly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry about that, work has been hectic lately.” He looks up at me, giving me a knowing smile. “I know, saw what had happened in Lagos on the news.”

Charles found out I was an Avenger shortly after I was injured after a mission and walked with a limp for a few weeks. He gave me advice on how to heal properly and took care of me, making sure I didn’t strain myself. He hands me a cone of F/I/C, turning to serve the next customer. After talking for a little, I leave with a promise to visit Duke and him soon and start on my way back to the tower.

Once I get back, I change into one of Sam’s shirt that I stole during laundry day and a pair of cotton shorts. Entering the living room, I find Sam and Steve sitting on one of the couches. “Hey boys, what’s got you two up so late?” I ask, propping myself up on the arm of the couch.

“We were just talking about what has happened in the past few days.” Steve said, sadness clear in his voice. “We were also talking about Peggy’s funeral, it’s the same day as the signing of the Accord.” Sam informs me, causing Steve to sigh. “Please don’t bring the Accords up, I just don’t like the idea of being monitored and told what we can and can’t do.”

I nod in agreement, getting up to get water from the kitchen. “Hey, is that my shirt?” I hear Sam call after me, causing me to giggle as I grab one of the water bottles from the fridge. “It was your shirt, but now it’s mine.” I say as I walk back in, a smirk playing on my lips. “Miss Y/L/N, Mr. Stark requests your presence in the lab.” I groan, rolling my eyes and telling F.R.I.D.A.Y that I’ll be down in a few minutes. After what happened earlier I don’t know if I should be relived or worried that Tony wants to talk.

Walking towards the lift, I am stopped by a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, I am met with Steve looking down at me. “I know you didn’t know Peggy for that long, but would you be willing to accompany Sam and I to London? If you’re not going to Vienna of course.” I sigh, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll get back to you on that Stevie, okay?” I reach out to pat his arm, pausing once I realize my mistake. “Sorry.” I mumble turning around and darting towards the lift, going down to the lab.

The bell chimes, signaling I have reached my destiantion. Sighing, I run my hand down my face, re-living the events of what happened that last time I was down here. Let’s just say it ended with a small explosion of one of Tony’s creations, due to me kicking it around as I spoke to him about a new tactical glove design.  ‘It’s not my fault that it looked like a soccer ball…’ I think as I walk up to the glass doors, knocking lightly. Tony perks up and signals for the doors to open.

Walking in, I am greeted with the sight of various contraptions and experiment. It seemed a little lonely too, seeing as Bruce is still MIA. “Hey Stark, what’s up?” I say, leaning against one of the silver tables. He turns to me, a screwdriver in hand. “I wanted to talk about what happened earlier.” I raise an eyebrow, gesturing for him to go on. ‘This is rare, he usually never apologizes.’

“Y/N, let me just start off by saying, you know I wouldn’t have went to such extreme measures if I didn’t think we needed to be put back in our place. The body count is way too high, the blood we’ve shed is limitless. Hell, we’ve destroyed a whole country!” he pauses, noticing his harsh tone and taking in a shallow breath before beginning again. “The Avengers are supposed to protect the world, not kill it. New York, Sokovia, anywhere we’ve had a major fight, was left with devastation and destruction and I don’t know if I can keep going on with that anymore.” His brown eyes look distraught, the dark circles underneath a deep purple.

When Tony is stressed out, he locks himself in the lab for days at a time. He does anything he can to take his mind off whatever is troubling him using methods varying from liquor to sleep deprivation. Honestly, it hurts me to see him like this. Sure, he can be quite the jerk, but he does what he thinks will be best for everyone, even if it comes with consequences. 

Finding a pair of gloves lying on the table, I put them on and pull him into a hug. I can see where he’s coming from, hell, I was there when Sokovia went down. I saw all the people lying dead and injured in the streets, they’re faces still haunt me to this day. “Tony, when was the last time you got more than 30 minutes of sleep?” I murmur into his ear.

He chuckles, pulling away and asks “Would you be mad if I said I don’t remember?” Smiling softly, I walk over to one of the cabinets and pull out a pillow and blanket. Sitting on top of one of the empty table, I pat the space next to me, signaling for him to lay down. He shakes his head, as he lounges on his side, placing his head on my lap. I lay the blanket on him and run my fingers through his hair, causing him to relax.

“I’m not going to the signing in Vienna,” I start, sighing and glancing down at him, seeing him mumble that he knows. “I’ll be in London with Steve and Sam; Peggy’s funeral is the same day.” I pause, noticing his eyes start to droop. “You know I’m always a phone call away and always up to talk. Let me know how it goes, okay? And if there’s anything you need me to pick up, an ‘I love London’ shirt maybe.” I smile as he begins nodding off. He pulls the blanket tighter around him and I get up, maneuvering his head onto the pillow. Before I leave, I place a chaste kiss on his forehead. Somehow, I always end up looking after Starks.

A few days later, it’s absolute chaos. Apparently, a bomb went off during the signing in Vienna, injuring and killing many. After getting a call from Natasha, I bombarded her with questions about her well-being first and then she briefs me on what went down, Sam and I race to the hotel that Sharon, Peggy’s niece was staying at. Once explaining what we know so far in the elevator, we head to Sharon’s room, watching the news feed.

“A bomb hidden in a news van ripped through the UN building in Vienna. More than 70 people have been injured. At least 12 are dead, including Wakanda’s King T’Chaka.” I grimace, watching the aftermath as Sharon tries to find out more about what happened. “Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier.” I sucked in a harsh breath at the mention of that name. Glancing over at Steve, his features are like stone. “The infamous HYDRA agent linked to numerous acts of terrorism and political assassinations.” Sharon, who’s finally off the phone, walks up next to Steve. “I have to go to work.”

We make our way to Bucharest, with the help of a certain blonde agent. This is where James has most likely been hiding out, somewhere lowkey, a country that nobody would bother thinking of housing the infamous ex-sniper. Steve and I walk into his flat, dressed in our combat suits with Sam watching from the sky. It’s small, with a mattress lying on the floor and worn couch resting against the kitchen island. It feels homey, to say the least.

Steve finds a notebook on top of the fridge and starts snooping, while I look around. Sam comes in of the radio, “Heads up, guys. German Special Forces, approaching from the south.” Making my way back into the living area from the bathroom, I pause. Standing there in a black baseball cap and red Henley is no other than Bucky Barnes, trust me, those baby blue eyes are permanently etched into my memory. “Steve,” I start, my voice soft as James looks at me. A flash of recognition crosses his features, it fading away as quickly as it came. “We have company.”

Steve turns around, the floor boards under him creaking. Looking over his estranged best friend, he sighs. “Do you know me?” There’s a moment of silence before James replies. “You’re Steve.” His hair is longer, well kept, I note mentally. I like it. “I read about you in a museum.”

I walk towards the door, getting ready for an attack and Sam warns that the GSF are here. “And you,” I turn my head, looking towards the face of a haunted man, “’You’re Y/N,” my eyes widen, ‘Does he remember?’ I think, “I saw you in the newspaper.” I nod, kind of sad but relieved at the same time. Nobody needs to know how I know the Winter Soldier.

“I know you’re nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be.” Steve pauses, placing the notebook down. “But you’re lying.” Sensing the people coming up the stairs, I inch closer towards the door leading to the stairwell.

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.” Sounds his gravelly voice, the voice that I’ve come to miss. Him and Steve talk some more, Steve warning him of the upcoming fight. Sam chimes in briefly, “They’re entering the building.” I get ready, tucking myself into the little corridor that leads to the bathroom. “They’re on the roof, I’m compromised.” ‘Well, fuck.’ I think, checking to make sure everything is loaded and in their proper places.

“It always ends in a fight.” Sighs James, pulling the glove off his left hand, the silver plates shining. “You pulled me from the river. Why?” Questions Steve, James looking up at him and saying “I don’t know.” “Three seconds.” Warns Sam as I get ready by the door. “Yes, you do.” “Steve, this really isn’t the time for an interrogation.” I mumble, causing James to look over at my crouching figure.

“Breach! Breach! Breach!” announces Sam as a smoke bomb is thrown inside. Steve reacts immediately, covering it with his shield. I hear shouting in German, as a bullet breaks through the wall, which James stops with the mattress, while the door is pounded on. A table is thrown as two of the windows are kicked in, James coming face to face with one of the soldiers. Steve pulls the carpet out from under the other one, causing him to shoot wildly at the ceiling. The door to the balcony is opened, Steve grabbing the soldier’s gun and turning it away, while James kicks him in the chest.

“Buck! Stop! You’re gonna kill someone.” I hear Steve shout as he’s knocked down. James breaks the flooring next to the blonde’s head, pulling out a military style backpack. “I’m not gonna kill anyone.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #winter solider x reader #winter soldier imagine #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #ca:cw #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #winter soldier x female reader

[izanyas]

Venture Out Of Boredom (3)

More of Hyacinthe being a little Shit ft. haru and more arcobalenos. Also, plot. Rated T Warnings: swearing

Venture Out Of Boredom Chapter 3

Are you still in Japan?

This is the first message Hyacinthe has gotten from Mammon in almost a week, now. It's what greets him when he opens his eyes to one of the Sawada household's many guest rooms this morning. For a couple minutes he blinks tiredly at the screen of his phone and regrets that he stopped wearing glasses when he was fourteen.

He knows Mammon is bad at texting. Hyacinthe himself is terrible about remembering to stay in contact with people he cares about, and though years of being close to Mammon prevent him from falling into the usual cycle of delusions about them hating him, he still hasn't made much of an effort. It's not the first time they stay days without keeping in touch at all. Mammon is an assassin. The job occasionally requires that they not contact anyone they know for weeks at a time. Hyacinthe himself is firmly turned off the concept of constant communication with anyone anyway. The last person he dated was like this, and he doesn't think he can live through that twice.

He thinks he and Mammon had been going somewhere different before he left, though. That they had reached a sort of comfort zone together, a rhythm, a pattern. That they had both been more open and relaxed than ever before together. It's perhaps his one regret. He still only has two pages out of the two hundred and thirty-four that the manuscript he's seeking comprises; he's nowhere closer to getting it back than he was when he arrived.

He shouldn't have stayed.

Yeah, he texts back hesitantly. I'm sorry this is taking so long. And, though this isn't something that they do, he adds: I miss you.

He waits for a few minutes, heart beating fast in his chest. There is no answer.

Hyacinthe knows himself enough to realize he's being affected by more than just a fleeting bad mood. He fights the hole inside his guts enough to sit up and then stand; he puts on clean clothes and, in the empty bathroom, splashes cold water over his face. When he looks into the mirror he looks paler than usual, and his hair is black, no red in sight.

He resists the urge to punch the glass.

"Nice," Bianchi says when he gets downstairs; she's looking at the foxglove-printed leggings he's wearing with a glint in her eyes that doesn't bode anything good for the rest of the day.

Hyacinthe peeks into the coffee pot carefully. Reborn, seated at the end of the table, pours himself a new cup and drinks it smugly; Hyacinthe knows better than to think the man isn't immune to everything in Bianchi's possession, though.

"Good morning," Reborn says.

"You look better without the suit jacket," Hyacinthe replies.

The man smiles mysteriously.

He does look suspiciously smartly-dressed. He has on the same sort of suit that he did when they met and he swept Hyacinthe's heavy body into his arms like it weighed nothing; his hat is off, nothing masks how horrid his hair looks without anything covering it. He's still the sexiest man Hyacinthe has ever laid eyes on.

Hyacinthe clenches his fists as he sits down in front of Reborn, and he takes a large gulp of his coffee before realizing that he forgot to check if anything was in it.

There's no reaction from Reborn except for that same all-knowing stare he gives everything and everyone impartially. Hyacinthe has yet to meet anyone he doesn't look at like this. He says he and Bianchi have been coworkers before and that he has great respect for her—but his eyes are thankfully as devoid of meaning when he looks at Gokudera's sister as they are when turned to Hyacinthe himself, or Tsuna. The way he glances at Nana is perhaps a little less terrible. Hyacinthe doesn't feel too jealous of this fact, because he can relate.

"We'll be going out today," Reborn announces after putting his cup back onto the table. Nana saunters in from the kitchen with a smile and a hum; it's not until Bianchi snaps her fingers in Hyacinthe's face that he realizes he's staring at her.

"Right," he says dumbly.

Bianchi smiles. It makes uneasy shivers run up his spine.

"You have an appointment with Ylva Byquist today," Reborn continues.

"Whom?"

"Hayato's English teacher," Bianchi replies. Her voice is almost as low as Hyacinthe's.

"Oh." Hyacinthe recalls the strawy person he saw on the day the monster-kid beat half of this house's inhabitants to death. "Right."

Then he bites the inside of his cheek, because Reborn takes a piece of paper out of his sleeve where it's apparently been rolled carefully this entire time; it could've gotten stained by coffee or sweat or torn—

Hyacinthe makes a grab at it and finds himself upended on the floor.

He didn't even see Reborn move, let alone trip him and his chair alike.

"I'll be testing your abilities tonight," Reborn says above him, waving the page into his face. "Tsuna and the others are already out for school and will later join with their friends Kyoko and Haru."

These names are new. "How many friends does Tsuna have?" Hyacinthe asks tiredly.

Reborn smiles unpleasantly. "As many as needed."

--

The problem that follows is a predictable one. Hyacinthe has only gone the way to Tsuna's school accompanied, once, almost a week ago; he has no idea where to go now. The map he got on his first day has been mysteriously destroyed, leaving only singed remains behind; the reception of his phone turns exceptionally bad as soon as he leaves the house, which makes him suspect foul play, as this is a Vongola phone, supposed to work in nuclear wastelands.

"Whatever," he mutters. The day is cloudy and smells like rain. He doesn't have an umbrella with him. He's too pissed to come back to the house and subject Nana to his temper—or worse, to Reborn's—and he doesn't want to be here anymore when Shamal or whoever else he hasn't met yet arrives.

He doesn't think Reborn can pull anyone worse than Shamal out of his endless pockets, but he's not willing to put his theory to the test either.

Hyacinthe sticks a cigarette between his teeth and holds up his thumb and index to its extremity; a tiny lick of blue burns bright for a moment, catching the end of the paper and tobacco on fire; at the same time, a wave of calm crashes over him and soothes every muscle in his back.

He takes a deep breath of the smoke. It crawls into his lungs, warm and familiar, and as it comes back out of his lips he feels his brain turn off and buzz pleasantly.

He feels tired as soon as the blue flame flickers out of existence, but it's worth it, even if Sawada Iemitsu's unpleasant voice is ringing in his ear disapprovingly: "Your Flame isn't a damn zoloft pill, Faure."

Sawada can fuck right off.

Hyacinthe doesn't remember which way to go. All the streets of this residential area look the same to him. At one point he walks past a school that isn't the one he's looking for—it's smaller for once, with big grey walls surrounding it, and the one student he can see at the entrance looks better dressed than Tsuna and his classmates.

"Excuse me," he says in Japanese, trying to get close to the girl.

All she does is scream and throw the cardboard cutout thing she was holding at his face. "Ow," he yells when it shoves itself into his eyes; he starts tearing up from the pain immediately and suffers a brief incandescent bout of crushing fear that he's lost his eye altogether.

"Oh no!" the girl says, in English but still at screaming volume. "Oh no, I'm so sorry!"

Hyacinthe is bowing forward now, holding his eye with both hands. His half-smoked cigarette is still stuck between his fingers.

"God damn it," he swears lowly, and the hesitant steps he heard approaching falter a little; when he blinks his uninjured wet eye open he can see the blur of the girl's silhouette cut out against the wall of her school.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats. "I thought a monster was attacking me."

By this point Hyacinthe is too angry to get any angrier. He resists the urge to insult her or kick the wall she's leaning on as hard as he can and draws in a large breath. "It's nothing."

"I may have pierced you eyeball!" she screams.

It makes his heart beat faster with the fear of it, but he clenches down on the terror and cuts in, "Calm down. I'm okay."

"Really?" she asks shakily.

Slowly, he takes his hand back and wipes the tears from his right eye. There's no trace of blood on his fingers, and the pain is already receding. He carefully opens his eye and looks toward her.

"See?" he says.

Now that he has both eyes at his disposal again, and the ability to blink restored, he can see that she's on the verge of crying herself. There's a faint shiny spot under her nostrils and she's completely red with shame.

It makes his anger recede. She's just a kid. "I'm all good," he says, and he tries to smile reassuringly.

All it does is make a sob rip out of her throat and tears flow down her face, and she starts wailing right where she is.

A bell rings from her school but she doesn't move. Hyacinthe is stuck in place, his eye still hurting from the blow even though he can see mostly fine. He brings his now unlit cigarette back to his lips and rummages through his pockets for a lighter.

It's snatched out of his fingers before he can do anything with it.

"Smoking is bad!" the girl says. Her eyes are dry now.

"O-kay," Hyacinthe replies. He thinks about dropping his cigarette but reconsiders, because the girl is holding his wrist tighter and tighter by the second. Hyacinthe doesn't like being held like this at all; he picks his pack from out of his jeans and puts the cold stick back in, grimacing at the thought of how bad it'll smell later.

The girl releases him immediately. "I'm very sorry for hurting you, Ma'am," she says.

Hyacinthe doesn't correct her because he doesn't think he can bear seeing her have another meltdown. "Uh, it's okay. No harm done."

She bows even lower, and she yells at the ground, "Please let me help you in any way I can!"

"It's alright." He's getting tired now. He only wanted to ask for directions. "Um… do you know where Namimori Middle School is?"

She straightens up and eyes him, suspicious once more. "What do you want with Nami Middle?"

"I've got an appointment there," he grunts out. "Look, I'm already late and I got lost, I really just wanted to—"

"I'll take you there!" she exclaims.

She has her fist raised to the sky and everything. Hyacinthe has never met anyone who switches moods as fast as she does, and he's somewhat of an expert in the matter himself. "There's really no need for that," he says wearily.

"The walk will be good for me!"

"Don't you have school?"

"Self-study day!"

He eyes the cardboard thing she threw at him. Now he can see that she was painting it—half of a monster-looking thing has been colored in with explosive blues and yellows and reds. "Are you making the décor for a play?"

"No?" she replies, and she looks at him like he's lost his mind.

Hyacinthe keeps his mouth shut after that.

The girl doesn't stop talking the entire way to the school, however. If anything his silence seems to spur her on to mention every single shop she knows and everything she's doing at the moment. Hyacinthe eventually starts recognizing the streets they're going through and tries to tell her that she can go back to her own school now—but her lips tighten into a white, worried line, and she says in a low voice: "I'm here on a reconnaissance mission, truly."

He's so, so tired. "A what?" he asks.

The girl looks to her left and right dramatically. "The man I intend to marry goes to this school… I want to see if he's okay. We haven't talked in more than a week and he was very injured when—"

Oh, no, Hyacinthe thinks. He can feel his attention wavering as she speaks like it's been trying to for at least ten minutes; his eyesight glazes over and he feels how tense his shoulders are, almost aching, and how much he craves the last half of the cigarette he never finished.

The sky opens above them and rain starts pouring down.

"Fucking hell," he cries out. The girl yelps, and he's not in a much better position himself. It's icy, he gets drenched within thirty seconds of standing in it, and there's nothing to do but run toward the entrance of the school.

Hyacinthe hates running.

He does it anyway. He drags his body toward the hall he can see in the distance, the girl already way ahead of him. His breaths come out sounding like whistles, and there's pain in his side, because he never exercises his body in any way.

Eventually he does reach the entrance and slides onto the wet floor there; the girl is barely wheezing, her face flushed healthily where his must be beet red. He leans against a row of lockers and tries to regulate his heartbeat.

A towel is thrown at his face. He chokes a little and almost falls to the floor, only managing to stay upright because his shoes are expensive and not too prone to sliding on anything. He's fully ready to scream by the time he takes the offending thing out of his face.

"Hibari-san," the girl says happily, and Hyacinthe stares into the grey eyes of the boy-monster who knocked out three other boys, two of which were taller than him.

It's not just childish amazement that makes him falter. There's an aura to this kid that makes him feel the way he does around Belphegor whenever the mad prince waltzes into Mammon's suite at the Varia estate. Like bloodlust is hanging onto every breath he takes in his presence.

The boy says something to him, and a shiver runs along his body. The girl next to Hyacinthe nods and translates, "He says someone's waiting for you. I didn't catch the name."

"Ylva something," Hyacinthe replies softly.

The boy—Hibari—looks at him with disdain for a second longer. Then he turns on his heels and lets his jacket billow dramatically behind him as he walks away. Another boy is waiting for him at the end of the hallway, and he follows into Hibari's steps like Hibari is a figure of supreme authority. Despite being half as tall.

For a moment there's only silence. The girl looks at him with a kind of curiosity that wasn't there before and which reminds Hyacinthe, a little strikingly, of Tsuna's.

Hyacinthe takes a breath. He pushes himself upright and drags the towel down his face before he speaks. "Thank you for taking me here."

"It's no problem," she chirps, still in that careful voice.

Well. She knows Hibari. Which makes it very likely that she is connected to the mess he is in, somehow.

Though he can feel himself regretting it already, he asks: "What's your name?"

She looks stricken with guilt at his words. "I completely forgot! I'm Haru Miura."

Hyacinthe looks up at the ceiling. He has no doubt that Reborn could've planned for this meeting to happen the way that it did, but also, he would really like to know why the man bothered at all.

Hyacinthe doesn't plan on becoming a fixed thing here. He misses home.

He misses Mammon.

With his throat weirdly knotted, he smiles, and extends his hand: "I'm Hyacinthe Faure. Just call me Cen." She shakes his hand enthusiastically before peeking at the corridors they can see from where they are, and he remembers in a flash that she's basically admitted to being a stalker.

"Um."

"I don't think you should be staying here," he says worriedly. "You should go back to your school."

"Excuse me—"

"But I wanna see Tsuna-san," she pouts, and he feels his heart sink. "If you know Hibari-san then you must know him, right? He practically told us we could, there's no need to hurry out—"

"I don't want to stay here a minute longer than I fu—"

"Excuse me," someone practically screams, and something hits Hyacinthe's back hard enough to make him topple forward.

And truly, he's been holding back for a long while now, so he turns around and snarls, "Fucking watch it, dude."

In front of him stands the tiny teacher he's supposed to be meeting. He'd feel worse about yelling if he wasn't dripping wet and cold and nicotine-deprived and probably in the middle of a bout of acute depression, but even so, the sight the person makes is enough to make a tiny hint of pity prick at his conscience.

Hyacinthe is tall compared to most people. He's tall compared to this person too, and they're thinner than he can ever remember being—skinnier than Mammon, even. Their hair is probably dyed but it might as well have greyed naturally for the sheer panic on the other's face.

Still, he doesn't apologize.

"You're… Mr Faure, right?" they ask. Their voice sounds terrified, but most of all their English is weird—Hyacinthe doesn't think he's ever heard this sort of accent before.

"Right," he replies. "You're that English teacher. Ylva—something."

"Byquist," Ylva Byquist says helpfully.

"Okay." He's never going to remember it. "Can I call you Ylva?"

The other's eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Next to Hyacinthe Miura Haru is hunching forward with curiosity on her face, and when Ylva takes a look at her theirs grows even paler. They look ready to just fade out altogether.

They swallow. "I suppose that's okay."

"Great," and Hyacinthe makes himself smile and his shoulders slouch. His voice is sweeter when it comes out. "I'm sorry for being late. I got lost."

"That's quite alright," the other murmurs.

They're still looking at Haru like they can wish her into non-existence just by staring. She doesn't seem to catch their intent at all, because she says, "I'll wait for you here, Mr Faure," with a winning smile on her face.

Please go away, he doesn't say. "Ts—Everyone's probably in class."

She's not listening. She's already taking off her shoes and shoving them into the first free locker she finds. Then she's simply gone, leaving only a dark laugh behind.

"I hope she doesn't get killed," Ylva says in an even voice, and Hyacinthe decides that he's just going to ignore everything for the day. He's not staying in this school longer than he absolutely has to.

"Reborn told you what he wants from us?" He asks them.

They nod. "For me to teach you Japanese. I'm not sure what your level is, though…"

"I watched a lot of anime as a kid," Hyacinthe says, hopeful.

Ylva's mouth becomes weirdly pinched at the corners.

It turns out that the teacher has their own office somewhere on the third floor. Hyacinthe and Ylva walk there in uncomfortable silence, and Hyacinthe uses this time to towel off the worst of the wet. He rids himself of his black sweater and ends up wearing only his leggings and a tank top. "Sorry," he says when he bumps into them accidentally as they walk—Ylva doesn't reply, simply looks at him a little despairingly.

Their office is tiny. Just enough to host a table, shelves and drawers, and two chairs. The second chair looks like it probably had to be squeezed in. Even so, Hyacinthe sits down and stretches until his back cracks satisfyingly.

Ylva is still looking at him like they want to tell him he's doing something extremely inappropriate. It makes him feel self-conscious, which makes him feel irritated.

"Do I have something on my face, Ylva?" he asks evenly.

"No," Ylva says. They look like they'd welcome death with open arms. "Uh, it's nothing. Sorry."

For what? he thinks. He cracks a knuckle one-handed under the table to let out the tension he's feeling, but it doesn't help much. He wishes he could spark another lick of blue Flame between his fingers without risking a fainting spell.

Ylva makes a show of rummaging through their drawers, but it's useless; with the space the second chair takes they had to pull back their desk, therefore making opening most of its storage space impossible.

In the end, they rest their trembling fingers atop the desk itself and ask, monotonous: "You're not… like Reborn, are you?"

"I wish he'd take my name, or I his," Hyacinthe replies. "But other than that, I have nothing to do with his admittedly gorgeous ass."

They make a soft, squeaking sound, that after a second Hyacinthe realizes is terror.

He frowns. "Is there something wrong?"

"Look," they say lowly. Their lips are barely moving but their eyes are darting around like they're expecting the walls to open up around them. "I never asked for any of this. If my mom back home knew I was getting involved with assassins and—and kids who act like criminals—"

"Is Hibari that bad?"

"Hibari-kun is wonderful," Ylva replies with pride in their voice. "He's just… a little rough at the edges."

"He's strong enough that Reborn wants to make him into a full-blown mafioso," Hyacinthe says dryly.

He realizes too late that he probably shouldn't have said the m word without making sure Ylva was in the know. But all Ylva does is look more distressed than they did earlier and keep speaking in the same distressingly even wheeze of a voice.

"All I'm saying," they murmur, "is that I don't want to get in trouble with Reborn. So I'll teach you Japanese. But please stop hitting on me."

"Please stop—" Hyacinthe chokes a little. He coughs. "I'm not hitting on you!"

Ylva covers their ears with the palms of their hands dramatically. "I don't want Reborn to come after me and my family because he thinks you and I are having an affair! Don't involve me in your relationship with him!"

"Oh my God," Hyacinthe snarls, face burning red with embarrassment. He resists the urge to physically hide like a child and instead takes hold of Ylva's wrists firmly, trying to make the other lift their head and look at him. "I'm not in any sort of relationship with Reborn," he hisses.

"I'm not judging," Ylva says, the skin of their face turning almost translucent, "I just don't want anything to do with—"

Hyacinthe's heart is beating against his palate and his entire head feels hot with the blood rushing there. Even his neck is throbbing. He tugs on Ylva's forearms, making them lean forward over the tabletop. "I'm not," he repeats.

"Um," Ylva squeaks, looking somewhere into Hyacinthe's neckline.

"I would—no," Hyacinthe cuts himself off, and he accidentally spits out the word as he does. "Look. Reborn doesn't care about me. I don't care about him more than superficially. It's all good."

Ylva drags their eyes up slowly. "I just wanted to have a good, stable job," they plead.

And Hyacinthe would like to be able to answer in kind, but the truth is, he always knew he was getting into the sort of mess you don't get out of. "I understand. I swear you're not in any danger." Nothing more dangerous than Hibari, at least.

"He just sounded so authoritative," Ylva says with a deep exhale. "So emotional. Like he really really needed you to be here. He's never been this desperate before. Not even about Hibari-kun."

Hyacinthe distracts himself from the thought of hearing Reborn speak to him in all sorts of authoritative ways by staring fixedly at the hint of light brown hair growing out of Ylva's scalp. He catches himself before letting his fingers touch the crown of the other's hair by automatism. "Right."

Slowly, he releases Ylva. Ylva leans back into their chair until their stomach is no longer being stabbed by the corner of the table.

After a long moment of silence, they say, "I'm sorry," a little mortified.

Hyacinthe's face is still hot with shame. "It's fine," he replies.

Ylva doesn't say anything when he lights a cigarette indoors. Not even when he uses his Flame again to light it and almost loses consciousness to the feeling of soothing warmth spreading through his limbs and numbing every emotion he's feeling all at once.

--

He's groggy all through Ylva's lesson, when the teacher eventually manages to reign in their fear and embarrassment enough to actually teach him. At least Hyacinthe is a quick learn. He takes to languages naturally by virtue of already being fluent in three; the writing and reading is going to be tougher to master, but he's confident that he can learn to communicate verbally rather easily within a couple months of daily lessons. It helps that Ylva is also a good teacher, when they're not too busy looking tiredly into empty space as if waiting for certain death.

The aching fatigue in his limbs doesn't alleviate on his way back to Nana's house. The atmosphere is still heavy with rain, though it's not pouring anymore. There's not drizzle but the air is so wet he feels like every breath is drowning his lungs in icy water. Miura Haru went off with his lighter earlier and he hasn't seen her since coming back out of Ylva's office. The only person he has crossed paths with was Hibari, who was perched on top of a flight of stairs right outside the door. The boy looked at Hyacinthe with squinty eyes until he was gone. Thankfully, he made no move to attack him.

Ylva seems to like the boy well enough. Hyacinthe can't relate, but then, Hyacinthe doesn't really like children at more than surface level. Just enough not to wish them harm. It comes with an unbalanced childhood, he learned once; and then he disregarded the info and decided that he didn't need a troubled past to dislike anyone. He could do that all on his own.

Mammon was there for that conversation, and he can still hear the way they laughed when he said it.

There's been no reply to his text from this morning. Maybe it's the cold weather, clinging damp and heavy on Hyacinthe's sleek black coat and to the salmon-pink silk scarf wrapped around his neck, but he feels like something terrible is looming overhead. He stops by a convenience store to get a new lighter and smokes as he walks, with his head lost in the clouds and dread filling his guts with every step he takes.

Two street corners away from Nana's house he sees someone he recognizes and looks down to avoid their eyes automatically—and then he raises them again and gasps.

There's no one. Hyacinthe is frozen with one foot behind, as if someone's hit pause on his walking cycle; when he takes the cigarette back from between his lips he does so slowly, thoughtlessly, and still staring as if he can make Dino Cavallone's silhouette materialize like he thought it did a second ago.

Why would Cavallone be here?

It takes a moment before Hyacinthe can make himself walk the rest of the way to Tsuna's house. The limo parked in front of it is already a bad sign as far as he's concerned, but it's the eagle perched atop the fence outside that truly gives him the chills.

Its little eyes are fixed onto Hyacinthe and glinting the way Fantasma's do. The way Leon's do. Clever and human-like.

Hyacinthe crosses the threshold of the gates with careful steps. The bird doesn't move, doesn't caw, doesn't attack; it just lets him through and follows him with its eyes until he reaches the door.

"Sure you want to get in?" says Reborn's voice behind him.

Hyacinthe's hand pauses on the handle.

He feels Reborn approach. In the corner of his eyes he can see that he's put a ridiculous transparent rain cape over his expensive black suit and that his awful hair is covered by a hat once more. For once the seriousness on his face seems real rather than faked.

"I'm staying here, aren't I?" Hyacinthe says lowly.

Reborn leans against the door and looks at him. Hyacinthe ignores the warmth that floods him at their proximity.

"You're an interesting one, Hyacinthe Faure," Reborn says in Italian. He sounds infinitely more like an asshole in his mother tongue. "If you'd come here a few weeks earlier I would've made a grand old time of you for Tsuna's sake."

Hyacinthe releases the handle and clenches his fist. "So you're really only keeping me here so I can be the convenient—" he can't say it. He hates saying it. There's anger boiling inside him that is born out of nothing more than the feeling of being used.

It's the feeling Hyacinthe hates the most in the world.

When Reborn speaks again he doesn't even deign answer. "Your presence is good but your timing is inconvenient. I have to admit," he tugs the hem of his fedora over his eyes to spread the shadow of it across his face, "I only borrowed this book because it contained many interesting spots of wildlife, filled with many interesting creatures. I thought I could use it for Tsuna's training."

"You had no right to—"

"I had no idea you'd be interesting," Reborn cuts him off. "That was my mistake. Timoteo must've been very careful with hiding you."

Hyacinthe blinks, mouth still open. He has no idea what Reborn is talking about. The Ninth has never hidden him from anyone. He isn't anything special. He hadn't even been a mafioso before he let his temper run wild in front of one who was looking to hire. He doesn't know how to express all of this, so he says: "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I ultimately don't care whether you live or die, though, or whether you have a lasting impact here," Reborn continues aloofly, as if Hyacinthe hasn't spoken. "But as a thank you for the fun I've had in the last few days, I'm going to offer you a choice."

He marks a pause here for effect, head bowed, hat shadowing his eyes.

"I am," Hyacinthe grits out, "this close to physically attempting to unhinge your jaw. And not in the sexy way either."

Reborn smiles at him, feral.

He touches Hyacinthe for the first time without attempting to play a trick on him; his hand rests on Hyacinthe's left shoulder patronizingly, and Hyacinthe feels the dread travel up from his stomach to the hollow of his neck.

"As of today the statu quo of Tsuna's life has changed," Reborn says without a hint of humor in him. "If you come inside and decide to stay, there won't be any going back for you. If you learn of what is happening tonight you'll be involved in the innermost secrets of the Family… you'll lose something. There's no guarantee that you'll gain anything in return."

You're scaring me, Hyacinthe thinks. It takes a second for the realization to come into full bloom.

It takes less than that for the irritation to take over.

"Fuck off," he says, knocking Reborn's hand off his shoulder. "I'm already part of the Family. I'm the Archivist of Vongola. I'm here on duty."

"Very well," Reborn says. "Maybe you should've thought on these words and their meaning a little longer, though."

"What do you—"

Reborn steps back suddenly; and the door Hyacinthe is halfway leaning on opens to the inside, making a strangled noise fall out of his mouth and his own body fall on top of someone else's.

"Pathetic, Colonello," Reborn scorns above them.

"Shut up!" the man under Hyacinthe roars. "Damn idiot. Are you okay?"

Hyacinthe turns his head backward to look at who he's sitting on. Blond hair and blue eyes and freckles. "Um," is all he says.

"Oh," says another voice.

Hyacinthe and the man he is considering staying on top of turn their heads to the newcomer; and it is yet another distressingly attractive man—who also looks distressingly like Hibari—standing in the corner of the hallway and observing them with a not very kind sort of laughter in his eyes.

"How many of you are there?" Hyacinthe wonders out loud.

"Who's this?" yet another voice comes, and it's one Hyacinthe recognizes this time, even before Sawada Iemitsu had time to walk into his line of sight and gawk at him. "Faure?"

"Advisor," Hyacinthe replies.

They stare at each other with equal parts surprise and antipathy.

The blond man starts squirming, eventually. Hyacinthe feels his face flare with heat and pushes himself off the other's stomach—he ignores the hand that the man in red who looks like Hibari extended in his direction.

Not-Hibari smiles at him darkly as he draws his hand back.

"Sorry," Hyacinthe says to the blond man.

"No problem," blond man growls.

Then he strides past him and Reborn and all the way to the giant bird keeping watch over the entrance like some sort of ancient spirit—the bird rises into the air majestically, and his sharp talons wrap themselves around the blond man's shoulder, as if it has done this all its life.

Hyacinthe wonders what it says about him that he doesn't know whether to keep staring at the bird or at the man's backside. He's always had a thing for army gear.

"What are you doing here, Faure?" Sawada Iemitsu says. His breath stinks with alcohol from where Hyacinthe is standing, but that's something Hyacinthe has come to expect from his few contacts with the man. "No one's supposed to be here."

"It sure raises some worrying questions," not-Hibari says. "Though I'm certain it's nice to meet you."

"Really?" Hyacinthe replies. "Because you don't sound certain at all."

"How did you find this house," Sawada keeps going. The look on his face is clearing out of drunk-out buzzed, and he's stepping forward, making Hyacinthe go back—until his back meets with Reborn's front and he looks up, only to see the hitman smirk down at him.

Sawada's hand flees to the lapels of his jacket where Hyacinthe knows he keeps his gun; and with growing anxiety he realizes that this time it won't be Dying Will Bullets flying out of it.

"Is that guy—uhh," the blond man says, peeking above Reborn's shoulder. "Sorry. Is that person the one who sold you out, then, Reborn?"

"I knew we shouldn't have let Croquant just hire whatever freak he wanted for that job—"

"Okay," Hyacinthe cuts in coldly. "Advisor, shut the fuck up."

Sawada splutters indignantly.

Hyacinthe rummages through the pockets inside his coat with trembling fingers. He doesn't remember when the last time he has touched the letter is but he thinks he's put it in this coat and not taken it out since—he almost cries in relief when the pad of his index hits soft, velvety quill paper. It's warm like a living thing from Nono's Flame seal on it.

Hyacinthe throws the slightly crumpled letter in Sawada's direction. "Read this."

The man still has his gun in hand. The barrel is out of sight but the handle is glinting in the evening light like an omen; still, he pauses, and takes the time to skim the letter. Nono's seal flares beautifully when Sawada brushes his own fingers against it.

"All right," he says, and spends another second putting the gun back inside its holster.

Hyacinthe breathes slowly. His heart is practically ripping itself out of his chest. "Now if someone wants to explain to me who these two—" he points at the blond man with one hand and not-Hibari with the other "—are, and what the head of CEDEF is doing here?"

"This is my house," Sawada says.

Hyacinthe stares at him. "Are you fucking with m—"

"Faure," Reborn says, low enough that only Hyacinthe can hear him.

Hyacinthe closes his mouth, and his teeth click together loudly. "Okay. Fine. Who are you, then?" he looks to the blond man.

"Name's Colonello," the guy answers with a smile. He looks like he's just come out of a toothpaste commercial, one that is weirdly geared toward Hyacinthe's tastes in boyhood crushes.

"Hyacinthe Faure," Hyacinthe replies, charmed despite himself. "Call me Cen."

"Haha. I'm never gonna do that."

"I'm Fon," not-Hibari says.

Hyacinthe waits, but the man doesn't add anything else. "So," he continues. "Anyone wanna fill me in on what happened? And tell me if any more surprises are waiting inside?"

"Dino Cavallone is here too," Sawada mutters.

"Great," Hyacinthe laments.

"As for why we're all here," Reborn says, "I think it'd be best to keep this conversation going inside."

Hyacinthe forgot they were still standing in the hallway, and himself pressed against Reborn's front. Heat floods his head even as he brusquely detaches himself, and he pretends not to feel the contempt Reborn directs at him from behind.

The living-room is a welcome sight. Nana is overjoyed, cooking a practical feast, with Lambo running around her legs. I-Pin dashes toward Fon as soon as he steps into the room and latches herself onto his thigh. It makes him smile in a painfully tender way. Hyacinthe looks away.

Tsuna is nowhere in sight. Neither are Gokudera and Yamamoto. Even Bianchi is gone.

"Nana," Sawada calls loudly. She yelps happily before turning to him, and then Hyacinthe doesn't try to follow a word that is exchanged between them in Japanese. Eventually he must've asked her to leave them all alone, because she walks into the kitchen and closes the door behind herself.

Hyacinthe sits at the table and waits until everyone else does before asking: "What the hell is happening?"

"Tsuna's recovering in his bedroom," Sawada says tightly.

"He got attacked," Reborn adds. A cup of coffee has just miraculously appeared between his hands, which Hyacinthe doesn't question.

"By whom?"

And the dread that has been building up starts tasting like bile on the back of Hyacinthe's tongue; because Sawada Iemitsu looks at him with open hostility in his eyes—the way he looks at enemies.

Reborn's cup makes a tidy little porcelainy sound as it hits the table. "Squalo of the Varia."

In the second that follows Hyacinthe feels several things at once again; reassurance first, automatic and overwhelming, because everywhere Varia goes Mammon goes as well; then incredulity and fear; and then the golden key around his neck warms up like a flame on his skin, chain tightening tightening like a thin brand over his throat, and through the white haze that covers his vision he sees, with eyes he didn't know he possessed, Destiny move ahead with a click of its ivory wheels.

He doesn't even have time to panic about the fact that he can see those wheels appear. Or the fact that every man at the table looks like he's been dipped in gold. He hears a voice that doesn't belong to any of them whisper into his ear, weighed by centuries:

"Remember. And commit to memory."

--

Mammon knows they've been staring at their phone for too long to be inconspicuous. They know not everyone on the team is dumb enough to believe their silence is the usual kind, not when it's accompanied by sullen inactivity and refusal to engage in any sort of gambling.

They don't feel like placing bets over who's going to be killing whom. The growing feeling of doom they've felt since Cen announced that he had to go to Japan—only days after Xanxus explained his plan—has been replaced by the sort of bone-deep terror they haven't felt since the day the curse took them and turned their body into a stump of itself.

"This is going to be a fucking piece of cake," Squalo roars behind them for the upteenth time. Xanxus is long gone from his gloating position on the throne at the end of the table. Probably passed out drunk in his room. Squalo isn't much better, though half of it is probably due to the concussion he received when the rings turned out to be fake. "Kids. Just kids."

"The prince is disappointed," Bel whines from his corner. "The prince wanted blood from warriors."

"The boy is of Vongola blood," Levi grumbles tiredly. "Noble blood."

He's lucky Xanxus can't hear him.

Mammon wants to tell them to shut up. The temptation of the bottle open on the table has never been as strong as it is now, but they don't give into it. They renounced alcohol and other mind-altering substances when they chose the path of illusions.

They can't stop seeing it, though. Reborn's face this afternoon, drenched in the rain, cold and calculating. And with it the knowledge that indeed, this is where Cen has come. Right into the battlefield.

It's truly irony that though Mammon has dreaded meeting any of the others for decades now, they're only feeling like this because of someone who doesn't even know anything about the curse. Someone who doesn't have an inkling of how long Mammon has been alive or how special he is to them.

They're tired. They haven't slept in forty-eight hours. It's the only explanation as to why Cen's I miss you makes them feel anything more than cold amusement, they tell themself—the only reason why, even though it's too late into the night and too late since Cen has messaged them, they write back: Go back home immediately. Please.

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#katekyo hitman reborn #khr #mammon #reborn #fic: venture out of boredom