Gellert now has his own interest checker form. Please fill it out if you want to ??
> >> also find me writing my necromancer (and slightly insane) son @necrcmance
gellcrt reblogged
gellcrt reblogged
ianuarius ( Nic. )
@gellcrt asked :: “ tell me words of encouragement so i don’t murder someone. ”
‘ how about, if you murder someone, gellert, i’m not getting you out of it, ’ even though, he was rather certainly capable of it … flaunting certain rules and skirting around certain ministries’ decrees, nicolas was very well practiced at it. it was not, however, going to be something that extended to either of his students. the mortality of them both, it afforded them a sense that he was sure he did not carry anymore. and it would be wasted, taking that from them. ‘ and i will not be providing you any means of distractions in, whichever, prison you’re thrown in. ’
the words come out as a jest, of course they do, backed up by a cheerful demeanor that had his aunt fuss over his ‘charmingly boyish’ ways. but there is an edge to them, hidden beneath the silk. as if mayhap, in some parallel universe, he might just mean them. ( not the spoken demand –– order? –– for praise, but the latter part. the ugly part. the part that he wouldn’t speak of to Albus, because he is all too aware that some things need be kept from him. such as the depths of viciousness that Gellert is capable of. given the right incentive. but with Nicolas? Gellert lets that guard down, just a touch. enough to morph it into a jest. )
a hum meets that response ( that habit is not his own ; it makes Gellert smile, just a little, a private fluttering, a private sort of knowledge. ) ha! so much for . . .. encouragement.
“ it sounds as if you’re doubting my ability to take care of my own self ,” the words are lazy, and there is no edge to them, even as Gellert allows himself to drop into an armchair, boneless like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut. “ or plan for the potential consequences of my own actions. ” he doesn’t ask the question, but it lingers nevertheless between them, as Gellert peers across the room at the man.
do you?
gellcrt reblogged
…. uncuffs Gellert from the column, only to smack the cuffs once more around his wrists. it won’t do overmuch, Albus knows, to deter Gellert from anything, but it’ll at least disrupt his balance enough to give Albus a(nother) fighting chance at catching him. but if Gellert is as clever as Albus knows he is, he’d be wise to not go out in this ( rock-sized hail keeps falling, thunder, and now lightning too ) when Albus would be all the more defenceless in a few hours.
“ don’t, ” he orders, rough. the chain around his neck, what it carries, burns against his chest at the word (and it isn’t even the most common one gellert would use). the hail is so loud, that when accompanied by the thunder, it sounds as if the entire world is falling around his ears; Albus tries to not see any hidden meaning in that, and fails as he feels the heat of Gellert’s presence.
“ we’ll find shelter in the connecting hotel. ” of course, the closest location is the type of place Albus suspects spouses either have their wedding at, or otherwise visit afterward. if this was any other situation, if he wasn’t so damn tired and bleeding, he would laugh and hum at the irony. “ there’s no worthy traveling in this.”
he leads Gellert forward. “ come on….” and don’t be an arse.
the cuffs click into place, making Gellert stare ( down, at them ), the teasing mockery shattering against the onslaught of sheer disbelief. really. REALLY!? ( he raises accusatory grey eyes to blue, as if Albus had personally insulted his mother and the whole line of his ancestry. which, in all honesty, isn’t. . . . saying much. he never did care for the supposed respect that was due from a child toward their progenitors. but still ! )
the recovery is as swift as his shock ( his outrage ). Gellert’s spine straightens, heels digging stubbornly into the cracked asphalt, and he takes a deep breath, the sound lost to the howling wind around them ( it tangles a cold hand into his hair, now wild in the thunderous weather, slides wet fingers down the nape of his neck and past his collar. )
“ I’m not walking into a hotel in handcuffs, Albus. ” the words flatten on his tongue. “ however, I may be persuaded to put them on later. but only at your, ah, fervent insistence. . . ” it comes out lazy, a touch too suggestive, a touch too heavy ( the latter being solely due to being out of breath from their little... tiff, their little argument just minutes ago; the one ending with Albus bleeding all over the place ). Gellert’s eyes continue to laugh, either to spite him or out of spite. perhaps a little bit of both.
to make a point, his arms raise, wrists wiggling impatiently, fingers extended as if to perform a magic trick.
“ so if you’re so desperate for shelter, better hurry up. ”
@lamenthope sent in 📜 for an incorrect quote of our muses.
gellcrt reblogged
this whole conversation is empty. he has nothing to say to Gellert, they have nothing to discuss, so all of their words are wind in the end (how many times is that now? that he’s said something similar). a particular sting accompanies them, however. like a politician, like what Albus once planned to do with himself, before everything collapsed in the space between one second and the next. was it a simple turn of phrase, or did Gellert actually know ….
stupid question. there wasn’t anything Albus didn’t tell him, including his theoretical future plans. whether to impress (ha!), or to simply share (ugh…), Albus’ tongue had no caution then. hadn’t known there was any need for it …. for once, hadn’t wanted to hold back or be coated in constant lies or half-truths ….
his breath catches when Gellert accidentally (?) rolls closer. he stills, shuts his eyes because looking at Gellert from this proximity might very well shatter whatever pathetic amount still remained of his resolve.
he swallows once, hard, opening his eyes. “ i don’t think you would. ” however much symmetry there would be in it; however much Albus may deserve it ( but he hasn’t earned it. not yet. he isn’t worthy of such a quick end anyway….), he knows Gellert wouldn’t physically harm him. steal something, maybe (not that there’s much by which to steal), when his back is turned, but not anything worse.
without moving the rest of his head, Albus glances at Gellert out of the corner of his glasses. Gellert squirmed away, but he’s still closer, and Albus’ heart stutters at the fine details of that face; the new lines, the purple bags …. there it is: the restless, airy itch to roll over the rest of the way and throw his arms around Gellert. just to be close. just in the hope that it might elicit something from Gellert other than claws. he can almost feel the ends of Gellert’s hair tickling his forehead, as Albus buried his face in the crook of Gellert’s neck….
“ and I’m not tired, ” he clears his throat, eyes back upward. “ but if you are, ” lazily, he extends a hand, “ i did transfigure you a bed for a reason. ”
silence, then silence, and then more bloody silence.
that is what greets that (insulting!) invitation ( insinuation? ), as Gellert grits his teeth against Albus’s presumption that he can just send him away, like some dog to a kennel. instead, of even acknowledging the slight, Gellert allows himself to sink deeper into the mattress, as if to solidify his place –––claim the space or his preference. it doesn’t do much, but it does serves to soothe his temper away from the snapping point. reminds him, too, of the weight of flesh on his bones, as the tension releases ( slowly, by sheer will ).
the silence stretches slowly, like an elastic. people have empty conversations all. the. time. ; use words as shields, as walls, as carefully measured distance, as white noise. words can be as dense as a morning fog, behind which you can disappear. speaking loudly, saying nothing. why should they ( why would they – except. . . . ) be any different?
( it’s frustrating. he meant something, but Albus gave him nothing in return. an unfamiliar dance that he should have expected, now. after he . . . . after…. )his palms smack against the mattress on either side of Albus’s head, and despite their support of his weight, his nails still curl to bite into the cheap sheets. ( it’s useless, of course. he knows that he cannot simply cage Albus, like some animal. it’s still worth extending the effort to try, and pretends that if he applies himself well enough, it might just work. )
“ . . . ”
the words are slow to claw out of his throat, raging against the sudden hammering that chokes it up, reverberates from his ribcage to his teeth. instead, Gellert is left staring down ( curls tickle his temples, framing frowning eyebrows ), staring at him as if he were a puzzlebox that did not make sense, and he was deciding upon which angle to twist and turn it first, to unfold its secrets.
“ why are you actually here, Albus? stop lying to me. ” the fury (?) is controlled, only trickling about the edges as he stares down, unblinking. his mind refuses to think of Albus as some piece of parchment blown in the wind, having no direction and no goal, merely landing here by serendipity alone. it’s ludicrous. Gellert ( believes in fate but- ) does not believe in such coincidences ( as much as he believes in carefully orchestrated tactics ). Albus is here because he is meant to and means to be here ( just as Gellert himself ), and no amount of lying could ever obscure that. ( could it? Gellert, after all, is a very good liar, himself. so does that apply to— )
𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞’𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐠 || modern AU edition.
tagged by: @lamenthope ilu!! tagging: EVERYONE PLZ I WANT TO SEE THIS.
gellcrt reblogged
where are we not who are you. it makes albus smile, because it’s so much like the boy he remembers with fondness, rather than the man he recalls with grief. the butterfly perches herself on albus’ shoulder.
albus sits up, hands folding against his bent knees. “ where are we ? well, i was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me that. ” he glances left then right, each direction pausing every sense, like a toddler in the midst of peek-a-boo. when he glances at gellert again, it’s as if he’s done it for the first time all over again — fluttering emotion clogs his throat, his heart soars while his gut sinks; the particular mixture of gladness at seeing him (his truest self) again and the sadness of knowing what that meant. change always brought that about, this change, perhaps, more than any other.
but the soul is just as golden as its ever been; whatever atrocities gellert committed in life, it did not tarnish him utterly, not like ——–
the wind, soft as a summer’s kiss, blows through the field, carrying with it the scent of lavender.
“ i moved around a lot in my youth, and there are numerous places this setting could match from there. since you are here, i imagine it must mean something to you as well. ” he smiles. “ so, where do you think we are, gellert ? ”
I was rather hoping you could tell me that; where are we— the words dance like wind through wildflowers and lavender, carried upon the heat of a summer afternoon, so heady you could sink into it and lose all other senses. where are we. he was the one to ask, yet the question is returned to him in a slight of hand. as if he is meant to know. as if it meant something.
“ . . . I have always been more of a destination-focused sort of person. ” rather than wondering about the current status quo.
the words leave him before he thinks them through, but they ring true. the current location had never been much of a preoccupation for Gellert, mayhap because he was so focused on looking forward. he remembers that much. he always had a lot to do and a lot to move towards. to make happen! ( looking outwardly-in, it’s actually a tad eerie. like a puzzle with most of its central pieces scattered, lost to time. even as he tilts the mental picture sideways, it fails to make more sense. the lack of sense rubs him the wrong way. but then again, he doesn’t try too hard. why isn’t he trying harder? he’s very good at figuring things out. he knows that much.
all he has to do is reach out with deft mental fingers, grasp a thread, and untangle— )
the skies are delightfully blue. wonder blue.
when Gellert’s gaze falls back to earth, he cannot help but notice that so are that man’s— the man calls him by name again, and Gellert finds himself delighted with it (although, strangely, lacking in surprise). his toes wiggle in grass again.
“ you’re painfully handsome, you know, ” he informs him, with the brutal, unashamed frankness of a child stating the obvious. “ when did we first meet…? ”
muse aesthetics, tarot cards edition.
rules: bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes or sort-of applies,strikethrough what's antithetical to your muse. repost, don't reblog, and have fun ! tw: mentions of alcohol. credit.
major arcana. a long journey, a feeling of raw energy, putting a name to something unknown, an elaborate patchwork, unexpected catastrophes, unexpected blessings, vivid dreams, sudden awakenings, the feeling of shedding your skin, the echoes in holy places, bright lights, deep shadows, feeling the earth move beneath your feet, wandering in museums, the strange clarity of moonlight, thunder and lightning, an unfamiliar road, coming back to the place you started as an entirely different person.
cups. being overwhelmed by emotion, finding something to celebrate every day, finding something to mourn every day, connecting with others, the scent of ocean air, making food for your friends when they're stressed, the remembrance of something lost, sublime confusion, cool colors, a cozy cafe, a bustling bar, calm waters - hidden depths, getting tipsy in the afternoon, summer rain, comfy sweaters, flowing skirts, a house by the sea, deep conversations after midnight.
wands. the scent of spices and dark wood, making something just for the sake of creation, dry heat, crackling fire, a bolt of inspiration, refusing to apologize for your passion, stubborn optimism, taking on more than you can handle, hot tea, warm colors, getting up early, staying up late, bright fire - fast burnout, tacky thrift store finds worn with the utmost confidence, the thrill of starting a new project, spring storms, hotel rooms, perpetual restlessness.
pentacles. the scent of rich soil after a rain, hard and diligent work, solid ground - strong foundations, the satisfaction of a long-awaited payoff, generosity that comes with a catch, work boots and heavy jeans, silk and jewels, resting on your laurels, seeing your work through to the end, harvest time, fresh bread and rich soup, earth tones, jewel tones, a lush garden, sunlight through the trees, dark chocolate, a home in the farmlands, a sprawling house in the old part of the city.
swords: the scent of fresh air, focusing on the intellectual at the expense of the emotional, freshly fallen snow, burying yourself in action, tending to your own wounds, a foreseeable disaster, crisply tailored suits, starkly elegant dresses, refusing to admit defeat, cold air - clear thoughts, old hurts, fresh starts, overthinking your overthinking, the harsh glow of street lamps, black coffee, a cabin in the mountains, an apartment downtown, the quiet before the dawn.
tagged by: @marblecarved <3
gellcrt reblogged
@gellcrt sent: ❧ for our muses to be forced to take shelter together
Gellert is handcuffed to the nearby steel column and Albus is bandaging the bullet graze against his forearm when hail starts to fall. it’s not any regular hail, but thick, heavy ice that causes Albus to flinch when it hits the ground, the cars parked along the street, people walking on the sidewalks. the shouts bring Albus to the edge of the parking garage to look down, before immediately returning to the cover the garage offers. he takes out his phone to call his superior, only to sigh heavily as he notices his phone, at some point during the chase, was smashed beyond repair; it doesn’t even flicker.
Albus doesn’t curse, but he does discard the phone.
any thought Albus had about the hail bypassing soon (as hail was wont to do) are immediately dispelled as thunder crashes above them. in the span of a moment, the hail becomes a mixture of snow and ice, falling so thick he loses all visibility.
if he wasn’t in the middle of something so … precarious as this, he would, quite enthusiastically, sit back to watch the storm.
“ it isn’t safe here, ” he says as wind howls and the temperature drastically drops. without another word, he uncuffs Gellert from the column; the parking garage is connected to a hotel they could wait this out in.
it’s funny. to Gellert, at least. how all it takes is for the sky to split open, and suddenly, people scatter like startled cockroaches. in all directions. nothing in mind but shelter. the primitive, residual fear lingering in their genes driving them to frantic action. tearing them away from complacency. neither rain nor ice nor hail will kill them. ( it might dent their cars, though. )
it’s funny, so Gellert laughs, face upturned to embrace the cold pouring out. laughs genuinely, even as it soaks his hair and makes its way into his clothes, seeking flesh. ( cotton and wool. not ideal. there is no bad weather, only bad clothes was drilled into him down to the bones, visible upon autopsy. he probably recited it in his sleep, like a mantra. )
laughs when he sees Albus’ expression, downcast at a defective phone.
( laughs harder knowing that even the weather is protesting this turn of fate; laughs knowing it isn’t, cannot be, how it all wraps up. there are too many loose strings. it will never hold. the whole damned continent will unravel. he isn’t opposed to a little, interesting contretemps, but really, how can he help but laugh at the irony? )
the laughter leaves his eyes dancing, and he looks mischievous rather than devious (or devilish, as he has been previously described by sensationalist media) as he placidly allows himself to be uncuffed. to his surprise, Albus doesn’t produce another sort of leash, metal or otherwise (as if that could ever hold him down). still, he rubs at his wrists, as if to erase the unpleasantness of the memory. (however brief.)
“ darling, ” he mocks, all too knowing, the word rolling on his tongue like a stone, “ have you finally come to your senses?”
gellcrt reblogged
savior complex, he mouths toward the ceiling. it stings, like an unexpected thorn among the flowers. it stings like a truth.
did he want to save Gellert? he thinks of the Wand up Gellert’s sleeve ( in his pocket? in his coat? in his boot? he hasn’t seen it, but he knows it’s there. he knows Gellert would’ve managed that much in these few years the way a dragon eventually breathes fire; to think otherwise would be an insult to the point of a lunacy ) and all that Wand entails to be obtained. yes, it would be better if Gellert halted this path he’s now going down ( and albus can see it so clearly! surely gellert does, too? they’ve both spend their childhoods reading the right sort-of tales, gellert even more so than him…. ). better not just for Gellert, but, no doubt, for the world at large; Gellert never does anything by half, after all. Albus focuses on that, on the morality, rather than on whatever nonsense his bleeding heart murmurs: of wrapping Gellert in a blanket, stroking his hair, and giving him a secure place to sleep until the bags under those gray eyes vanish entirely.
in the end, it doesn’t matter if Albus wants to save him. because if there is an unfinished project between them, the only way to complete it would be for Gellert to kill him.
there’s no way to explain that to Gellert, however.
Albus licks his lips. when he speaks, it’s snow-soft and milk-mild: “ If you say so. ”
“ you sound like a politician. ” it’s a lazy return volley, backed by the smallest of efforts. instead of scolding-hot (for how much Gellert disdains the role is an open secret –– which is to say, no secret at all), it’s just tossed out there, to die in the silence of the room, devoured by shadows. dark room. dark skies. crystal-clear dark, in mid-winter, at the right altitude. no dancing lights. he supposes it’s meant to say something; serve some sort of metaphor for the current status quo. but exhaustion blankets his thoughts, and he does not chase the imagery further. “ …all those empty words. ”
Norway in winter. what a can of worms. if he flexes his fingers, he can almost taste the frostbite again.
still, he peeks up at the skies. pinpricks of dead light stare back at him. Gellert sinks further into the mattress as he rolls on his side, towards them. accidentally towards Albus. he worms his way backwards, but his back never touches the wall. not because he is bothered by the lack of distance, but because he dislikes the fact that he had not planned for it. execution without his consent. Circe. his mind must be going. yet he can’t sleep ( he won’t allow himself to sleep, even as the grey of his eyes bleeds down, craving hollows around his eyes ). it’s a small sort of death, suspended between worlds. not quite out of body, not quite here, either. he’s used to it. had he not spent the entirety of September month in the same state, back when he was sixteen? ( he is sixteen no longer. )
“ you can rest then, you know. no need to keep watch. I won’t murder you in your sleep. ”
SEXUAL PREFRENCES. BOLD WHAT APPLIES. ITALICIZE WHAT APPLIES SOMETIMES.
gellcrt reblogged
enjeur.
i feel like shit. Enjolras hums in acknowledgment, not sympathy, his eyes still as stone. that much was expected; if Enjolras had any headache medicine, he would’ve offered it along with the water. perhaps he should’ve placed a bowl by the bed, while he was at it….
he stares down his nose at Gellert, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’ll blame the alcohol for that, then. ” it’s amicable enough, better than some might say Gellert deserves under these circumstances, but Enjolras grew up with Gellert. as much as he works to put that time period behind him, he knows this is out of character behavior for Gellert, and Enjolras is not the sort who could ignore a friend (old or otherwise) in need.
both eyebrows raise, then, at Gellert’s next remark. Enjolras crosses his arms, weight shifting. “ … alright. should I lookout for a stranger coming to my door? ” which is what Enjolras tried to subtly ask before; if Gellert was in trouble, or something worse. that explanation is the only one he can think of to explain all of this (though that still did not explain the new adornment, of which enjolras would not ask about).
Enjolras looks to the water on the books then back at Gellert: “ the water should help you feel better. ” a pause. “ I don’t have any aspirin, or something similar, but I could ask my neighbor if you need it. ”
“ oh, do not bother yourself on my account. ” the words slither off his tongue before he processes them. it comes out sarcastic. Gellert doesn’t bother to correct that inaccurate first impression, and merely rubs a hand over his face, as if that gesture alone could rub off all of his (current and) previous mistakes. it does not work, and it sure as hell doesn’t make him feel any better, but he supposes it’s something. what something? maybe sinking back into is bones, turned lead. who knows.
somehow, he’s still man enough to sit, slouched over, cradling the glass of water in both hands (a bad idea; lukewarm water would slide down his throat like vomit). “ . . . .thanks. ” he says (to the glass), drenching his lips then lowering the drink with a scowl. the water twirls ‘round and ‘round in circles and summersaults, mimicking the pit of his stomach. when it finally settles, Gellert’s insides don’t.
he huffs and chokes back a laugh which leaves both tongue and gums bitter. social norms dictate that he should offer some form of explanation, to frame this situation in a manner which is more comprehensible and understandable than #yolo or #blastfromthepast. well, screw that.
“ no, no one. ” the words have the finality of a shipwreck. Gellert refuses to acknowledge that. “not even the police. promise~ ” a pause, the quirk of a brow and a curled smile, eyes still as glass. “ unless you call them, I guess. for trespass. ”