be honest: were you still in love with blue while you were with jules?
“yes. blue was the first person i fell in love with and i never fully… or i guess, even partially, fell out of love. has just been one of the few constants in my haunted life. regardless, i’m sure the order of events is not gonna matter to jules. another person added to the list of people who will probably never speak to me again after this week! no matter, at least he’s gotten it right in love this time, and that’s all that really matters. and frankly, that’s more than i can say for francis.”
“there’s not very much on my list of things that make you a dick, but y’know i don’t like people who maim, murder, and kidnap aren’t really people i’d like to keep as friends. also people who dogear books. stop doing that, you monster. invest in a fucking bookmark.”
🍻+ “ what takes for you to fall in love, trust someone ?”
“i was gonna be an asshole, and be like be nice to me for 24-hrs and i’ll do anything for you, even produce a whole baby, but i figured it was too soon. but whatever. booze makes me say stupid stuff regardless. but yeah, anyway… i’ve only been in love twice, and honestly both times were totally different. the first time i was really young. like so young i should have been more in love with edward cullen than a real person. our brains should not be capable of caring for people in that way that young. everyday i wanna fuckin’ throw rocks at god’s window and ask him why that happened to me. but it was pretty easy. i had known this person for most of my life, and we’d already had a really strong friendship, so falling in love with him was like falling asleep. it was easy, i was lulled into it and it had already possessed me before i even knew what the fuck was happening. he was going through his own issues, very valid ones and i think he just wanted to forget about them and in the process, he forgot about me too. that should have been enough tip me over the edge and forget about him too, but my whole life was haunted with memories of him, and he just… wouldn’t let me forget. there were notes in my locker and he’d purposely bump into me in the hallway. weird shit. i never got over him, not even when i was with the other guy later on. and then we ran into each other, completely randomly when i had ballet auditions in new york, and well… you guys know the rest of that story. the second time was different. practiced. he was also a friend. i guess i have a type. that’s about the only two things these guys have in common… but anyhow, i dunno. jules knew me in a different way. he knew what books to bring me to dug me out of darkness, and how to make my tea. he knew how to have debates with me over current political reforms. it sounds so fucking nerdy, but honestly it was kind of what i needed. and when it was good, it was really good. we didn’t need much, we were just happy to exist in the same space. he understood me in a like… a way that everyone wants to be, y’know? and there’s no shot i would have been able to pick myself up off the ground had it not been for jules’ empathy. for awhile, jules ( and ivy… the real love of my life ) were the only people i really had, and i’ll never forget that.
long story short, i have no idea what traps me into love and it’s a problem. someone lock me in an attic so i can stop ruining the lives and happiness of handsome bachelors in ashmont, lmao.”
hmm, jeez, let’s fuckin’ go down the list, shall we? being kidnapped, sensory deprivation for over a week, everyone passing judgement on me for a decision i made at seventeen, and the person i love the most finding out i am a liar and as spineless as a fucking jellyfish. also, clowns.
🍻 + “ do you regret letting me close ?” (KJFDGHKDJGDFG)
god, no. imagine i did, i’d be regretting like… literally three fucking quarters of my life, dude. there wasn’t a single part of any aspect of our relationship, and the evolution of it that i’d take back. you were my best friend, for most of my life. you still are, i just got to share… even more with you now then i did back then. god, fuck… you always will be my best friend, even when you’re not around anymore. so much of who i am, and what i was able to achieve was because of the things i learned from our friendship, and each moment i got to share with you was a sunny spot in my dreary world. i’m better because of you. happier. i can’t even imagine myself without you at this point, it’s been so long, but i think i’m going to have to… make peace with the idea of that. and no more small smiles in the hall, or notes stuffed in my locker. no this time, it’s silence forever. granted, i really fucked this one up. i mean, you fucked it up the last time, and then i fucked up this time. guess we’re good at that, huh? but yeah, holy shit, in terms of general regret: invest in more durable condoms. apparently you have strong swimmers.
🍻 do you ever wonder what it would be like if we met when we were young? would we still be close now?
mmm, sometimes i do, yeah. honestly, think you woulda been really disappointed with how fuckin’ lame i got, like how i am currently. ‘cause i was… braver then, somehow. nothing scared me. used to just stuff my stupid tarantula in my backpack get lost in the woods, climbing trees, and snapping bones. god, my mom fuckin’ hated me… and i dunno what happened to me, reality hit me in the face at the speed of a freight train when dad ran for office, and i had to like, be quieter, be tamed. i never learned how to… break out of that when they weren’t around. left myself in the woods one day and just, never went out lookin’ for that girl again, i guess. i feel like– you wouldn’t have let that happen to me. you’ve always been good at protectin’ me and letting me just be myself. you might even like me better. who knows? maybe i’d be better at understand condoms and why they are capable of fully ruining your life, had we met younger, hah. and fuck, ‘go… of course we’d still be close. there are certain people who are just meant to be in your life, whether you meet them at 8 or 80, and you were one of them. we’d always be this close, promise. always, always, always. you’re meant to be in my story, and i in yours. we’ll always have this, y’know? and i’m glad for it.
“more times than i can count… and dunno if you noticed but uhh, ‘m pretty damn good at it if i do say so myself. ran away after high school ‘nd honestly, no one even fuckin’ noticed, did they? it was soo perfect, i got to wipe my hands clean of this place while i… tried to forget it all. forget him. forget her. forget the choice i made but god, ‘m real fuckin’ bad at forgetting stuff. like just as a side note, i have an obscene amount of random facts in my brain. why do i need to remember that penguins propose with rocks? or know every single detail about the gunpower plot? like for christ’s sake, would love to make some space in my head for once. i’ve got some prime real estate upstairs if i had the space. this… is a tangent. but anyway! yeah, you kiddin’ i love running away from my problems. in fact, contemplatin’ doing that as we speak. heard yale’s got a killer ( too soon? ) writing program. maybe i’ll disappear there fro a few years while person i love the most stays here and hates me forevers. i mean… shit, it’s a pretty solid plan if ask me.”
“ what is the most embarrassing thing in your room ? ”
“oof… well, if you really must know i am the not so proud owner of the one direction: this is us dvd. and i also, for some reason, have this condom in my sock drawer. will i ever use it? probably not, but it exists in my space, probably courtesy of you. i feel like i should be embarrassed about the stuffed animals that live in my bed with me, however, i’m not… and lastly, of course, myself but that goes without saying, really.”
“wow, we are absolutely holding nothing back today, i see. regardless, i know that it’s a valid question that a lot of people in my life might have, though not that it’s anyone’s else’s business... i don’t have regrets surrendering my rights as a parent, no. i was not even eighteen when i found out that i was pregnant, literally just a child myself. i think for awhile i had deluded myself into believing that i was perfectly capable of embarking upon motherhood on my own, and abandoning most of my dreams in the process. but i was viewing the scenario through rose-colored lenses. as much as i wanted to be enough for her, i knew that… i wouldn’t be. i had no prospects save for an impending high school diploma, and my mother had already made it clear to me that accepting this path meant i would be financially barred from my trust, so i’d be penniless, and uneducated, a child raising another child, all on her own. i know that she deserved so much more than that. frances deserved a proper family, with two parents who had stable jobs, and were emotionally equipped to raise a child in a way that is both kind and caring. i wanted her life to be full and happy, and no matter how much i loved her i know that i would never be able to give her the things that she needed in life. i knew that the decent thing to do was to allow her the chance at normalcy even if missed her every fucking second after that. there’s always going to be a part of me, the selfish part of me, that regrets it and wishes more than anything i could turn back the hands of time and just run away with her, and try my best at a decent life in some crappy apartment, working two, even three jobs if i had to. but the rational part of me knows that frances is in capable and loving hands, hands that will love her just as much as i would and take care of her so, so much better than i could have at the time. plus, i still get to see her often, thankfully. i still get to be in her life, just… on the sidelines.
but anyway, yeah… sorry to be rude, but uh– fuck you for even asking that.”
your muse is drinking with mine and has been given the chance to question my muse anything they want to know. some may be triggering, others won’t. send me a 🍻+ the question you want to ask my muse for a tipsy, drunken ( honest ) answer.
“ what’s holding you back in life ?”
“ is everything alright? ”
“ when did you choose to give up ?”
“ what’s the kinkiest thing you have ever done ?”
“ how many have you slept with ?”
“ what’s your biggest secret ?”
“ do you believe in love ?”
“ what’s the meanest thing you have done ?”
“ what scares you more than anything ?”
“ have you ever considered running away ?”
“ do you love me ?”
“ what’s your dirtiest fantasy ?”
“ who hurt you ?”
“ what made you this way ?”
“ is there anyone special in your life ?”
“ why are you always smiling ?”
“ what lie have you told that hurt someone ?”
“ if you could do anything in world, what would it be ?”
“ who are you, really ?”
“ is there anything you regret ?”
“ what’s your biggest regret ?”
“ tell me about your first kiss ?”
“ what is your deepest, darkest fear ?”
“ is there anyone you regret kissing ?”
“ have you ever cheated, or been cheated on ?”
“ what is the most embarrassing thing in your room ?”
“ who have you loved, but they didn’t love you back ?”
“ is there something you have never told anyone ?”
“ when was the last time you cried ?”
“ how come you keep running away ?”
“ have you ever made someone cry ?”
“ if anything, what makes you hate a person ?”
“ what takes for you to fall in love, trust someone ?”
“ do you believe in true love ?”
“ what have you done that people would judge you most for doing ?”
“ do you regret letting me close ?”
“ is there someone you have a crush on ?”
“ what is the strangest place you have ever had sex ?”
libby had always disliked hospitals. she’d spent a considerable amount of time as a child getting carted into emergency rooms due to broken bones, and ripped open skin. her mother overcome with a fickle combination of annoyance and worry for her only daughter not conforming to the picture perfect image that had been laid out of her. back then, nothing scared libby. not leaping out of her tree house, or crashing her bike into thorny bushes. feral and free, libby was nothing like the prime and proper girl she later grew up to be. however not even then had her distain for the hospital hadn’t truly been conceived, it wasn’t until the day she’d entered the hospital with a child and left with none, that her distain was fully formed. even then, all those years later libby found herself laid out in bed, cheek at her pillow, and when her mind would dip for a moment, briefly forgetting her circumstances, she could feel her hands temporarily jot from her sides towards a cot that was no longer stationed at her bedside. maybe it was the drugs they were plying her with, or perhaps the rawness of the circumstances at hand that was making this wound that she’d been trying to heal sting so hotly. either way, she’d never felt more lost, despite being newly found, thoughts clinging in the darkest parts of her mind... part of her nearly wished him away, when jules had presented himself at the frame of the door, flowers in hand. she’d known he would come, sympathy in his eyes and questions in his heart. nevertheless, he had come and that was more than she could say for many others, despite whatever resentment she was sure he could be harboring.
with a ghost of a smile, or what she could manage of one, libby lifted her body from the bed, sitting up with her knees to her chest, hugging them close. “hi...” she offered softly, trying her best to keep the tears out of her eyes as the vision of jules face blurred slightly behind a wall of them. “you didn’t have to come,” she told him, her voice small and defeated. “i wouldn’t have. but then again you were always... more empathetic than i deserved you to be, i guess,” her hands were now nervously combing through the ends of her hair, anything to momentarily numb herself from this petrifying sadness.
it could have been hours, or days, or weeks even. libby was unsure of the passage of time, the ticks of the clock sweeping forward in one scathing blur. as much as she had been yearning to be free of it, libby almost missed the hospital. she of course could do without the poking and prodding, and the less than comfortable sleeping quarters however... being imprisoned to the confines of her room proved to be far more strenuous and uncomfortable. the hospital was alive with ruckus, electrified with life, so much to keep libby’s mind turning. within her childhood room, it seemed as though libby was surrounded by the reminders of her greatest tragedy, of what she could have been if she’d just kept it together. it was harder to run away from her own thoughts when was restricted to her bed, the gentle hum of an idle youtube video to keep her mildly occupied, the occasional sigh from her dog. but this silence was penance, chosen atonement for her sin and shame. she had turned away numerous people who had sought her out in this treacherous time, accepting visits only from her parents directly, their hands often full of flowers sent by friends. her room had become a graveyard for them, wilted and rotting, depicting what she felt on the inside, libby felt it almost poetic to surround herself with what she already was, a languish dead-leaf vision of a once blossoming person.
libby did the only thing that would lend her solace, losing herself in childish films from her younger years, and sinking her hands into far too many bags of cheetos, uncaring of the bright orange residue that stuck to her fingers and lips, immersing herself in the third disney film of the day. then there was a knock at the door, someone informing her that a one ivy westbrook was requesting to see her. nervousness lurched up at libby’s throat, fear pooling in her stomach. she couldn’t understand why the fear was accumulating, because through it all she knew that ivy was quite possibly the only soul in the world that might be willing to hear her out. or perhaps, be the only person at st. etienne’s that wasn’t phased by the news, still fixated on the fact libby had returned home at all. ivy was one of the first faces at her bedside when she’d been returned to salvation, or should she’s been told... the memories of those first hours back were still murky to her, unclear as if trying to recall a dream. nevertheless, libby missed the blonde desperately, and finally allowed for a soul to break the barrier she’d cultivated since her return, the only person worthy of such a feat. feebly libby trailed to her bedroom door, hair still tangled, oversized clothing hanging off her body, darkness lining her eyes. she looked like the life had been stripped off her of her, she was sure of it, but even still she forced a smile as she opened the door. “hey, iv...” she whispered, voice coarse from lack of use, stepping aside awkwardly to let her best friend in, “d’you miss the motivational sticky notes i’d leave on the bathroom mirror?” libby teased weakly, her smile now lopsided and tried, arms hesitant and craven at her chest. despite the tried lightheartedness libby couldn’t help but abate the thoughts... how could someone miss you, when they didn’t know how deceitful you are?
Unhinged. That’s the word they’ll use in their police reports. You’re not allowed to read it at first. Fragile. Like that crystal vase your mother got from her mother, and her mother got from her mother. It sits precariously on the mahogany table in your living room. When you were simmering with rage towards her in your youth, you used to think about how easy it would be to reach over and sweep it away, blasting it into a million little pieces. It would be as fractured as you. But you can’t remember a vase anymore. You’re not you anymore. Right now you’re leather touches, ropes marks on tender skin, and mysterious bruises that you can’t account. You’re night terrors and choked screams in to the endless dark. Thrashing and sobbing during an infinite night. You feel phantom whispers and their gentle breath on your face even now, even in the safety of a dozen officers. There’s nothing more to you anymore, you’re a walking tragedy, and you’re too clueless to even mourn for yourself. You’re found in centre of the forest by a hunter, bleeding, and blank, staring up at the velvety night sky between the now barren branches of the trees you once climbed in your youth. You don’t even cry, you later learn, focused solely on the overwhelming glimmer of the stars caught in the inky black heavens, as if seeing them for the very first time. The officer who comes to collect you places you in the back of a squad car, wrapped up in blankets that smell like someone else. When he asks you if you are okay, you simply shrug. I’m not sure.
You don’t know any of them. The tearful faces that greet you at the hospital, that wrap their arms around you tight and long. You feel like a fraction of an inche closer and your rib cage might burst open to greet theirs in an embrace. You’ve never met them, not that you can recall. You learn that you have a mother, and a father, and two brothers, both older. You can’t separate hues of their eyes and the slopes of their noses from the masses, the police officers, doctors, and psychologists who ask you question after question. Does this hurt? Does this hurt? Does this hurt? No. Should it? You can’t discern these tear kissed faces from a hole in the wall, you privately think as they clutch to your hands and leak tears onto your scarred skin. The only whisper of familiarity you find in them is how their features match the one you’ve seen in the mirror briefly when you had gone to brush your teeth, minty gel staining your tongue. You realize that you carry some of the features of this family of yours, thick-browed and forest eyes. However their expressions lack the emptiness that seems to consume you. And yet, you pity them.
The doctors tell you it’s PTSD. That the sensory deprivation’s marriage to the abyss like depression that had has feasted on your joy since high school was not a smart match. Go figure. Apparently it sent your brain in to fucking maximum over-drive, canvasing all your thoughts in a sea of nothingness. He chuckles at you, hand at your shoulder and reassures you that you’ll be fine. Time, rest, and acclimation will cause the lifetime of memories streaming back. He tells you that you’re a bright kid, salutatorian of your high school even, so of course you’ll be fine. You can’t remember any of that though, the empty grin behind the podium at graduation or your polyester robe that draped in front of that secret under your shirt. You just stare back at him blankly and nod, wondering when the whispers of yesterday would begin to trickle into your brain.
The hospital bracelet on your wrist reads Elizabeth, but they all you call Libby and you don’t think to correct them. She sounds nice, you think. She sounds normal. Under the florescent lights, you wonder what she must have done for fun, what Libby must have laughed at with friends, what her favorite color may have been. You wonder where she is, perhaps abandoned in that dark nothingness, still crying out for salvation. You wonder if Libby will ever return to these people who care for her, furious that you’ve stolen her form, her friends, her family, her fire. Or maybe you’ve killed her, penance for the scraps of sanity needed in order to survive the hell abduction had been. Maybe she’s gone for good, and you’re damned to forever be confined to the half-shell version of a girl you’ll never meet, gazing at photographs of a girl who’s smile will never look like yours.
You can’t remember who told you, but learn that once upon of time there was a boy, beautiful and kind that had furrowed his way into your life, into your heart. Once upon of time he would press a constellation of kisses to your bared skin, and whisper ribbons of praises into your hair. Once upon a time you were loved with so much passion that you wondered if the fiction you had viciously devoured in your youth would ever do justice to just how vibrantly you were drenched in this feeling, this love. You could live off it alone, the sensation of making a home of someone else’s heart, someone’s arms. But this boy, he doesn’t come for you as you sit perched in your hospital bed. He must not have really loved her, you think to yourself. Maybe she’s lucky, to be flung out of space and shaken out of her own body, as to not learn of this news. You think yourself to be smarter than her, knowing that it must have been puppy love masquerading the wolf that lurked beneath. You’re smarter, because you remember that no matter how much you trust the wolf in the forest, it will always sink it’s teeth into your flesh and eat your heart. You do not know that you were the wolf, the traitor, not him.
You’re unaware of the betrayal, of the living evidence of their love that bore the same blonde curls as her father and the bright smile of her mother. At least, on her face the boldness of their love takes form even still, a living product of something that once was true. She is a fossil of what they were; what they could have been had they remained. A small museum of what-ifs. You don’t remember it, laying on your back at another hospital with your legs splayed apart as you delivered your biggest mistake, bloodied and screaming into the world. That you were another girl then, it was another time.
You’re not sure when sleep steals you away, you’d been avoiding it like a bad date. The drowsiness pulling at your lids, threatening to whisk you into slumber before you snap up, afraid that you may have invented this whole hospital room. Afraid that you’re still locked in a dark space, and this was just your brain playing tricks on you. But you can’t fight it forever, can you? Thirty hours later and you’re blanketed by sleep, exhausted from the deafening progression of the past day. When you wake up you’re a little like you again, fuzzy-headed and curious. Where am I? When did I get here? You’re still not used to it, free movement of your limbs, air around your lips, light burning through your lids. The first memory comes to you right away, like a ghost coming to haunt you, giving you no time to prepare. The first memory you have is a menial one. You’re seventeen, in woods behind your great big house. You’re alone save for the rustle of the leaves in the wind, and the dog at the end of your leash. Your feet intrinsically guiding you towards the pond at the edge of the woods, planting yourself in front of it, hoping the sun would encourage the blossom of positive outcomes. It was the day you’d found out about product of a regretted weekend. Overtaken by confusion, unable to piece string together chunks of time you turn to the phone that lays at your bedside table, filled with messages. Names you can’t recall, some of which you can. Holden? Familiar, large, unclear relationship. Oz? Unfamiliar. Ivy? Familiar, blonde, friend. Among them, an email. Why does that look familiar? Who is this from? A surge of nervousness washes over you as you find yourself reading it. You can’t stop, even though you want to. This is a wound, and your fingers are itching to pick at it, tear it open and revel in the redness of your own blood. Your own pain, similiar to the dull aching at your hip where the kidnapper had left their mark. 30. Images of a past life are racing through your head like a movie. Birthday cakes, and ballet slippers. Pinky promises, and pregnancy tests. Diplomas, and defeats. You want to focus on the good, the bits of sunshine that are sliced down into film in your brain but the grief outweighs it all, heavy and cold in your hands. You’ve always had an intimacy with loss and pain, that’s something you can begin to remember now. Turns out the kidnapping wasn’t the end of that. It was just the beginning.
Libby Kensington drags herself out of her hospital bed, barefooted and shaking, the tile cool under her feet as she shuffles to the bathroom. Her hands are coated with a sheen of sweat, searching the walls for the light switch. Flick. In the mirror she can make out two pairs of green eyes, parenthesized by dark circles. The color has been stolen from her cheeks, replaced with a yellowy paleness. Her silken hair was matted and tangled, pulled lazily into the misshapen plait. She saw the face of someone who might have survived something. The face of a liar. She finally saw the face of herself.
send me a field or place of work, and i’ll make an au my muse in that setting.
for example, ‘flower shop’ might be a florist, the owner, a temp just trying to make a living by watering the plants and carrying soil, or the ceo of the chain.
( also big ups to @eyes-on-me-please for sending me this too !! ily guys for this dskjds. )
oof okay, so libby is born to a wealthy muggle family and despite having a rather pleasant upbringing libby always had the inkling that perhaps something in her life was missing… a great longing for an indescribable feeling of belonging that she felt that she lacked amongst her peers. suddenly everything made sense when she turned eleven received her letter to hogwarts that same summer. she spends her days getting lost in the pages of enchanted spell books, absorbing every bit of information she can about the wizarding world and hogwarts itself. she feels as she’s so far behind the rest of the witches her age, and does her very best to study all the material before school even begins.
she always knew there was a reason her mother was mistrusting of her uncle, and it turns out it’s because he was a wizard and the private school he’d always gushed about sending his son to was just a cover for hogwarts. though, the last person she wanted to tied down to on the long train ride to hogwarts is her cousin holden woods, so she grabs her barn owl trotsky, and disappears amongst the carriages and stumbles upon ivy westbrook. they’re both nervous, but find a comfort in one another… and though they don’t know it then, it is the beginning of the most magical part of hogwarts, their friendship.
later on, libby is sorted into ravenclaw even though the hat greatly debated placing her into gryffindor. libby is heartbroken because she’s separated from best friend ivy, though the pair become skilled in sneaking one another into each others common rooms and are often berated for it by their head of houses… it’s the only rule libby breaks religiously. that and breaking into the library at night, also with ivy… though libby suspects ivy is mostly in on it for the thrill of it.
libby has a big love affair with the forbidden section of the library and has been itching to get her way into it since she discovered it was even a thing…
she becomes a prefect at one point, and later on head girl! we stan a big ass nerdy hall monitor. though she always has be on duty with someone else because she has a horrible habit of letting her friends go, after a 20 minute lecture on the importance of school respect of course. she often states that the best part of being prefect is the bathrooms. a bitch loves a good bubble bath.
libs adores quidditch but doesn’t find the time for it, as she takes over the required amount of electives… instead she shows up to every single game, rain or shine. she also has a soft sport for quidditch capts… become the capt and win her heart.
her patronus is a crow! it symbolizes the extent of her intelligent, her loyalty, and her slight mischievous side.
she is fucking obsessed with the giant squid… i don’t know why, but she is. she often goes down to the lake when she’s sad just to watch him slosh around, sometimes she brings it a snack or two. her peak date spot is literally… watching the giant squid in the arms of a lover, lmao.
her top classes are alchemy, herbology, charms, and defense against the arts. her worst is xylomancy. just thinking about it stresses her tf out.
her fave magical candies are ice mice, and chocolate frogs. she’s kept every little wizard card she’s every gotten. she would also die for pumpkin pasties.
libby has 100% abused the room of requirements with blue more than she is proud to admit /:
