#*fabian

[weewxtch]

30.4.1979

Jogging was for masochists and monks looking to adopt modern methods of mortification of the flesh, Lily decided as she struggled to keep what she believed to be the back of Fabian Prewett’s head within eyesight. The whole endeavor was vastly overrated, it was difficult to believe the endorphins were worth it. 

Fabian turned a corner and she consequently did the same moments after, very nearly colliding with a student walking in the opposite direction. With a hasty “Sorry!” thrown over her shoulder, she continued on her run (athletes would call it a brisk walk, she would demand to differ). 

This was all her own fault, she had left things until the last minute. Putting her name up for Prefect had been straightforward with McGonagall, the Professor’s no-nonsense attitude left little room for overthinking. Telling Alice had been easy. Well, easier. Lily’s aspirations had come up in a previous conversation, so there was precedent there. It was submitting her name to Head Boy that had her dragging her feet.  Admitting you wanted something was hard enough; it meant opening yourself up to rejection and disappointment. The exercise was made all the more difficult by having to declare your hopes to someone you didn’t know.

Finally, she was close enough to confirm it was him and to grab his attention without causing a scene. She seized the opportunity and called out, “Fabian!”

With a spurt of energy that only the jammy muffin she had for breakfast could provide, she picked up her run (still a brisk walk, really) stopping short, mildly breathless, at the wizard’s side. 

@fabiansacharmer

[lunatlco]

Sit: Para que tu personaje le pida al mío que se siente. 

“ Toma asiento y come algo ” invitó al contrario, casi sonando como una súplica, ya que sentía que la porción de comida que había en su poder (y que era responsabilidad suya terminarse) era demasiada. “Alice empezó a preparar comida como si no hubiera un mañana y, por mucho que me guste comer, dudo que pueda con todo esto ”. | @itsfabianprewett 

[unholyfirc]

There was nothing quite so satisfying as the underlying itch that crawled beneath his brand-new, bewildering skin when faced with the instruments of the Church. He hadn’t understood it at first; the urge to seek that familiar unholy burn on newly formed flesh, the one that felt like a distant pang of a long-forgotten injury. But the urge had returned, again and again and so he had followed it, through the crowds and into the dark recesses of the city’s churches amidst the revelry that filled the city streets until he felt those gentle reminders worm their way beneath his skin like a lover’s caress.

Lately he thought that he might even miss Hell.

It was a curious thought.

Still, as he approached the altar and it’s sea of flickering votive candles, his hands twitched, an elaborately carved cross sat amidst them. A shuffle of feet upon the paved floors sounded as he continued towards the altar before a voice: “Can I help you, son?”

Fabian’s head turned and whatever the Priest saw he mustn’t have liked, if the way he recoiled was any indication. He paused, smile breaking across his face beneath the vivid red of his eyes as they faded back to a less remarkable blue. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Father — I found myself in need of a little guidance tonight.”

His eyes caught upon another shadow looming over the priest’s shoulder at the back of the aisle, one that had trailed him in off the streets and his eyes narrowed as he mouthed an irritable, “Fuck off,” their way like it might dissuade them from encroaching on his game for the night.