#𝗙𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 , featuring belin abaci and peter peverell , as imagined by liv ( 25, est, she/her ) for grimmertales .

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#𝗙𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 , featuring belin abaci and peter peverell , as imagined by liv ( 25, est, she/her ) for grimmertales .
DOROTHY'S HEAD WHIPS towards the sound of the voice , noting its unfamiliarity , taking a wary step away from the unknown individual and putting her bike between her stature and his own . her jaw tightens further , teeth aching from how hard porcelain was being pressed against itself , breastbone lifting as she took deep drags of impending evening air to keep herself grounded . as he spoke , she gave him a proper once over — looking for any indication that he were a figment of her imagination as opposed to a real person . her sanity was fickle , ebbing and flowing like the tides , not to be trusted in the realm of consistency .
did she respond ?? dorothy often found interacting with her hallucinations made them all the more REAL , but she just couldn't help herself ; sometimes ( most times ) she couldn't tell the difference . as his sights redirected themselves to where she had been staring , her own gaze momentarily shifts — coming to find that whatever she had thought she had seen across the way was now gone .
" time is easy to lose track of , " dorothy speaks , voice level as she attempts to stabilize her rapid intakes of breath , disguise her panic ( could he smell it on her ?? ) . a look back to him , an investigative cock of her head , eyes floating up and down his unfamiliar build before finding his gaze ;
" — as are most things that aren't real . "
she rolls the wheels of her bike forward and back , brown eyes momentarily transfixed on the swaying of frayed ribbons . a limp shrug of her shoulder , both dismissive and secretive in nature . " i thought i saw something , is all . one can never be too careful . "
peter doesn’t flinch when she whips around. he’s already seen her — not just seen, but noticed, in the way that only someone like him bothers to anymore. he's always had a quiet sort of arrival anyway, the kind of presence that slips in between shadows — soundless at first, only a shift in the air and the crunch of gravel underneath his boot to announce his appearance. the dusk breathes through his hair, golden and soft, and still he stands there, hands empty posture open. a deliberate stillness settling in the darkness.
“you know,” he says lightly, almost like it’s a joke between them, like they’ve done this before. "usually when i'm sneaking around at night, no one seems to notice. made pretty good friends with the shadows these days. so, should i be flattered, or worried that you caught onto me?" his weight shifts back on his heels, arms still folded, but the sharpness in his stance has dulled into something looser — watchful, not hostile. the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s caught between a grin and a grimace, unsure which way to lean. moonlight presses against the edges of his jaw, limning the hollow angles in silver.
“but if i startled you, guess i’ll owe you one.” he gestures vaguely to the empty air around them, as though the dark might call in the favor later. his eyes don’t leave hers, though. they linger, intent, like he’s looking for something underneath the words she’s said, or the ones she didn’t. “you’re sure it was nothing?” he asks finally, more careful this time. less of a joke now. “the thing you thought you saw? you can never be too sure these days. ”
𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑠 : open to anyone . 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 : belin's bookstore, the rose & quill.
the bookstore smells like paper and pipe tobacco, the latter only faintly — the scent lingering in the spines of the ancient volumes belin works to restore. outside, fabletown moves like a body in mourning, slow and careful in its limbs, as though too loud a step might provoke whatever darkness had ascended on the town in the earlier weeks. belin is cataloguing first editions next to a candle, although the power works just fine. it's the ambiance she prefers: the flickering kind, golden and secretive and casting shadows among the shelves.
as the bell above the door sings out, her hand pauses over a worn anthology — fairy tales, naturally, though most of those inscribed in the tome are too worn or foreign to be marketable anymore. “be mindful where you step,” her voice calls out softly, her attention still focused on the manuscript in her hands. “i've just received a new shipment and haven't had a moment to unpack them yet.” head absentmindedly nods towards the packed boxes lingering near the front of the store, cardboard scuffed and stamped with the sigil of the local courier. she tucks a lock of stray hair behind her ear as her gaze finally rises, sweeping the door frame with a patient kind of weight. her blouse is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow; she does not mourn in black, but rather muted tones of bruised violets and dried wine. “can i help you find anything ?”
PRIDE & PREJUDICE 2005, dir. Joe Wright
fabletown is a small pond and faye thinks herself a fish too big for it ━━ so it's no surprise that every time the fibres of their being are laced with a kind of boredom too overwhelming to ignore, people around feel the shock wave of it ( and more often than not, the aftermath is less than good for a couple of unfortunate souls ━━ it's a wrong place, wrong time sort of situation and with something enticing enough for faye to do something about it ). peter, even with all the history that they share, might become a victim just like anyone else. to be fair, he approaches her. "and you are far too dramatic, peverell." a name foreign on her tongue, even with all the decades of use ━━ he is peter pan, the boy who refused to grow up and she his trusted companion. that is how the story goes, isn't it? "please. we see each other every damn day." a chuckle, a head shake and a sip of a beer that warms with each second.
every word exchanged still feels heavier than it used to be. an abandon of their home and company left behind... faye knows better than to believe all is well. as much as she hates it, actions have consequences. "i have my hobbies and i can guarantee none of them will ever be knitting. have you tried it?" eyebrows raise and mischief paints itself on faye's lips as their blue eyes meet peter's. then, the offer of a sip of her beer. "genius is right." a jest, even if there is no lie to be found. "the day has just begun. don't cheer just yet, peter. i might just take your wallet next, see what secrets you've been keeping from me and the magic mirror."
peter huffs something between a scoff and a laugh, the sound catching in the back of his throat like it's snagged on something sharper on the way out. “you’ve got some nerve calling me dramatic,” he replies, fingers dragging along the shape of his jaw. “you’re the one holding court with a lukewarm beer.” his gaze drifts sideways, scanning the street like he’s expecting the curb to crack open and swallow him from secondhand embarrassment — or maybe just to avoid looking directly at her, that familiar gleam behind her eyes already pulling too much out of him. “and no, haven’t tried knitting. not big on hobbies that involve stabbing myself repeatedly." he already had enough blood on my hands.
there’s a beat, followed by a reluctant shrug, the cigarette behind his ear shifting as he tucks his notebook tighter under his arm. peter's hand reaches out, hovers over the beer like he might take the offer, but instead, they flick the can lightly with two fingers. not enough to spill, just enough to annoy. “you want my wallet, sweetheart, you’ll have to dig. not much in there but an expired id and an old bus pass.” his brows crinkle in amusement as he suddenly leans in closer, his voice just above a murmur. “but if you’re that desperate for something to do, you could just say you missed me.”
DOROTHY SAW THE WORLD IN FRACTALS , crafted of imagery based in her imagination as well as the semblance of reality the rest of the world seemed to claim . the impending summer wind was thick with condensation , a blooming fog awaiting a downpour to wash it away , and the evening breeze feathered across her cheeks as she stood on the side of the road with her palms gripping the handlebars of her baby blue bike . worn and aged tassels protruded from their grips , flittering strands of ribbon flicking against her wrists . dorothy was staring at something , beady eyes narrowed into thin , concentrated slits . something was across the road . something .
someone ??
her breaths quickened , sternum blooming with each shallow intake of air , jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ground together . the muscles beneath tawny skin twitched , not even a wisp of brown hair ( fallen free from a loose braided plait ) striking her eye enough to deter her leveled glare . a shadow shifted at her feet , however , managed to catch her attention . she looked around , desperate to find its owner ; " you shouldn't creep up on people like that !! " she reprimanded the unknown . her bike was drawn closer to her , grip turning knuckle white as she held on for dear life , straightening her spine and lifting her chin . " you'll frighten them . and there's a curfew , you know !! " her voice shook , looking around , and despite being aware of the rules herself , she didn't move . she spoke smaller then , with timid crack to her words ;
" you ought to get home . "
an 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for 𝘋𝘖𝘙𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘠 𝘎𝘈𝘓𝘌 set just before curfew , a mile or so from pudding & pie . 0 / 5 replies !!
peter peverell doesn’t walk like someone who belonged to curfews or clocks. he walks like someone who is always halfway between staying and vanishing, like he's on borrowed time and hasn't decided whether or not to give it back. his hands are in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched from the weight of a worn satchel slung over one side, like he hadn’t meant to walk this far, but did anyway. he stops a respectful distance from dorothy’s bike, still a few paces from the reach of her tassels, and tilts his head slightly, dark curls half-shadowed by the low orange spill of the setting sun. “i didn't mean to creep.” he admits, shifting his weight back a step as he absentmindedly rolls up the sleeves of the too big sweater that hangs like a shadow around him.
"oh, is it almost curfew time ?" he says, tilting his head and lifting his wrist as if there's a watch there, squinting at the bare skin with a crooked sort of amusement. the streetlight catches on the edge of his profile, throwing a thin gold line down his cheekbone, and he glances back at dorothy with something softer in his expression now — curiosity, maybe. “must have lost track of time.” not that he ever kept it well to begin with. his fingers drum absently against his thigh, a quiet staccato to fill the pause, and his gaze flicks across the street where her eyes had been fixed before. “you waiting for someone, or just staring down ghosts ?”
time: early afternoon. location: a sidewalk, along the main enclave. status: for @detr1tus, @thievesandwitches, @daydreambeliiever + 4 open spots.
blonde sits on the sidewalk, beer can in hand and forearms resting on each knee. exasperated sigh after exasperated sigh, faye's hazel eyes take in her uneventful surroundings and their grip tightens on the half-empty can burrowed from trip trap's stash. boredom is dangerous ammo for someone as restless as faye ━━ every stone on the sidewalk, every brick on every building, every drink left unpoured serve as a reminder that there is nothing to do around a place like fabletown ( not unless she wants to spend more nights in jail and, although the sheriff's company isn't as bad, the sleeping arrangements leave much to be desired ) and nothing truly every happens either.
if you ignore the murder and the constant thread of exposure, faye supposes.
another sigh, another sip of an already warm beer, nursed through what feels like an hour of merely existing. even the prospect of newfound company feels like a curse to faye, muscles aching for something more than walking around and mind begging for something to entertain an already numb brain. the would-be-fairy doesn't even look up from the empty spot their unfocused eyes seem glued to as the footsteps gather close and closer to her. "i'm not a sharer so if it's beer you're looking for, you can keep on walkin'."
peter slows when he sees her, doesn’t stop right away — just enough for his stride to falter, for the sound of his footsteps to hush. no surprise finding her like this: sun going down, attitude rising, one foot on the edge of a bad idea and the other barely planted in whatever counted as rehabilitation. he squints down at her, cigarette tucked behind his ear, a notebook wedged under one arm. the picture of reluctant responsibility. “you wound me, darlowe.” he drawls, tone dry as the sidewalk she’s baking on. “not even a hello before you threaten to hoard your shitty beer ?” peter crouches, not to sit, never quite that relaxed, but enough to put himself just in her line of sight, forearms balanced on his knees, mirrored like mockery. his eyes skim the can in her grip before they flick up to hers.
“you know,” he says, glancing around like the scenery might surprise him, “most people at least pretend to find hobbies that don't involve sitting on the side of the road. you ever try knitting ?” followed by a little shrug, not judgmental, just peter: half amused, half weary, all blunt. “but hey, if scowling at pavement’s what’s keeping you from torching another mailbox or charming a guy out of his wallet, who am i to stop genius at work ?”
open to. anyone — come one, come all ! setting & notes. remembrance day event part two, looming about around the main enclave. feel free to assume connections if not plotted yet, or this can be their first interaction if you'd like.
a slimy thing, waffling about and bouncing from one corridor to another, eyes on the action as always. if there was one thing fionn couldn't miss, it was a show — comedies or tragedies, both equally as entertaining to a lone sprite, itching to get a firsthand view at the next sensation that sweeps their quaint little town. it's about time, he'd assert, after days of droning boredom, the cabin fever was bound to settle in eventually - fionn just didn't expect it to be so soon. " what a shame, " a tone decorated with dramatization, cutting through the undercurrent of empathy that was, albeit, genuine, but it was hard to tell with him.
" now, what say you when the magic mirror reveals your deepest secret to the entire town, hm ? " he was merely playing, but surely this was neither the time nor place, with tensions inevitably rising and, eventually, anxieties too. " the time to confess your wrongdoings is nigh. i pinky promise i won't tell another soul, unlike that dreaded mirror. "
peter doesn’t look up right away. a cigarette hangs loosely from his mouth, a set of keys absentmindedly jingling in his grasp so obnoxiously that it might as well be a ward against conversation. but of course, it’s fionn. peter exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice ?” he quips, the words curling lazily in the air along with his breath of smoke. “actually, don't answer that.”
“i'd reckon the mirror would have a hell of a time digging through all this mess.” they mutter, his eyes flicking up behind smudged shades. “not that i keep all my secrets out in the open. that would be irresponsible.” and he certainly didn't know anything about that. he finally straightens, shoulders rolling in the subtle stretch of someone who’s been sitting still too long. the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of their mouth — dry, tired, but still genuine. “you always this chipper around tragedy, or is today just a special occasion ?”
⟢ ﹒ starter ; open to anyone ⟢ ﹒ setting ; event pt 2, on the steps of the woodland apartments
her frown is almost permanently in place ever since she heard the news. did she know the victim? no. did she still feel sympathy? yes. she's just made her statements, and has decided to sit down on the steps in front of the woodland apartments. it's a cloudy day, the sun hiding, and she's glad that it's not raining. mali's pulling her hair over her shoulder, fingers instantly tangling into the thick black strands as she looks up towards the sky, wondering if the weather will actually match the mood of the day.
she perks up when she hears the doors open, and her head swings around to look at the fable who had just appeared. "finished your turn?" she asks, giving them a small smile.
belin tugs her sweater tighter around her, the late-afternoon chill sinking into her bones the way grief sometimes does — quiet and insistent, without asking permission. the door clicks shut behind her as she steps out, heels soft against the stone. at the voice, her gaze cuts toward mali, and she offers a faint, answering smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but means well. “for now,” she says, descending the last few steps until she settles beside her, not too close. “i think they’ve had their fill of questions i can’t answer.” her hands smooth absently over the front of her skirt, as if there’s something to straighten, something she can control.
“i didn't know them either,” she continues after a beat, softer now. “it's just hard to wrap my mind around it all. it's just such a tragedy, isn't it ?” she admits, the words escaping without much resistance.
She couldn't help but chuckle at Belin words. “Crowds don't bother me so much. I like a good party just as much as anyone.” no one would call her the life of a party, but she liked a good time. With a drink or two and minimal effort she could be coaxed onto the dance floor and one would discover that she wasn't half bad. “This-” Vasilisa gestured back towards the doorway. “Feels more like an obligation.” It sort of was, she supposed. Maybe she hadn't been expected to make an appearance, but somehow it felt wrong if she didn't. She waved away the others' words. “Ah it's nothing to worry about. I shouldn't smoke in public if I'm going to be upset when I'm caught.” No move was made to relight the cigarette. A faint smile curved across her lips, eyes twinkling with amusement. “And what is the worst you've done?” The silence settled over her comfortably, the stillness of the night creating a sense of peace in the shared space. “I am, really it's not a bad party. It was just time to escape for a moment, get a little fresh air.” She let out a hum of agreement before answering. “I don't think you are. I wouldn't say this was my first choice of ways to spend the night.”
belin doesn’t smile, but there’s a softening in her posture, a gentle tilt of her head toward vasilisa that suggests something close to understanding. “i used to say the same thing,” she murmurs, eyes suddenly alight with remembrance. “that i liked a good party. a drink, a dance, the hum of voices not asking too much of you.” she glances toward the doorway as if it might spill over with more guests at any moment, then back out into the dark. “but somewhere along the way, they started to feel like performances. not just mine, necessarily. everyone’s. the rehearsed laughter. the careful anecdotes. the costume of it all.” the scenes drift across her memory like a faded reel, all graceless and worn — champagne glasses clicking under chandeliers, silk hems brushing marble floors, the sound of someone else's joy draped like perfume. but it's vasilisa's question that brings her out of her trance, her lips forming to generate a tsk noise as she shakes her head slyly. “now, i'm going to need a lot more of these if you want me to spill my secrets.” she gestures to the flute clasped in her grasp, lifting it just slightly, the bubbles catching faint starlight as if they too, might be listening in. it's a practiced deflection, polished smooth with use. “still, i can't fault anyone for needing the smoke and mirrors. some of us just prefer the quieter corners.” a pause, and then more dryly: “and better conversation. sometimes i find myself thinking i would rather talk to a brick wall than some of the other guests.” the words slip out with a low breath of laughter, a rare moment of honesty. “and what about you ? what would you rather be spending your evening doing ?”
Location: remembrance day gala Open to anyone
This was one event that Vasilisa would never understand. Today had never felt like a day of celebration to her, how could it when in the end the adversary had decisively won. Why revel in their hasty retreat to land where they had to conceal all that they were. Still she would make an appearance, more out of obligation than anything else.
It wasn’t long before she slinked away to an empty balcony for a bit of fresh air and a quick smoke. Vasilisa didn’t partake of the vice often, it was dependent on her mood and the melancholiness she felt now called for it. Smoke curled into the night air as she took a drag. The smell reminded her of her father, long gone by now. He had a pipe he would smoke and would let her take hits when no one was watching. Old memories absorbed her as she leaned against the railing staring out into the night. The sound of footsteps behind her startled her out of it. “Shit.” She muttered under her breath as she snubbed out the cigarette. Vasilisa typically didn’t like for people to see her smoke, a stupid insecurity about maintaining an image of herself. “Didn’t expect anyone else to come out here. Probably should have since it’s not a bad place to escape the party.”
belin lingers in the doorway a moment before stepping onto the balcony, her silhouette caught briefly in the dim spill of light behind her. the chill of the evening suits her, always has. it tempered the warmth that others so often mistook for softness. “i could say the same,” she replies, voice smooth and cool, threaded with the faintest amusement. “but i suppose you and i have similar instincts when it comes to big rooms and too many eyes.” she moves toward the railing, hands folding neatly in front of her, not quite facing vasilisa, not quite ignoring her either. “didn’t mean to catch you in the act,” belin adds, eyes flicking toward the stubbed-out cigarette. “but i won't pretend i haven't done worse to get a moment alone.” a silence stretches, thin and companionable. the murmur of the party inside is muffled by glass and distance, almost ghostly. belin doesn’t fill the quiet, instead she lets it breathe. after a beat, she inhales --- “are you enjoying yourself in there ?” it seems silly to ask, given their current predicament, but the question lands lightly and without demand. “i don't know about you, but i can think of a thousand places i would rather be. or maybe i'm just being uncharitable.”
having just closed up, keys still dangling. in a rather slow meandering amble towards the crooked mile. status : open to all ! ( capping at 5. )
taut, exhausted hands pinched at the wrinkles appearing in their brow. ugh, and that's about three more for the books. óscar hadn't glanced in the mirror for about a week, staring blearily at their bathroom sink when half - awake instead, so who can say how marvellous they looked for remembrance day? ( hint: mussed curls, smudge of fingerprint on their glasses, purple scrubs wan. ) what began as a regular night shift turned into closing - out and cleaning up, not that they minded, but do they have to sit and remember? can't they remember and — oh, who can say, help fables who are struggling with it? when a shadow cuts across their peripheral vision, they jolt out of their skin. “ AH! ” not as melodious as a flute, but it'll have to do. the ice of their leftover coffee sloshes ; cold brew, straight from their own fridge, the creamer just on the edge to curdling. their other hand flicks to their face and hurriedly shoves their now crooked glasses ( for a crooked mile? aha … ha! ) back up their nose. “ oh … my god. please, we really do not need pranks right now, they aren't funny. i do have keys. i am not afraid to use them. ” just because they had taken on a mantle as healer doesn't mean they can't become royal defender at the drop of a hat. “ and no. i am not chaperoning your need for a bar brawl. ” just throwing that out there, in case it was on the table. ( … they could be convinced. )
peter was perched , ( because of course he was ) body half-slung over the battered back of a chair someone had likely abandoned days prior. his boots were muddy, his expression angelic. the kind of boy who looked like he might vanish between blinks if you stared too long. the kind who would steal your cigarette, your sorrow, and possibly your wallet ---- only to return two of the three with a bow. he’s been lingering in the shadows for a while, watching óscar fumble through their own mess, waiting for the moment to strike because, really, how could he resist? “aw, i didn't even get to say . . . boo !” the corners of his lips twitch, mischief simmering beneath the surface. “guess i'll save it for next time. or the time after that.” shoulders lift in a shrug, hands stuffed into pockets casually. “you really oughta take a nap, or at least get a better brand of creamer.” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “that stuff smells like it could peel paint.” a beat passes, and peter pushes off the door frame, stepping closer with his usual grin plastered across his face. "i mean, i wasn’t planning on dragging you into a bar brawl tonight, but if you insist..." his voice drops into a more conspiratorial tone, like he's considering the idea. “could be fun, right? might be exactly what you need after a shift.
“She was style, and she was an old loneliness that nothing could quite wipe away; she was vastly knowledgeable about people, about books, about the mind’s emotions and the heart’s. She lived sometimes in a black box of memories and unanswerable questions, and then would come out and frolic — be feisty, and bold.”
— Mary Oliver, on Molly Malone Cook (via violentwavesofemotion)
We Inherit What the Fires Left, William Evans
Archie Renaux as Tyler — Alien: Romulus (2024) dir. Fede Álvarez
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