to cause smoke

the sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure. lucinda marcine talkalot twenty two mud club member

[fumificates-blog]

When you’re young, thunderstorms seem scary. Like the sky is angry at you. But now that I’m older, something about its’ roar soothes me; it’s comforting to know that even nature needs to scream sometimes… - Unknown

[fumificates-blog]

♡brooms

The first broom she ever used was a Shooting Star, at the age of eleven. Under the instructions of Madam Hooch, she gripped it with small, obedient hands, and first learned of the taste of flying. She was too young, however, to understand the thing that laid dormant in her chest. She pushed it aside.

She was twelve, when Lucinda got her first proper broom. Her parents had sent it to her, against following protests, when they learned that she was a Beater in the Slytherin Quidditch team. A Tinderblast, a little weathered but standing strong, resilient. Like her. She set records with this broom, she caught everyone’s attention with it. With shaky, quivering hand she let go of her control with it. With it, Lucinda felt free.

When she took flight as a Harpy, first at the age of nineteen, she used a Comet 220. It felt different to her, but more professional. It had speed, it had versatility - but not that same resilience she had with her Tinderblast. But it did her well, and won them matches. 

Brooms have no use in Port Montrose, much like a war doesn’t have use for Quidditch. It’s then that Lucinda finally had to confront her love for the game; because it wasn’t just a love. Underneath the surface, it was an addiction; a vice; an outlet for everything else she didn’t let out. Everything she burdened, and trapped in.

Until everything came exploding out. 

[heir-disillusioned-blog]

Someone I Used to Know || Lucinda and Regulus

[heir-disillusioned-blog]

As they both remained silent, it took Regulus long minutes to realize the person next to him was Lucinda. He didn’t notice until his tunnel vision faded away just enough to see her at the very edge of his field of vision, standing in that characteristic way, dark hair floating in the wind. He knew he should say something–some greeting at least–but he felt like there wasn’t enough air. 

He’d had a great uncle, one of the many Blacks to go mad, who had suffered from catatonia, and Regulus wondered if this was what it felt like. If his uncle had felt too that sitting absolutely perfectly still was the only way to remain calm–that if he moved even a muscle and made his heart beat any harder, it might race right out of his chest. 

Regulus wiped his face: an excuse to close his eyes as his hands smudged away the salt and humidity from the ocean air. He then pulled one leg out from the other and stretched it forward, already feeling pins and needles. 

Lucinda shifted her weight and finally, Regulus couldn’t help but look up at her. Knowing that he wouldn’t find a glare helped, but when their gazes met, it didn’t last long before Regulus’ lowered again, this time with a quiet sigh drowned out by the surf. He shuddered as two waves caught up with one another and crashed at once with a great roar. 

Unbidden, the image of stone facades falling came to mind, followed in his head by the crashing sound of glass, screech of brakes. Flashes of green. He closed his eyes tight again, but it only made his imagination more vivid. 

[fumificates-blog]

She brushed back a handful of curls, before pausing, as Regulus’s eyes lifted and landed on her. She met his gaze evenly, softly; as she always had when she was his Captain, and he was her Seeker. 

What were in those eyes made her feel sad. Sad and blue, like the colour of his eyes. A sort of sadness that was akin to a baby bird’s wings, tender and intangible. It was bittersweet, yet not the same sort of sadness that she shared with Ted. Instead, it was built on a familiarity, because she knew him from before the war. That, somehow, made all the difference.

Lucinda was taught that silence was important. She had learned that from Alice.

The shore reminded her of home, yes. But it also made her feel something indescribable, and it swelled inside her chest. Like longing for something out of reach, obscured by the mist Or perhaps, apart of it. After all, you can’t grasp your fingers around something made of air. 

She remembered messy tufts of hair, a young boy with a penchant for antics. This war robbed them of many things. So, what exactly, had been stolen from Regulus? What had he done, what had he seen when he was a Death Eater?

“You alright, Regulus?” The question finally escaped her chest. Lucinda broke the silence, and shifted her own gaze to him. She couldn’t quite reconcile the boy she once knew to the man who sat beside her. The Regulus before to the Regulus now. “Something wrong?”

[bevinget-archived-deactivated20]

Send me ♡ + a word, and I’ll write a headcanon.

[daftorpunk]

[heir-disillusioned-blog]

Someone I Used to Know || Lucinda and Regulus

It was one of those days where nothing felt real. As though he’d grown too big for his body, or maybe too small. His hands felt detached; his head, a floating entity somewhere above his body. If he tried too hard to come back to the world, all he could hear was screams. All he could see was death. 

All he could feel was the splatter of blood over his hands and the writhing of the call in his arm. 

His monitor seemed bored but somewhat relieved as Regulus merely sat in the sand despite being known for putting monitors through their paces just to irritate them or for wandering off somehow when they didn’t expect it. His hands were empty and limp except for when his right hand would clench just barely beneath his mark as though he was feeling ghosts. 

When the shifts changed, Regulus didn’t even look up. He hadn’t moved in hours other than to relieve some ache or other from remaining too still. As the new monitor sat next to him, Regulus folded his legs, wrists resting uselessly against his ankles. His head stayed down, eyes blank and walled against the world.

If he could just stare at the sand, listen to the roaring waves, and feel the grains of shattered shells against his skin, maybe he could chase away anything and everything else. 

[fumificates-blog]

She understood why.

There was a practicality behind it, a sort of safety. To monitor those who used to be apart of the faction that caused this war. They didn’t trust them, despite integrating them into Port Montrose’s community. That’s the funny thing, though, in a sense, as she stared out into the grey-faced waters.

Lucinda knew exactly why they’d choose her to monitor them. Because she’s a Pureblooded Slytherin, because somehow she’s the one who would know them the best. And she does, except for Pettigrew mainly, she knows Vanity, Vivienne and–

The boy she went down to sit beside.

The Regulus Black she’s encountered in Port Montrose is completely different from the Regulus from her memory. That one caused trouble. That one would lick someone to make them go away; an effort that caused part of the Quidditch pitch to explode, thanks to Galvin Gudgeon. A weary, nostalgic smile fought it’s way onto her face.

Regulus had been a bit of a troublemaker, but he had been a good kid, decent considering the family he came from. Perhaps, that still hadn’t mattered. People used to whisper about his family, and back then she had no use for whispers. 

Now, people whisper too much, about foreboding warnings and a silver-eyed bodach.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to acknowledge her. That’s fine, the previous monitor told her he said nothing for hours. That’s fine, too. She’s used to silence out of fatigue, and now she’s used to a more characteristic sort of silence. From Alice, and from the hours spent listening for something with Tamsin, in that quiet lighthouse.

The shore was her escape, too. A comfort to her, and it seemed, a comfort to him as well.

[fumificates-blog]

₩

Our muses are caught in a thunderstorm together.

It’s different by the sea. The rolls of thunder, the clap of lightning; the rain is all different. It smells of salt, lemon and rotten wood. It’s like the sky threatens to strike them down, at any minute. What little they have built, what little she has helped ignite. 

Cin’s used to storms like these, sure; they are frequent enough in Burnham-on-Sea, with waves crashing against the shore, and the streets getting slightly flooded. But never like this, never this up close. They lived inland, far enough away, for them to not be able to wash over them, but rather the Esplanade. 

And as it swells, like a high tide, as her gaze looks out into the darkened mist. As a familiar figure comes near, jogging, and soaking wet. She knows with a sudden clarity who it is, and runs out to meet them halfway. Why would he be moving around in such a storm?

She’s no longer afraid of thunderstorms. Not when it comes from the very skies she had embraced as her domain, once. When she lived for the game, the freedom, the control, the rush. Not anymore, though. In a place like this, they had no need for Quidditch.

Just a fire.

“Ted!” She calls, and murmurs a lumos under her breath, her wand tight in one hand, as she reaches out to grasp his arm with another. Pulls him close enough, as she huddles him to a nearby tree. 

They are soaked. 

And far enough away from the Cottages, that it seems a little risky to venture out like this. We can fix one of these problems, she thinks, as she murmurs lumos maxima instead, flicking twice before casting it off nearby, hanging above their heads.

She positions her wand, pointing it towards Ted’s body as a hot stream of air comes out of the tip, drying him off before directing it towards herself. “Why were you out on the beach?” Lucinda inquires, blinking as the rain continues to pour. 

She can think of a couple, especially since it was late enough, and dark out enough to start seeing them. The stars, hanging overhead. Like a sign, a bright sign spelling out a hope that continued from Glenda Chittock’s two words.

“They’re coming.”

Most of the Order thinks it’s the Death Eaters, that it’s a warning. She thinks otherwise, he does too. They are the outsiders in a circle of people preparing for war, and already beaten down from it. She had known it was not her fight; she was no soldier. There was a reason…

Not that it matters anymore. She’s here in Port Montrose, and she’s caught in a storm. With Ted. At least it’s him, and not somebody else. He’s someone Lucinda can consider a friend, an empathetic companion.

(A possible tie to this war she once had no part in.)

[riddlesregime-ops]

Memes

☹ My muse is visiting your muse on their death bed

♫ A drabble about our muses inspired by the next song that comes on shuffle

☻ A drabble of our muses on their wedding day

☺ my muse trying to piss yours off

ت our muses running into each other after not seeing each other for several years

ヅ for a situation that got both our muses arrested

シ my muse walks in on your naked

Ü your muse walks in on my muse naked

ϡ a goodbye letter from my muse to yours

♥ you muse suprises my muse with a kiss

۵ my muse kisses yours to shut them up

ღ a forehead kiss from my muse

웃 my muse torturing yours for information

유 my muse trying to seduce information from your muse

♈ a holiday drabble featuring our muses

♉ our muses are together when they get ambushed

≑ my muse wakes up in your muse’s body

?  my muse will ask your muse a question they always wanted to ask

+ my muse has died and your muse is included in their will

◈ my muse’s reaction to finding your muse beaten and bruised

♊ my muse will do something stupid to impress your muse

✃ your muse visiting mine in the psych ward

♋ my muse visiting yours in the psych ward

❅ my muse rescues yours

✪ my muse seeing the ghost of your muse

● my muse’s turn offs

○ my muse’s turn ons

△ our muse’s get in a playful wrestling match

⍢ my muse gives yours a hickey

✧ our muses having dinner together

☎ my muse drunk dials your muse

✈ our muses on a flight together

☼ my muse giving yours a massage

♡ my muse flirts with your mue

☣ your muse visiting my muse in prison

♌ your muse visiting mine in prison

X my muse doesn’t remember anything from the night before. They have blood on their hands, and your muse is beaten at their feet.

☁ our muses are trapped in a fire together

〰 our muses are at the beach together

❢ my muse has lost their memory, and at the sight of your muse starts to remember things

✑ my muses daily routine

❂ a new years eve memory from my muse

✬ our muses share a new years eve kiss

✆ your muses name, ringtone, and icon in the muse’s phone

◙ a christmas gift from my muse

♍ a sexual story from my muse

₩ our muses are caught in a thunder storm together

❊  a regret my muse has about your muse

♎ your muse tracing one of my muse’s scars

♏ my muse tracing a scar of your muse’s

♐ my muse hearing your muse scream

♑ our muses go out for coffee together

♒ my muse visit’s your muse’s grave

♓ my muse injures your muse

✄ your muse injures my muse

☩ a dream my muse has about your muse

☨ my muse searching for your muse

☦ my muse trying to cheer up your muse

✞ my muse taking care of a your muse while their sick

✛ my muse trying to calm your muse down

✜ my muse trying to get your muse to recover from amnesia

✝ a confession from my muse to yours

✙ our muses shopping together

✠ our muses watching the stars together

« a past memory with our muses

» a daydream my muse has about yours

✐ a mistletoe kiss

✎ our muses going to a costume ball together

✏ our muses are evil and out reaking havoc together

♔ a kiss on the cheek

♕ a kiss on the palms

♖ a kiss on the back of the hand

♗ a kiss on the nose

♘ a kiss on the eyelids

♙ a kiss on a bruise

[unflcshed]

pm picspams → [1/?] Ladies LUCINDA TALKALOT

[wordsnquotes]

If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels, and if you haven’t, you cannot possibly imagine it.

Lemony Snicket, The Bad Beginning

[uyesurana]

[gayscifi]

[rebelscumwrites]

Port Montrose Cottage Aesthetics – Cottage Five

Dorcas Meadowes, Hestia Jones, Gwenog Jones, Mary MacDonald, Greta Catchlove, and Lucinda Talkalot

[cardiamachina]

I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.

Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula (n.t)

[amariusqueadastra-blog]

constellations from pebbles // ted & open

[amariusqueadastra-blog]

“Wotcher, Cin, you alright?” he muttered, not taking his eyes off of the pebbles even as she came up behind him. The way she spoke, the softness of her words, the reverence made him think that maybe she would be able to understand why the pebbles felt so supremely important in that moment. He wasn’t really sure anyone else could understand quite as well as Lucinda would.

Hell, of course no one else would understand quite as well. Of course, she would understand how important those pebbles were, hand-picked, floating so carefully and thoughtfully. In the past few weeks, especially since the transmission, since that moment that they had locked eyes, knowing that only they were thinking similar thoughts, he had realized that she probably understood what he felt better than anyone else in Port Montrose.

Their grief was the same. Their h o p e was the same.

And so her presence suddenly behind him wasn’t as jarring as someone else’s might have been. It was nice actually. Something about it was actually comforting. It only helped that today wasn’t so bad in the first place. It made it easier to accept the feeling rather than question it. At least today it did.

And at least today he felt like being honest wouldn’t hurt so much.

“I’m making constellations. Each pebble is a star. A poor substitute, but got to make the best of the situation, right?” he said, voice still near a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would upset the delicate balance he had created with the slowly rotating constellation of pebbles. “Did you ever like to look at the stars, Lucinda?”

[fumificates-blog]

It made sense. And suddenly the air felt heavier, more poignant. She looked at the colourful array with a new, sudden reverence. Borne from him, not from the woman whom she has never met (but hoped she would, soon.)

Constellations.

Andromeda was a constellation, that she knew. Lucinda had never shown any particular affinity for any branch of magic, so she had studied Astrology all the same. Knew the significance of the stars, and the moon and the planets – at least to some. And to Ted, it was. In such an intimate way, falling in love with someone who was a cluster of them. She could not understand their love, no, but she understood love. Had felt it. And had it torn away from her. So had he. They were the same in this.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She answered softly, to match his volume. And then came his other question, one that made her momentarily pause. ‘Not really’ was too harsh for this precious moment, for this fragile nuance. It was too blunt. “Sometimes.”

It was true enough. Despite the litter of streetlights, you could still see the stars. Especially if you walked along the sandflats and mudflats of Bridgwater Bay. She had done that once or twice, the wetness squelching between her bare toes. The last time she had been down there, was the day before she left for Holyhead. Out of nostalgia, than anything else. She would stare up at the stars, watch their flickering white light. The stars didn’t mean much then as they do now. So many things mean so much more than they did before now. Such was the way of their newly established life. You adapted, you survived, you lived. She did, for Doris and for her parents. 

“I never knew many.” Lucinda admitted. No, in the end, in that past life, she had not been fascinated by that small detail. She had wished to embrace the large expanse of the sky, experience the never-ending thrill and rush of flying. In having control of decisions that were her own (losing control, letting go.)

“But, looking at them now. All I know is that Doris is looking at the same ones. Somewhere. Andromeda is too.” Their shared hope. One that she believed in, with all her heart. And she clung to it with an edge of desperation.

[thelovejournals]

Maybe I’m getting tired – I can’t think of anything but nights with you. I want them warm and silvery.

Zelda Fitzgerald, “Letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald,” May 1919 

[senliin]

// dead seas

a mix you would listen to if you stood on a cliff and watched the ocean around half past midnight.

listen