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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 26 days ago

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The Gaunt Family Manor | Sebastian Sallow x OC #31

Summary: Evangeline journeys to Gaunt Manor to confront Noctivus Gaunt about his refusal to approve Ominis’s courtship of Anne Sallow. Leveraging her newly established ties with the notorious Muldoon family, she pushes Lord Gaunt into submission, but her victory comes at a heavy cost.

Words: ~8,800

Tags: Pureblood Politics, Ominis x Anne, Family Rivalries, Courtship Drama, Sacrifice, Friendship and Loyalty, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Friends To Lovers, Slow Burn, Longing, Protective Friends

Timeline: Mid November

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline Read on AO3

Evangeline’s heels clicked softly against the cobblestones as she made her way down the winding path that led to the Gaunt Family Manor. The grand estate loomed ahead of her, a silent testament to generations of power and tradition, its stone walls thick with history—and secrets.

The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and the promise of rain. Evangeline had apparated to the estate, using a carefully timed spell to ensure her arrival went unnoticed. Now, standing before the imposing manor, she couldn’t help but pause. The sheer grandeur of it took her breath away, but more than that, it was the weight of the situation that began to settle over her.

She stared up at the high stone walls, the looming spires, and the cold, unforgiving architecture that seemed to swallow the night around it. There was something about the manor that felt as if it had always been here—untouchable. The darkened windows, the ancient stone carvings, the meticulously kept grounds—it all felt so... unyielding.

A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of Ominis, of the kind, gentle man he was. How did he grow up here? she wondered. How did someone like him, so full of warmth, so full of compassion, come from a place so cold, so filled with darkness? The contrast seemed impossible, and yet, there he was—someone capable of love, of loyalty, of goodness—coming from this mansion of shadows.

As Evangeline walked, her hands instinctively brushed down the front of her gown—a fine black velvet dress she'd swiped from Gladrags not half an hour earlier, its high collar decorated with intricate silver embroidery that glistened like stardust in the dimming light. She had spared no expense, dressing in a way that would ensure she was seen as a person of importance, not just a mere Muggle-raised orphan. The layers of fabric swished with every step, and beneath her gown, hidden pockets carefully charmed into the skirts contained her most precious supplies: her wand, a few vials of Wiggenweld potion, and a small assortment of other first aid items should things take a dangerous or bloody turn.

She swallowed, her heart racing despite her composed exterior. Every step felt heavier than the last as she closed in on the front door—dark oak, adorned with ancient ironwork—an impenetrable barrier between the outside world and the secrets hidden within. She reached out, her gloved hand hesitating before she rapped her knuckles against the wood.

The knock echoed through the stillness of the night, the sound oddly loud in the quiet of the estate. From somewhere deep within the manor, shed heard the muffled shuffle of feet, quickly followed by the creek of hinges as the door swung open.

A small, stooped figure dressed in a worn brown tunic stood before her. The elf’s large eyes blinked up at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Good evening, miss,” the house-elf said, bowing low. “What can Krebbles do for you?”

Evangeline took a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. "Good evening. I am Evangeline Muldoon," she said, her voice clear, though the name felt strange on her tongue. "I’ve come to speak with Lord Noctivus Gaunt."

The elf’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the mention of her name, but he quickly schooled the reaction, his face smoothing into a mask of servility.

“Miss Muldoon,” Krebbles repeated softly, as if tasting the name. “Very well, miss. Please, come in."

As the elf stepped aside, Evangeline hesitated for just a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold. The interior of the Gaunt manor was just as imposing as its exterior—dark, grand, and eerily silent.

"Right this way," Krebbles said, his voice high and reedy. He led her through the dimly lit hallways, passing grand tapestries and suits of enchanted armor. She looked around at the towering portraits of Gaunt ancestors—grim, unblinking faces that seemed to study her every move.

They arrived at a large, dark sitting room, furnished with deep green velvet armchairs and a massive fireplace that had long since stopped crackling. The room exuded a certain chill, not just from the lack of warmth but from the stillness, the quiet grandeur that came with centuries of aristocratic rule.

Krebbles gestured toward one of the armchairs, their dark green fabric practically swallowing the light around them. “Please, take a seat, Miss Muldoon,” he said with a polite bow. “Lord Gaunt will be with you shortly.”

Evangeline nodded, her heart still thumping in her chest as she made her way over to the chair. It was too large for her, the arms so wide that she had to adjust herself several times before she felt comfortable, though nothing about the room, or the situation, felt comfortable. She sat straighter, her posture rigid, as though trying to hold herself together under the weight of her nerves.

The instant she settled on a position, a soft chime rang out from a small table beside her. It was delicate and musical, almost as if the room itself had come alive. Then, with a quiet, fluid motion, an enchanted tea set floated before her. A silver kettle, shining despite the shadows of the room, floated gracefully toward a porcelain cup. The pot began to pour, the warm water filling the cup with a delicate, golden brew.

Evangeline blinked, momentarily startled as the tea began to steep in front of her, milk and sugar being added by floating spoons. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the cup, knowing that no simple gesture in this house would be without its significance.

She tried to imagine Ominis growing up here, in this dark, imposing place. How had he, a child, lived in this cold, forbidding space? She tried to picture a baby, a toddler, crawling on these dark, unforgiving floors, surrounded by the shadows of family history and the weight of expectations that stretched back generations.

Her mind drifted to the stories Ominis had shared with her—tales of the cruelty that ran like blood through the Gaunt family’s veins. How his family had cast the Crucio upon him as a child, simply for refusing to cast the curse himself. How Ominis had been raised with the constant reminder that he was less than, that his refusal to meet the harsh standards of the Gaunt name made him a disappointment. She shivered at the thought, her grip tightening around the porcelain cup in her hands.

And if Noctivus Gaunt could be so cruel to his own son, someone who had been born from his very blood—Evangeline feared that she may be way in over her head.

The thought settled heavily in her chest, a cold weight that she couldn’t quite shake. Noctivus' manipulation, his calculated cruelty toward Ominis, was a sharp reminder of the kind of man she was up against. A man who thought nothing of breaking his own flesh and blood to maintain control, a man who valued power above all else—even familial bonds.

The thought had her spiralling, and she felt a sudden wave of nausea wash over her. She didn’t have any backup, no contingency plan if things went wrong. All she had was her name, the legacy of the Muldoons, and the faint hope that the Gaunt family’s obsession with power would be enough to make Noctivus listen.

The sound of footsteps broke through her thoughts. She straightened in her seat, instinctively wiping her palms against the fabric of her skirt. A moment later, the door creaked open, and there, standing in the doorway, was Lord Noctivus Gaunt.

He was exactly what she expected—tall, lean, with an air of authority that hung around him like a cloak. His robes were immaculate, black silk embroidered with deep emerald thread, and his sharp features were set in a permanent expression of disdain. His cold, pale eyes flickered over her, assessing her from head to toe, as if she were little more than a passing curiosity.

"Miss Muldoon," he said, his voice smooth, like a serpent's hiss, though his tone held no warmth. "I do not believe we have been acquainted."

Evangeline met his gaze unwaveringly, her pulse quickening but her face betraying none of the anxiety swirling beneath the surface. She had prepared herself for this moment—the confrontation, the subtle insults, the power games—but hearing him speak her name like that, as if he were trying to strip it of its meaning, made something in her gut twist.

“No, Lord Gaunt," she replied, her voice calm, controlled. "We have not had the pleasure of an introduction."

He smiled, a cold, humorless smile that barely reached his eyes before he inclined his head towards her ever so slightly. "The pleasure, Miss Muldoon, is not one I would have expected. Indeed, it is quite the surprise to have a Muldoon knocking at my door."

His voice was silk over iron, his words wrapped in calculated politeness, but the undercurrent of disdain was unmistakable. He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze piercing, as though he were trying to see through the carefully constructed façade she wore.

Evangeline held her ground, not allowing his scrutiny to make her falter. This is it, she thought. The moment I came here for.

“Well then, I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve come, Lord Gaunt,” she said, her voice unwavering.

"Indeed," Noctivus said, his lips curling slightly at the corners. "I suspect it’s not simply to introduce yourself or for idle chatter. The Muldoons, after all, have never been ones for... meaningless conversation."

Evangeline didn’t flinch. Instead, she held his gaze, her voice steady and unwavering. “No, Lord Gaunt. It’s not a social call. I’ve come to speak of your son, Ominis.”

Noctivus’ gaze sharpened at the mention of his son’s name, and for a brief moment, the air between them seemed to thrum with tension.

“Ominis,” he repeated, his tone colder than before, laced with disdain. “What of him?”

Evangeline leaned forward just slightly, enough to show her resolve but not enough to appear threatening. "You should know, Lord Gaunt, that Ominis and I are quite close... in fact, he’s become a dear friend to me," She paused, folding her hands on her lap to keep them from shaking, "So you must understand, that as his friend, I was most disturbed to hear of your... rejection of his courtship with Miss Anne Sallow."

Noctivus' eyes darkened at the mention of Anne, his features sharpening into a mask of cold indifference. The tension in the room thickened, as if the very air had become charged with something volatile. His voice was low, dangerous.

“Rejection?” he repeated, his lips curling into a thin, almost imperceptible sneer. “You speak as though you know the full extent of the matter, Miss Muldoon. I reject nothing. I simply understand my son's position better than you ever could.”

Evangeline held his gaze, unflinching. “What I understand, Lord Gaunt, is that Miss Anne Sallow is a pure blood witch, and thus you have no grounds for which to reject her based solely on blood status." Evangeline’s voice was firm, unwavering, as she rose from her seat and stepped forward, the slightest bit of defiance creeping into her tone. "However, what I also understand, Lord Gaunt, is that your objections go far deeper than that. It’s not about blood purity, is it? It’s about control."

Noctivus’ lip curled slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before he regained his composure. There was a dangerous tension in the air, now, a quiet warning that he was not accustomed to being challenged—especially by someone so young, someone who had seemingly appeared out of the blue.

“Miss Muldoon, do you truly believe you have any understanding of these matters?” he said, his voice growing colder, sharper with each syllable. “You have no idea what my family has endured, what I have done to keep it intact. Do not presume to lecture me on what you cannot begin to comprehend.”

Evangeline stood her ground, her posture resolute as she faced Noctivus. "It is not my intention to lecture you, Lord Gaunt," she began, her voice steady, cutting through the tension that hung thick in the room. "I’m simply stating a fact. And if you would allow it, I'd like to state another."

With that, she took another step towards him, her gaze never wavering, her movement slow but deliberate. She was no longer just a visitor in his domain; she was a force of her own, one that was unwilling to be intimidated by the imposing figure before her.

Noctivus did not react immediately, his expression still as cold and unreadable as ever. But there was something in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, a quiet recognition that this conversation was no longer one he controlled.

Evangeline paused before him, only a few paces between them now, her voice soft but firm as she continued, “Treating your son and Miss Anne Sallow as pawns in some grand chess match does not bode well for my… perception of your family.” Her words lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of her accusation.

For the briefest of moments, Noctivus' expression faltered—his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes darkening. It was the faintest sign of irritation, but it was there, nonetheless.

"And what, exactly, is it you are trying to impress upon me, Miss Muldoon? That it is not within my authority to advise my son?" he said, his tone sharp.

Evangeline’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she held her ground, unshaken. "What I am hoping you'll understand, Lord Gaunt, is that your son is not a puppet for you to control, nor is Miss Sallow. Their lives do not revolve around your desires, nor should their futures be governed by your fears..." She took a breath, her voice firm as she met his steely gaze. "And surely, you would not want the Gaunt name to be known among my family for cowardice?"

The words hung in the air, a threat that was as subtle as it was sharp. For the briefest moment, Noctivus’ eyes flickered, and Evangeline knew she had struck a nerve. The silence between them stretched, thick and charged, before he spoke again, his voice quieter but laced with something dangerous.

"Miss Muldoon," He began, his words measured, deliberate, as if he were testing her, probing for weaknesses. "Am I to understand that these are the views shared among the Muldooons? Indeed, I have corresponded with your family, but your people... well, they are a quiet, reclusive bunch, are they not? Very few outside your circle could even confirm the legitimacy of your name..."

Evangeline’s breath caught in her throat. He was trying to plant doubt—question her credibility, her very identity. He was trying to strip her of her power, force her into a corner where she could no longer stand on solid ground, and Evie had no tangible proof to offer him, no document that could validate her connection to the Muldoons.

But perhaps, she didn't need something tangible.

She could hear Sebastian's voice as it bounced off the Undercroft's cold stone walls. If you are connected to them, it could explain… well, everything. Your abilities. The ancient magic you can use. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s tied to them somehow.

Evangeline forced her features into a mask of calm. "You see," she began evenly, the steel in her voice belying the nerves twisting inside her. "I do not need the confirmation of outsiders to know who I am or where I come from." Her eyes flashed with a quiet defiance as she allowed her ancient magic to stir, the pulse of it like a second heartbeat.

Noctivus faltered, taking an involuntary step back as a blue mist began to emanate from Evangeline's skin, the temperature in the room rapidly dropping. The haze of magic billowed around her form like a living thing, casting a faint, glowing light on the dark walls of the sitting room.

Evangeline could see Noctivus's hand hovering near the wand hidden in his robes—an instinctual gesture, though he had yet to draw it, so she pressed forward.

"You would do well," She said, the energy in the room thickening with each word. "not question that which you don't understand, Lord Gaunt."

Her words hung heavy in the room and the mist around her flickered in warning, not just of her power, but of the legacy that came with it—a legacy Noctivus Gaunt had no choice now but to accept she belonged to.

For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes flicked from the mist, back to her face, and there was a momentary flash of something in his gaze, something not quite like fear, but perhaps acknowledgment.

"Your power is… considerable, Miss Muldoon. I will give you that,” he said as he lowered his hand from his wand, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Evangeline let the silence linger between them for a moment, letting his words hang in the air, before slowly turning on her heel. The mist around her began to dissipate as she made her way back to the armchair, her steps measured and deliberate.

With an almost careless gesture, she reached for her teacup, her fingers wrapping around the porcelain handle as if she had never released it in the first place. She brought the cup to her lips, but instead of drinking immediately, she simply swirled the liquid, watching it dance in lazy circles.

Noctivus's eyes never left her, his posture stiff and unreadable, but she could sense his attention had shifted—doubtlessly calculating his next move. His silence confirmed that much.

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, her expression unreadable. "I trust," she began, her voice now smooth and calm, the undercurrent of power still lingering in her words, "that you understand the... legitimacy of my lineage now, Lord Gaunt? That you will heed my words?"

Noctivus’s posture remained rigid and the silence stretched on, thick and oppressive, until his lips twitched with the faintest, almost imperceptible smirk. He was a man accustomed to power, but even he knew when he had been bested in this game of subtlety.

“Indeed. You have made your point, Miss Muldoon,” he said, his words deliberate and measured, each one weighted with aristocratic formality. “I will... allow your request. My son will be left to his own devices—provided, of course, you refrain from any further... entanglements in my home.”

Evangeline fought to mask the relief that flooded through her. Noctivus had acquiesced, albeit begrudgingly.

To buy time as she considered how to respond, she took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. Meanwhile, Noctivus raised a hand, signaling for the house-elf lingering beyond the door.

“Krebbles!” Noctivus called with a sharp snap of his fingers. The elf appeared at once, bowing low, its large eyes darting nervously between the two wizards.

“Yes, Master Gaunt?” the elf squeaked.

“Bring our guest a biscuit will you?” Noctivus’s voice held a certain clipped amusement as he turned back to Evangeline. “My wife made the most delectable confections today... surely, you'd allow me to give you one, Miss Muldoon. As a token of her hospitality.”

Evangeline's eyes flicked from Noctivus to the house-elf, her expression impassive despite the quiet warning bells ringing in the back of her mind. She knew what this was—an attempt to maintain power, to save face despite his defeat. She wanted to decline, but there was little room for hesitation in this situation. To refuse would be seen as an overt challenge, a rejection not only of Noctivus’s hospitality but of his aristocratic dignity. A dangerous move, considering the position of fragile victory she was in.

With a controlled exhale, Evangeline gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “I will accept your wife’s generosity, Lord Gaunt,” she replied, her tone polite but laced with the faintest hint of steel.

Noctivus’s lips curled into a smile that held no warmth, but there was satisfaction in it, as though he had anticipated this acquiescence. He gave a subtle wave of his hand, indicating for Krebbles to proceed.

The elf, still trembling slightly but eager to fulfill the request, scurried forward with the small, cloth-wrapped bundle. His hands were trembling as he held it out to Evangeline, eyes wide and filled with nervous energy.

“Here you are, Miss Muldoon. Made by Lady Gaunt herself,” Krebbles squeaked, practically bowing to the floor in deference.

Evangeline took the package carefully, her fingers brushing against the warm cloth. There was no turning back now. With a delicate tug, she unwrapped it, revealing a perfectly baked biscuit, its golden surface glistening in the candlelight. The scent was rich and inviting—warm butter, a hint of sugar, and something else.

"I trust you’ll find it to your liking, Miss Muldoon," Noctivus drawled, his voice cool, almost mocking.

Evangeline’s expression didn’t change. She took a small, deliberate bite, the sweet warmth of the biscuit coating her mouth. It was delicious, undeniably so. For a moment, she allowed herself to savor the taste.

But as she swallowed, her senses sharpened, and the weight of the moment returned in full force. A strange, almost metallic taste began to spread across her tongue, each nerve warning her that something was wrong.

Across the room, Noctivus watched her intently, his lips still curled in that smug, arrogant smile, as though he was waiting to watch her crumble. The power dynamic had shifted once again, and now Evangeline was the one caught in a trap, the stakes of the game raised to a dangerous level.

Her mind raced, her pulse hammering in her ears as the poison continued to spread through her body, its cold tendrils crawling through her veins, fast and potent, the signs of a quick-acting poison that targeted the bloodstream.

Her thoughts spun into overdrive. She mentally sifted through everything she'd learned in Potions, trying to identify the toxin's signature. Wolfsbane, perhaps? Belladonna concentrate?

It didn't matter, she realized. Each possible poison had its own set of deadly characteristics, but there was one thing she was certain of: none of them had an antidote within reach, and without that, she'd die.

The realization struck her hard. She was going to die here, in this twisted place, far from the ones she cared about, if she didn’t do something—if she didn’t leave.

She forced herself to focus, pushing aside the rising panic, the cold creeping into her body like chains. There had to be a way out... there was a way out, if she just fought. She'd made it this far, and she couldn’t let herself falter now, not in front of Noctivus.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Gaunt," she said, her voice hoarse, but steady, masking the tremors that threatened to betray her. "But I believe I have overstayed my welcome."

Noctivus’s eyes narrowed slightly, clearly intrigued by her calm demeanor. His lips twitched in an almost imperceptible frown, a flicker of confusion passing through his sharp gaze. Was she not feeling the effects of the poison? Or was she simply pretending?

He didn’t know, and Evangeline planned to keep it that way.

With a small but deliberate movement, she placed the now half-eaten biscuit back onto the saucer. The gesture was casual, almost dismissive, as if she hadn’t just ingested something that could kill her.

Her head swam as she stood, and for a moment, her legs wobbled beneath her. The effort to appear composed was a struggle. But she steadied herself, pushing down the wave of nausea that rose in her throat. She didn’t dare glance at Noctivus. She couldn’t afford to—he would be watching for any sign of weakness.

“Are you sure you must take your leave, Miss Muldoon?” he asked as she approached the door, his voice casual, but the sharpness in it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "I would have thought you'd stay longer, given the... delicacies I’ve offered."

The room was spinning, and her throat felt like it was closing up, but she kept her back straight, her head held high. "My apologies, Lord Gaunt," she said, forcing firmness into her voice, the words laced with the slightest note of coldness. "I find that I am not in the mood for further… indulgences. Perhaps another time."

She heard the sound of his footsteps drawing closer, but she refused to turn around, knowing that every moment she spent facing him risked betraying her. "Well then, do take care, Miss Muldoon,” he called, his tone mockingly pleasant, “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on our next… meeting.”

Evangeline didn’t respond, opening the front door and forcing herself across the threshold. The cool night air hit her like a slap as she staggered into the darkened courtyard, her legs wobbling beneath her. She wanted nothing more than to collapse right there on the cobblestone, to surrender to the dizziness and the growing numbness that threatened to overtake her senses. Her body was begging her to rest, to give in to the overwhelming pull of exhaustion, but somewhere, in the back of her mind, she heard him.

Sebastian.

"Please, Evangeline," he'd murmured, "Come back."

She could feel it then—the faint, familiar sensation of her pinky wrapping around his as she promised him she would. And she wouldn’t break it. She couldn't.

Letting the memory of Sebastian's voice ground her, Evangeline forced herself to focus, her mind scrambling to maintain clarity. Apparating back to Hogwarts was her only option, but she couldn’t Apparate directly into the school—too many wards. She’d have to get as close as possible, close enough that she could crawl her way back inside.

She reached into her pocket, fumbling for her wand. Her fingers felt foreign and sluggish, as if they weren’t her own. Then, with all the strength she could summon, she focused on the apparition point just outside Hogwarts’s gates. With a sharp crack, she was gone, the oppressive air of the Gaunt Manor replaced by the cool night air of the grounds just outside the school.

Evangeline stumbled, her body crashing to the ground, and for a moment, the world was nothing but a blur of shifting shadows and blinding light as she crumpled onto the dewy grass, barely able to lift her head.

Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, the poison coursing through her body making it feel as though every inch of her was on fire. She couldn’t stay out here. She couldn’t let herself pass out. She needed to get back to him.

She reached into her pocket, her fingers trembling as she dug for one of her precious vials of Wiggenweld. It wouldn't do much, but it might slow the poison's progress enough to give her a fighting chance. Her vision blurred as she fumbled with the vial, and she nearly dropped it twice before managing to uncork it. Her hand shook violently as she tipped it back, the cold liquid barely having the desired effect, just enough to dull the worst of the dizziness.

Then with great effort, she began to drag herself across the grass, her hands shaking as they scraped against the cold ground. Each movement felt like wading through thick mud, the world spinning around her in a dizzying blur. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to keep moving. Just a little further.

Somehow, she made it to the front steps of the castle, her heart thundering as she dug her nails into the stone stairs, her vision darkening at the edges. She barely managed to stagger through the door, just as the last echo of curfew rang out across the school, and then the ground seemed to lurch up to meet her, and she collapsed, her body giving out completely.

Sebastian’s heart hammered in his chest as he rushed through the hallways, panic rising in his throat. He had only heard a few snippets and whispers from other students—something about Evangeline being found in front of one of the doors, unconscious. And he knew right away who was behind it.

Noctivus Gaunt.

She had left only a few hours ago to confront , armed with her the Muldoon family name. Sebastian hadn’t wanted her to go tonight. He hadn’t wanted her to go at all, but there was no changing her mind. Evangeline was stubborn, fiercely independent, and as much as he wanted to keep her safe, he knew better than anyone that she'd made up her mind.

And now, here he was, racing down the corridors with his heart in his throat, praying to whatever gods listened that Evangeline was okay.

He reached the hospital wing in record time, though every step had felt like an eternity, each one weighed down by the growing panic in his chest. As he neared the doors, he could see a small crowd gathered outside—students lingering in the hallways, some friends of his and Evangeline’s, others just gossip-hungry souls hoping for a glimpse of whatever drama had unfolded. They whispered among themselves, casting furtive glances toward the door, clearly waiting for any scraps of information they could get.

When Sebastian arrived, though, the chatter stopped almost instantly. A few faces in the crowd turned toward him, but it was only a matter of moments before they parted, making way for him as soon as they recognized him. His reputation with Evangeline was well known—best friends, inseparable. No one dared to get in his way.

The hospital wing was quiet in comparison to the hushed buzz outside. He spotted Nurse Blainey immediately, her back to him as she leaned over Evangeline’s still form in one of the beds. The sight of her—pale and unmoving, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths—struck him like a physical blow to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs.

His legs moved on their own as he walked forward, his eyes never leaving her. “I—” Sebastian choked on his words, his throat tight. “What happened to her?”

Blainey looked up, her face drawn with concern. “Stay back,” she said, her voice calm but firm, as if she was trying to keep him from losing control. “I'm still assessing her condition. She’s been poisoned, Sebastian. Badly.”

Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat. He had feared this—feared that Noctivus Gaunt, with all his dark dealings, would find a way to hurt her. And now, standing there, it felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him.

“Poisoned?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, the weight of the words too much to bear.

Blainey nodded, her expression grave. “Whoever did this didn’t want her to survive. She was found in the front entry way, just inside the doors, already passed out.”

"She... she'll be okay, won't she?" Sebastian's voice cracked, the fear creeping into the edges of his words despite his best efforts to stay composed.

Blainey gave him a soft, reassuring look, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve given her the antidote, but poison like this—especially one meant to leave little trace—it'll take time."

Sebastian’s heart raced, but it wasn’t from the panic anymore. It was the rage—the helpless, hot anger that flared up from deep inside him. Noctivus. He wanted to tear the man apart with his bare hands.

"What kind of poison? Can you—" His throat tightened again, and he stopped himself, unable to finish the thought.

Blainey shook her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Some sort of Belladonna... a quite insidious blend. Designed to incapacitate her before it killed. She’s... she's lucky someone found her when they did."

Sebastian’s gaze flickered to Evangeline’s still form. Her long dark hair was spread out across the pillow, her face pale and lined with exhaustion. His heart clenched at the sight of her—so still, so vulnerable, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only sign that she was still alive. He could hardly breathe himself, suffocating under the weight of it all.

Then, suddenly, the doors to the hospital wing flew open again, and Ominis ruched in. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

"How is she?" Ominis’s voice cracked, the desperation in it unmistakable as he hurried across the room.

Sebastian's heart skipped a beat as Ominis lurched toward Evangeline's bedside, his face twisted in concern, but before he could get any closer, Sebastian was on him—grabbing his shoulder firmly to hold him back.

"Ominis, she’s unconscious,” Sebastian's voice was low and tight, his grip on his friend almost painful as he prevented him from moving any further. “We can’t do anything right now.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the soft rustling of Blainey’s movements as she checked Evangeline’s vitals. Sebastian could feel the tremble in Ominis's body, the quiver of his friend’s hands as they clenched into fists, his muscles taut with helpless panic.

"I didn't know she was going tonight." Ominis murmured, his voice raw with guilt.

Sebastian’s grip on Ominis’s shoulder tightened for a moment, his own guilt swirling in his chest. “You couldn’t have known,” Sebastian said quietly, his voice soft but firm, the anger and fear still simmering underneath. “She hid it from you on purpose. And even if you knew, she's stubborn. We couldn't have stopped her if we tried.”

Blainey took a step towards them, her brief evaluation of Evangeline's status now complete. Her gaze was calm but sharp as she moved to stand beside the bed.

“She’s not out of the woods, but she’s stable,” Blainey said, her tone a little softer now. A slight, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "I had a feeling the two of you wouldn't want to leave her side, so I've taken the liberty of preparing a cot. But you’ll need to figure out who’ll stay with her tonight. Only one of you is allowed per night. School policy.”

Sebastian exhaled a breath of relief, grateful for the small kindness, but it was short-lived; he and Ominis would have to make a decision, and just the thought of leaving Evangeline alone even for a second made him nauseous.

Blainey’s smile faded as she continued, her tone shifting back to business. “I do need to fill out an incident report,” she said, her eyes flicking between the two of them. "I’ll be in my quarters. If you need anything—anything at all—there’s a bell above her bed.” She gestured to the small bell hanging by the headboard.

With that, she left the room, leaving Sebastian and Ominis alone. The door clicked shut softly behind her. Sebastian’s gaze flickered back to Evangeline, the rise and fall of her chest so fragile in the dim light. Poisoned. The word echoed in his mind like a curse. Noctivus had done this. He had tried to kill her.

"Ominis," he said, his voice coming out strained, "Please... I can't leave her tonight."

Ominis stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. A tight knot of grief twisted in his chest for Evangeline, for the terror of losing her. Yet, as he watched Sebastian, something in his desperation struck him with a harsh clarity—something Ominis recognized, something that stirred a painful echo within him.

Love.

If the woman lying there in that hospital bed had been Anne, he knew he would feel the same. So Ominis reached out, resting a hand on Sebastian's shoulder, "I'll come back in the morning."

Sebastian felt a wave of relief wash over him at Ominis's words, his friend's quiet understanding more comforting than he could have expressed. He nodded, barely able to find his voice. "Thanks."

Ominis gave him a small, reassuring squeeze before turning and walking toward the door. The quiet click of the doorknob turning and the soft sound of the door swinging open felt like the finality of the moment—Sebastian was alone with her now.

He swallowed hard and pulled the chair up beside her bed, the old wood creaking under his weight as he sank into it. His eyes never left her face, tracing the contours of her features—features he knew so well, yet now looked so fragile.

The silence in the room was thick, almost oppressive, and Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder—what had happened? What had transpired at the Gaunt Manor? What had she said to Noctivus? How had she ended up poisoned? These were questions that twisted in his mind, each one more urgent than the last, but none that he had answers to.

His gaze dropped to her hand, the one that rested limply beside her, her fingers cold and unresponsive. He remembered the way she had squeezed his pinky with her own in the Undercroft, promising him she'd come back.

And she had, at least... as far as she could.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, the silence in the room almost suffocating as the minutes stretched on. He feared something terrible might happen while his guard was down but eventually, the exhaustion from the night caught up with him. His eyes fluttered closed, and before he knew it, sleep claimed him—slowly, quietly.

When his eyes fluttered open again, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The dim light of the hospital wing filtered through the tall windows, casting soft shadows on the stone walls. He blinked slowly, blurry vision suddenly focusing on the lines of Evangeline's face just inches from his.

He’d fallen asleep in his chair, falling forward to rest his head next to hers on the pillow, his hand still clasped tightly around hers.

His neck ached from the awkward position, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the way his heart lurched at the sight of her—still so pale, her breathing shallow but steady. A flicker of relief passed through him at the soft rise and fall of her chest, but it was brief, overshadowed by the heavy weight of the situation.

Sebastian swallowed, his throat tight, and slowly pulled himself upright, careful not to disturb her too much. His fingers brushed against the cool skin of her hand, and his gaze lingered on her face. The night had passed, but nothing had changed. She was still unconscious, still caught in the grip of whatever poison Noctivus Gaunt had cursed her with.

Sebastian had barely managed to stretch his stiff joints when the door creaked open. He turned his head, blinking in surprise as Ominis stepped inside, his face drawn and tense. He was holding something—an envelope, sealed with the distinctive wax of the Gaunt family.

"What's that?" Sebastian managed to ask, his voice hoarse with sleep and tension.

Ominis stepped forward, his gaze flickering between Sebastian and Evangeline, and then back to the letter. He didn’t immediately answer, but his hand tightened around the parchment, the wax seal crinkling slightly in his grip. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

"It’s from my father," Ominis said quietly. "He’s… allowing my courtship with Anne to proceed."

The words hung in the air, heavy and surreal. Sebastian’s mind struggled to process what Ominis had just said. The letter from his father. Courtship with Anne. The two phrases didn’t seem to belong together, not in this moment. But the confusion was brief, overshadowed by the weight of another realization that crashed down on Sebastian like a wave.

His heart clenched in his chest, his eyes snapping back to Evangeline, still pale and unmoving on the bed. His mouth opened and closed, "That means—"

"He’s submitted," Ominis cut him off, his voice low. "Evangeline, she… made him concede." He shook his head, as if still processing the enormity of it.

She had forced the hand of one of the most powerful families in wizarding society, but Noctivus hadn't let her escape unscatched. And now, here she was—unconscious, poisoned, fighting for her life.

The contrast was dizzying. Sebastian couldn’t reconcile the image of the fierce, determined Evangeline he knew with the fragile figure lying motionless before him. His thoughts spun, caught between the quiet victory of Evangeline’s triumph and the raw terror of her current state.

Ominis swallowed hard, stepping closer to Evangeline's beside and brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Has anything changed?"

Sebastian shook his head slowly, his throat tight as he watched Ominis tenderly touch Evangeline’s hair. "No," Sebastian muttered, his voice a rasp. "Nothing’s changed. She’s still… still the same." His gaze lingered on her pale face, the shadows beneath her eyes too dark, the stillness of her form too unnatural.

Ominis’ brow furrowed, his hand lingering at Evangeline’s temple as he studied her face with a look that was equal parts sorrow and helplessness. "She didn’t deserve this. None of this. She’s done everything she can to fight for what’s right. She’s always fought for others." His voice cracked, emotion threatening to choke him. "She shouldn't be the one paying the price, I... I should have just listened to my father. I should have just ended the courtship, and then Evangeline wouldn't be here, like this."

Sebastian’s gaze snapped to Ominis, his heart pounding in his chest. "Don’t. Don’t say that," he said, his voice firm despite the way it wavered with emotion. "This isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this." He exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and sorrow tugging at his words. "She chose this. She chose you. We all knew the risks when we decided to defy your family, but you didn’t make her suffer. This is on your father."

Ominis clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly as if to dismiss Sebastian’s words. "I should have protected her better. I—"

"You couldn’t have done anything," Sebastian interrupted, his tone low but unwavering. "She wouldn't have let us." His eyes flickered back to Evangeline, and for a moment, his anger flared again, raw and jagged. "But I swear to you, Ominis, your father will pay for what he did, one way or another."

Ominis’ eyes narrowed, a flicker of resolve finally breaking through the haze of guilt. "You're right." a small smirk tugged on his lips, "For once."

The next few days passed in a blur.

Despite Sebastian's protests, Blainey forced him to attend classes, and even then, it was only after he made her promise, over and over, that she would notify him immediately if Evangeline's condition changed.

"I’ll be here every night," Sebastian insisted for the umpteenth time, "But you’ll let me know if something happens, won’t you?"

Blainey had met his gaze with a sigh of reluctant understanding. "Yes, Sebastian. Now get going, or you'll be late for class."

But even when Sebastian dragged himself to Potions, to Charms, to Defense, his mind wasn’t truly there. The hours dragged on, stretching endlessly as his thoughts circled back to Evangeline. Each tick of the clock felt like an eternity, a reminder of how far away he was from the one person he couldn’t leave behind. And when he finally returned to the hospital wing after dinner, it was always the same scene: Evangeline, pale and still, her breath shallow but steady, like a fragile heartbeat in the silence of the room.

Friends visited her regularly, of course. Natty, Cressida, Garreth, Amit, Poppy... all of them made their way to the hospital wing throughout each day, offering quiet words of encouragement and support. The would linger for a while then promise to return the next day, but Sebastian barely registered their presence, his eyes never leaving Evangeline for long.

In fact, he hadn’t even used the cot provided for him by Blainey. Instead, he slept in the stiff wooden chair by her bed, his hand tightly clutching hers, his head resting on the pillow next to hers, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only comfort he had. He'd wake with stiffness in his neck and shoulders from the hours spent in the same position, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the helplessness that pressed on him.

It was on the fourth night, when the hospital wing was shrouded in darkness, a shift finally, finally occurred.

It was barely perceptible at first. A slight change in the rise and fall of Evangeline's chest. It was slower, deeper, as if she was taking in more air. Noticing it, Sebastian sat up straighter in his chair, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t dare move too quickly, afraid it was just his imagination. But then, it happened again. Another shallow breath, slightly more pronounced and the twitch of her fingers.

His breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward, holding her hand tighter. “Evangeline?” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion, but he wasn’t sure if she could hear him.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, to his astonishment, her eyelids fluttered once more—then twice. Slowly, her eyes began to crack open, the faintest hint of confusion clouding her gaze.

“Evangeline?” he repeated, more urgently now, his voice cracking with hope.

Her hand stirred in his, the faintest tightening of her fingers around his. "...Sebastian?"

His heart stopped for a beat at the sound of his name on her lip, her voice fragile and weak, but unmistakable. He didn’t even know how to respond, his mind flooded with a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief.

"Evie..." His voice cracked, his throat tight with emotion as resisted the urge to gather her into his arms. "Thank Merlin you're... you're awake."

Her eyes fluttered again, focusing a little more as she tried to lift her head, wincing slightly, as though the effort was too much. Sebastian immediately leaned forward, his hand gently brushing her forehead.

"Don’t move," he murmured softly. "You’re recovering, just... take it easy."

She blinked slowly, her gaze still unfocused but unmistakably seeking him out, her voice weak as she asked, "What... happened?" Her words were slow, as if it took everything she had to speak.

Sebastian swallowed hard, the lump in his throat thickening. “You were poisoned,” he said quietly, the truth hitting him all over again. "You’ve been unconscious for days... I didn’t leave your side. I—”

Evangeline’s fingers tightened around his hand, her grip weak, but there was something there—something that made him feel, just for a moment, like everything was going to be okay. She seemed to process his words, her brow furrowing.

"Gaunt…" she said slowly, "Bastard."

Sebastian couldn’t suppress the quiet laugh that slipped from his lips. The way she’d said it, so plainly, made him feel a flicker of something close to normalcy.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, his voice low. "Definitely."

Her hand squeezed his again, though the motion was faint, and Sebastian's heart twisted with the effort it must’ve taken for her. He saw her eyelids flutter again, and the smile she’d briefly formed slipped away, replaced by a soft wince of exhaustion.

"We’ll talk more when you’re ready, alright?" Sebastian said softly, his voice filled with tenderness as he gently guided her head back to the pillow.

Evangeline's lips twitched again. “I... I’ll be fine.”

Her words were faint, but there was a stubbornness in them that Sebastian recognized all too well. It was the same fire that had always burned in her, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride.

“I know you will,” he murmured, "but you need rest."

"You'll... stay, won't you?" She managed, her eyes fluttering closed.

Sebastian’s chest tightened. "Of course, I’ll stay," he said softly, his voice steady despite the wave of emotion threatening to overtake him. "I've been here all along."

He exhaled slowly, watching her for a moment, her eyes still closed, the tension in her face easing as exhaustion took over once more. He thought briefly that she had fallen asleep again, or perhaps drifted back into unconsciousness, as the silence stretched on between them. He didn’t mind. She needed rest. He needed her to heal.

But just as he was about to shift in his seat, to pull back a little and let her rest more comfortably, her voice—soft and barely a whisper—cut through the quiet of the room.

“Sebastian?"

His heart skipped a beat, and he leaned closer again, immediately alert. Her eyes had barely opened, but she was looking at him now, a vulnerability in her gaze. It took everything in him not to lean in too quickly.

“Will you... lay with me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if Evangeline herself wasn’t quite sure she should ask it. Sebastian’s heart stuttered in his chest, unsure if he had heard her right, but then he saw the way her gaze lingered on him, tired but earnest.

He had never seen her so small, so delicate. The fierce, unshakable woman he knew was still there in the depths of her eyes, but it was buried beneath the exhaustion, the poison, the pain. She was asking for something so simple, yet so... intimate.

Sebastian swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion. “Of course, Evie,” he whispered, his voice low, filled with a tenderness he could barely contain.

He moved carefully, making sure not to jar her or cause her any more discomfort. Slowly, he slipped his shoes off and slid into the bed beside her, careful to maintain some distance between them. He didn’t want to crowd her, didn’t want to make her feel overwhelmed, so he pushed away the selfish urge to hold her tighter, to feel her pressed against him.

For some time, they lay there in silence, the quiet of the room stretching out between them, filled only by the steady rhythm of their breathing. But then Evangeline shifted.

Her movement was slow, deliberate, and accompanied by a faint wince. But despite the effort it took, she moved herself closer to him. Her back molded against his front, her smaller form slotting against him like a missing piece of a puzzle. The warmth of her body seeped through the thin fabric of their clothes, and the weight of her presence, so fragile and yet so real, made everything else seem distant. Sebastian's arm slipped instinctively around her waist, pulling her gently but carefully closer.

She let out a soft sigh in response, her breath shaky, but content.

"Better."

"Good," he whispered, his voice low, careful. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else because the feeling of her body against him was both a comfort and a weight he didn’t quite know how to handle. He could feel every subtle movement of her, the way her chest rose and fell with her breath, her soft curves pressing against his sharper edges in a way that felt so natural, yet made his mind race in ways he couldn’t control. And for a fleeting second, a dangerous thought crossed his mind. What if this—what if she—wasn’t just seeking comfort from him? What if this moment, this closeness, meant something else?

The thought slipped in quietly, but it was there, nestled in the back of his mind like a seed that had already started to sprout. He knew better, of course. This wasn’t the time for fantasies. Not now. Not when she was still so weak, not when she was clinging to him for the simplest of comfort after everything she’d endured.

This wasn’t about him. This was about her healing, about being there when she needed someone, not about his own selfish desires. He was here because he cared about her, because he always had, and because he was her best friend. That was all.

But still, the thought lingered. What if she did want him like this? What if her closeness, her softness, wasn’t just a reflection of the comfort she sought, but something deeper, something that connected them in a way he’d always hoped but never dared to voice?

It was silly. It was foolish.

But she was so close. So achingly close. He could feel the steady rhythm of her hear, the softness of her hair against his cheek, the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She was here, with him. She had asked for him. Not for anyone else, but for him.

And Sebastian knew that no matter how illogical it was, he would hold onto that. Because it didn’t matter that this was only temporary, that soon—once she had healed, once she was back on her feet—this moment would fade and become just another quiet memory. For now, at least to him, this was real, something he could keep in his heart even if it wasn’t meant to be anything more than what it was.

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sergeantelvis · 1 year ago

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"I'm Sorry"

SUMMARY: After following Elvis throughout his career and being there for him, he seems to forget what's most important... you.

warning: ANGST, hurt to comfort?, shouting, miscommunication, insecurity.

A/N: This is my first ever post on Tumblr I've been on here a while so I thought why not give a shot at writing, please keep in mind English isn't my first language :)

Pairing: Elvis x reader (can also be Austin elvis!)

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As the sun set over Memphis, the vibrant city whispered tales of heartache and passion. Among the countless souls navigating the streets, a young woman could be found strolling the dimly lit pathways with what seemed to be a small frown perched upon her face.

That woman also happened to be one of the worlds most talked about people in this current moment, yet she felt like she was the only one talking and no one was listening. That woman was who teenage girls could only dream to be, yet she didn't want to be herself in the very moment. Why would she?

Today was supposed to be different she told herself, he would actually remember, she really tried to believe her own husband would be there to support her during one of the biggest achievements of her life, just like she had done for him the last seventeen years. You see she had been there for him through all walks of life, since he was a tiny little blonde haired ray-of-sunshine and when he dyed his hair black and decided to switch up his style, she was there. And he couldn't even show up for one stupid court-case?

God she felt pathetic, she knew he wouldn't come, so why did she think this time it would be any different. But what could she do? She was Mrs Presley, and thats all people would see her as. As she walked along she moonlit streets she became more wary that she had been pushed aside by her husband, she had made a fool of herself letting him walk around with his wedding band off and acting like a single man with women surrounding him. People warned her about marrying Elvis but she would never listen to them because he was her Elvis and no one knew him like she did, and for a while that was true... until it wasn't.

Her beautiful Navy suit had been especially picked out for this trail, hoping that people would see her, hoping that He would see her. Thoughts swirled in her mind as she tried to process why she had let herself go so far as to have to beg for his attention, she was not some groupie he had picked up from his concerts or some teenaged fan that adored his music, she was his wife.

And she had enough.

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The night air clung to her like a heavy shroud as she approached the hallowed gates of Graceland. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the sprawling estate that had once been her sanctuary. But tonight, it felt more like a prison.

The grand entrance of Graceland loomed ahead of her, its ornate ironwork giving way to a long, winding driveway. As she ventured further in her green Beatle, the faint sound of music reached her ears, weaving its way through the evening breeze. Laughter, muffled and distant, hinted at a revelry she was not a part of.

Stepping across the threshold she had first hesitated towards, she entered the foyer. Dimly lit chandeliers bathed the room in a warm, golden glow, casting intricate patterns onto the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and the anticipation of a vibrant gathering, yet it only deepened her pit of despair that was building inside of her.

Through the open doorways, she glimpsed the living room, ablaze with colour and movement. Lavish gold accented decorations adorned the walls, reflecting the vibrancy of the party within. The room seemed pulse with energy, the laughter and voices of the guests hanging in the air like an invisible veil.

In the midst of the festivities, Elvis stood at the centre, a star among the crowd. His charismatic smile drew people to him, their adoration evident in their eyes, but as her own guys met his, he remained transfixed by the merriment, not even batting an eyelid in her direction.

Her heart sank the steps, becoming slow and weighted with the sorrow she could no longer bear. She carved attention, his understanding of this passing sea of celebration. She appeared to be nothing more than a ghost existing in the peripheral of his attentions.

There, at the centre of the circle of vibrant guested, Elvis, his charm radiating like an Ethereal light. He was locked in at dance of words with a fan Her face flashed with the light basked on his attention. She observed the ease with which he engaged in stranger, his smile more genuine than she had seen in months.

The woman's voice, light and melodious, carrying hints of infatuation as she flirted shamelessly with Elvis. Hello, after accompanied by the soft music in the background seem to melt with the rhythm of his wife's own shattered heart. She could hardly fathom have someone. He didn't even know how to more sway over him, and she is devoted wife.

As she watched her husband, his eyes, twinkling with amusement, she felt an indescribable pain gnaw at her chest. She had dedicated her life to him, bent over backwards to keep their love and life. I need to find herself reduced to an inconsequential presences.

As she leaned against the wall, her tears subsiding, but her pain still palpable. Elvis's eyes flicker towards her. His eyes lingered for a moment before realisation, dawned on him, and with Swift footsteps, he crossed the room to reach her side.

"Hey, baby," He drawled, attempting to dismiss the intensity of the scene, she had just witnessed. His voice infused, with a southern twang still sent shivers down the spine, had once been the balm to her weary soul, but now it only served as a reminder of the golf at grown between.

Her eyes, once filled with love and admiration, now held a mix of sadness and anger. She took a deep breath, collecting the fragments of her resolve, before confront the man she had given her heart to all those years ago.

"You've missed my court case, my own battles and achievements, all while you were caught up in this whirlwind of adoration from strangers," She finally blurted out.

Elvis blinked, his azure eyes mirroring the confusion in his voice. "Satnin? Why didn't you say anything?" He cooed, attempting to soothe her. "You know I've got a lot on my plate."

The word "Satnin" would have once brought a smile to her face, an endearment she cherished, due to Elvis's late mother Gladys who was her second mother growing up in the small area of Tupelo. She shook her head, causing her locks to cascade around her like a waterfall of frustration.

"How can you think we are okay?" She exclaimed, her voice quivering. "

"Elvis, I can't help but feel pushed aside. It's not just about this one encounter; it's about so much more. You've missed my court case, countless family dinners, and it feels like our connection has dwindled to empty conversations. I've been left here, alone, while you bask in the adoration of fans."

Elvis's brow furrowed in confusion as he attempted to grasp the gravity of her words. He had been so immersed in his own world that he failed to recognize the depth of her emotional turmoil. "Satnin, I didn't realize you were feeling this way. I've just been caught up in the whirlwind of fame. Ya know it's not personal, right?"

y/n's frustration simmered beneath her surface, threatening to erupt like a dormant volcano. "How can it not feel personal, Elvis? We used to be each other's entire world. Now, I'm just an accessory on the fringes of your life while you play the role of the adored superstar."

Elvis's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and offense clouding his features. He tried to interject, but her pent-up emotions poured out like a torrential rainstorm, unable to be contained any longer.

"You think this is all about my support? It's not about that, Elvis! It's about feeling invisible, unappreciated, and alone. I've offered my unwavering support, but what have I received in return? Empty promises and missed moments. Is this how our love is supposed to be?"

A flicker of realization darted across Elvis's face, but his natural stubbornness lingered. "Satnin, I've been trying my best, but I can't be in two places at once. This music, these fans, they're a part of me. You knew that when we got married."

Her voice reached a crescendo, her frayed patience snapping under the weight of Elvis's dismissive attitude. "I didn't expect you to choose, Elvis. But I did anticipate that you would make an effort to make me feel like a priority in your life. Instead, I feel like I'm a distant second to the screaming crowds that cheer you on night after night."

Elvis, his patience waning, raised his voice in frustration. "Listen, baby, I have responsibilities, commitments. This is the life I've chosen. Can't you understand that?"

She gritted her teeth, her frustration boiling over. "Understand? I understand that you're using your fame as an excuse to neglect your responsibilities as a husband. You blame me for not understanding, but what about the countless nights I've spent alone, waiting for you? What about the promises you've made and broken?"

Elvis's expression turned defensive, his charm morphing into frustration. "You're being unreasonable, Y/N. I can't be at your beck and call all the time; I have a career to manage."

Y/N's voice trembled with anger. "Unreasonable? You have the audacity to call me unreasonable? All I wanted was a partner, someone who would be there for the important moments, to listen and support me. But you're too wrapped up in your own fame to even notice."

Elvis's obstinacy overshadowed any semblance of understanding. His tone hardened as he lashed out, trying to deflect his own guilt. "Maybe it wouldn't feel so empty if you were more supportive, if you understood the sacrifices I have to make!"

Her patience snapped, her voice resonating with a mix of fury and hurt. "Sacrifices? Where do my sacrifices fit into this equation? I've sacrificed my dreams, my desires, to support you, to be the wife you needed. And all I ask for in return is a fraction of your attention, your time."

Elvis and Y/N stood face to face in their lavish Memphis mansion. The room crackled with tension as their argument escalated, both parties unwilling to back down. Her eyes were brimming with tears, reflecting her hurt and frustration, while Elvis stubbornly refused to see his faults.

"You just don't understand, Y/N! I give you everything, I give you this beautiful home, luxurious cars, and all the fame you could ever want. Why are you so miserable?" Elvis exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief.

Y/n took a deep breath, trembling with the weight of her emotions. She knew this was her moment to speak her truth and reveal the depth of her pain. "Elvis, material possessions and fame aren't enough for me. I want emotional connection, intimacy, and a partner who truly understands me. But lately, it feels like I'm living in your shadow. You're so consumed with yourself that you've forgotten about our marriage."

Elvis's eyes widened, struck by her heartfelt words. For the first time, he began to truly comprehend the gravity of his actions. "But Baby, I don't mean to neglect you. I love you more than anything. How can I make it right?" His voice wavered, a mix of desperation and regret seeping through his words.

Her gaze softened, her love for Elvis still evident despite the pain she felt. "It's not just about apologies, Elvis. It's about changing your behavior, showing me every day that I matter to you. I can't keep living like this, always feeling secondary to your career."

A mixture of guilt and sadness washed over Elvis as he realized the damage he had caused in their marriage. He reached out, gently cupping Y/Ns face in his hands. "Baby, I never intended to hurt you. I know my words haven't always been kind, but you're the center of my world. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm truly sorry."

The air hung heavy with silence as she contemplated his words. She searched his eyes, seeking a sign of sincerity. Slowly, she nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Elvis, I want to believe that you mean it, but forgiveness doesn't come easy. We need time to heal, to rebuild the trust that has been shattered."

Elvis nodded, his heart sinking as he realized the consequences of his actions. They moved towards the hallway, away from prying eyes, their voices lowering to whispers. "Mama, please don't leave me. I can't imagine my life without you. I'll do whatever it takes to make things right."

She looked into his eyes, her pain alongside her love for him evident. "Elvis, the road to forgiveness will be long and arduous. I need you to understand that. It will take more than just words to mend what's been broken. We both have work to do."

Elvis took a trembling breath, feeling the weight of his past mistakes. He gently squeezed her hand, a solemn vow crossing his lips. "I promise you, Satnin, I'll do whatever it takes. I'll be a better husband, a better man. Just please, don't give up on us."

As they stood there, enveloped in the intimacy of their private moment, Elvis and Y/N knew that the journey ahead would not be easy. But their love, their shared history, and the desire to rebuild what was lost provided a glimmer of hope. Their path to healing had just begun, one step at a time.

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A/N: I got a bit carried away! But I'm also looking to make more friends in the Tumblr/Elvis community and would love to follow people or have proofreaders :) thank you <33

#elvis presley #big daddy elvis #elvisaaronpresley #elvis angst #Elvis smut #elvis presley x reader #elvis the pelvis #elvis fans #elvis imagine #50s elvis #memphis mafia #austin butler #austin butler elvis

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mothmiso · 4 months ago

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Ruins of the past (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) by _Tursiops

Via Flickr:

(1) Remains of the old prison at Fort Santiago overshadowed by the city towers. Manila, Philippines. (2) Decorative ironwork atop an old doorway at Fort Santiago, Intramuros. (3) The old moat and adobe walls of Fort Santiago are overlooked by the encroaching city tower blocks.

#fortifications #ruins #buildings #parks #metalwork #moats #colonial architecture #the philippines #manila

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lullablyth · 11 months ago

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decorative wrought ironwork is my weakness…

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visit-new-york · 2 years ago

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Bow Bridge - Central Park

Bow Bridge remains an enduring symbol of Central Park's beauty and tranquility. Its combination of architectural elegance, natural surroundings, and cultural significance make it a beloved destination within this iconic urban park, offering a peaceful retreat and a romantic atmosphere in the heart of Manhattan.

Weddings and Proposals: Bow Bridge is a popular spot for weddings and marriage proposals. Many couples choose this picturesque location to exchange vows or ask for their partner's hand in marriage due to its romantic ambiance and stunning views. It's not uncommon to witness a wedding ceremony or proposal while visiting the bridge.

Historical Significance: Bow Bridge, like many features in Central Park, has historical significance. It is part of the original design of Central Park by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, two influential landscape architects. Their vision for the park was to create a place of respite and natural beauty within the bustling city, and Bow Bridge exemplifies this vision.

Artistic Inspiration: Artists and painters have long been drawn to Bow Bridge as a subject for their work. The bridge's intricate ironwork and its reflection in the tranquil waters of The Lake provide ample artistic inspiration.

Boating on The Lake: The Lake beneath Bow Bridge is a popular spot for rowboating during the spring and summer months. Visitors can rent rowboats and enjoy a relaxing ride on the calm waters, taking in the views of the bridge and surrounding greenery.

Autumn Foliage: During the fall, Bow Bridge is surrounded by a brilliant display of autumn foliage. The vibrant colors of the changing leaves make it a must-visit spot for leaf peepers, photographers, and anyone who appreciates the beauty of the season.

Accessibility: Bow Bridge is wheelchair accessible, making it a welcoming destination for visitors of all abilities. The park's pathways and nearby amenities are designed to accommodate a wide range of visitors.

Restoration Efforts: Over the years, Bow Bridge has undergone restoration and maintenance to ensure its structural integrity and preserve its historical charm. The efforts of the Central Park Conservancy have played a crucial role in this ongoing preservation work.

Music and Performances: The area around Bow Bridge occasionally hosts outdoor music performances and cultural events, providing a delightful backdrop for live entertainment in a natural setting.

Filming Location: Bow Bridge has been featured in numerous films and television shows. Its romantic and picturesque setting has made it a popular choice for filmmakers seeking an idyllic backdrop for their scenes. You might recognize it from movies like "Manhattan," "Keeping the Faith," and "Enchanted."

Wildlife Viewing: The area around Bow Bridge is a great spot for birdwatching and wildlife observation. Central Park is home to a variety of bird species, including waterfowl that can often be seen on The Lake.

Spring Cherry Blossoms: In the spring, the cherry trees near Bow Bridge burst into bloom, creating a stunning display of pink and white blossoms. This seasonal spectacle is a draw for visitors who come to admire the beauty of the cherry blossoms.

Architectural Details: While at Bow Bridge, take a closer look at its intricate ironwork and decorative elements. The bridge's design includes ornate railings, lampposts, and Gothic-style arches, adding to its architectural charm.

Central Park Sightseeing: Bow Bridge is often included as a point of interest on guided tours of Central Park. These tours provide visitors with insights into the park's history, design, and the significance of its various landmarks, including the bridge.

Romantic Atmosphere: Bow Bridge's romantic ambiance is particularly pronounced during early mornings and at sunset. The soft, warm light at these times adds to the bridge's allure, making it a popular spot for couples and photographers.

Adjacent Attractions: Nearby, you'll find other attractions like the Central Park Boathouse, which offers dining with a view of The Lake, and the Central Park Conservatory Garden, a beautifully landscaped formal garden that's perfect for a leisurely stroll.

Accessibility: Central Park has made efforts to ensure that its pathways and bridges, including Bow Bridge, are accessible to people with disabilities. This commitment to accessibility allows a wide range of visitors to enjoy the park's beauty.

In conclusion, Bow Bridge in Central Park continues to be a cherished and timeless destination, known for its architectural beauty, scenic surroundings, and romantic allure. Whether you're seeking a tranquil escape, a place for photography, or a romantic setting, Bow Bridge offers a captivating experience in the heart of Manhattan's urban landscape.

#Bow Bridge #Bridge #Central Park #New York City #new york #newyork #New-York #nyc #NY #manhattan #urban #city #USA #buildings #visit-new-york.tumblr.com #1

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luluwquidprocrow · 1 year ago

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like a row of captured ghosts

kit snicket

teen

2,568 words

Kit Snicket visits a house in the city.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 2, the baudelaire mansion! featuring my enduring headcanon that the baudelaire mansion was previously the snicket mansion, and b+b get it when they marry lemony. i am 100% willing to admit it is Unlikely, however let us not forget kit saying “our families have always been close”, so, yknow

title from welcome home by radical face

Kit could get in if she wanted. She’d been given lockpicks expressly for the purpose, because the locks on the house were special, but she didn’t need them. She knew the statue in the back of the garden had a hairline crack in one of the hands – she didn’t remember which one, but it wasn’t as if there were many options – that, when pressure was applied, opened a brick in the patio. Under the brick was a lever. If one were to pull the lever, the little window in the hidden attic opened, roof shingles shifting out of the way, and one could wiggle themselves in, with enough effort. Her grandfather had put a number of clever little secrets in the house, and Kit had gone looking for them when she was very, very young, so she knew a decent amount of them. Few others did.

(The lockpicks confirmed that. If they thought that was the only way someone could get into the house, Kit was not going to correct them. And there were worse things, weren’t there, than simple theft, things for which no real defense existed.)

Night air bit at her ankles, her fingers, her neck. She wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for November, having grabbed her blue spring jacket in her hurry, but the cold was of little concern to her. The mansion stood across the street, set back from the road, with that winding brick path up to the front doors, the maple trees scattering their leaves around the yard. It was in the heart of the city but in a place one would never know unless explicitly looked for – a turn off an erroneously marked dead end, then another, to an old avenue along a river with more trees than houses. Her grandparents had picked it on purpose. Presumably safe, but close enough.

They had added to the windows. Neat, decorative ironwork, curled into hearts and vines.

Kit put her hands in her pockets and crossed the street, her footsteps the only noise.

The fence out front had been replaced as well. Kit’s grandmother had done most of the architecture, and Bernadette Snicket had favored a simplistic, practical style in her work, but the new fence matched the intricacy of the window grates. That just-too-big space in the bars a person could slide themselves through if they desired, that Kit had, years ago, when she’d – that was gone. Kit walked the length of the fence twice, considering. She couldn’t linger long. There was a light on in a downstairs window, glowing soft behind the drawn curtains. Kit could not put it past them to eventually see her. She walked down the sidewalk one more time, picking up her pace. There was no way around the fence. Climbing over it didn’t seem like an option. The points at the top of each iron bar looked sharp, glinting in a stray hit of light from the streetlamp over near Kit’s car.

(Kit wondered how much was a choice – how much was a needed decision – how much was meant to erase. She couldn’t judge Beatrice and Bertrand for that. Not without damning herself, which Kit was not, overall, in the habit of doing.)

Of course there was a sewer grate nearby, and of course Kit pushed it up soundlessly and slipped down inside.

Her grandfather had three boxes – one Kit had already taken some years ago and given to Bertrand, for reasons better left unsaid. One had been given to Lemony. The third was still in the house and held a very specific map of the city. Headquarters wanted it, among other things. And if Kit came across one of those other things, she was at her liberty to take them.

(She and Beatrice had argued, Kit remembered. The sewer was dark and icy, and Kit shivered hard, grinding her teeth together. They’d argued about those other things, and Kit had not been able to give Beatrice, or herself, a satisfactory answer. It was one of the last conversations they had, if not the last. Most likely the last, if Kit was honest. Beatrice had made it clear where she and Bertrand stood, and where Kit stood, and that it was no longer in the same place. And it never would be.

Kit told herself over and over that she would never do it. There would always be another option, as long as Beatrice and Bertrand were alive to emphatically refuse. Right now, there was this option – Kit was going into the house. She was taking the box back. Nothing else. And the box wasn’t even going to headquarters. There were other plans for that box.)

The box would be in the downstairs office, under a floorboard. Probably Bertrand’s office. The windows were one of the ones her grandmother had put the stained glass in, and shards of blue fell over the green floor when the sun sat just right in the sky. It was a good room for thinking, and Bertrand likely did a great deal of it there. Kit swallowed and hurried further through the sewers, past the names that didn’t matter, and started scanning the curved ceiling. If one knew where to look, there was a sloped hatch up there that led up into the passage between the house and 667 Dark Avenue. Kit would open the hatch, get inside, go into the house, and then leave the same way. And there it was. Tucked in a shadow, just waiting for her. Kit reached up for the wheel, ready to heave the door open. It was going to stick with so little use.

The wheel turned easy under her hands.

Kit jerked back, her whole body seizing up. Someone had been here. Someone who was not her. Someone who wasn’t just checking. Kit spun the wheel frantically and the hatch fell open.

(She’d brought Olaf here. Her grandparents hadn’t cared who knew the location of their house, but their generation had been different, and Kit’s parents had stressed, when they could, the importance of keeping this secret. Her associates thought it was a safehouse, one they could never quite find the location of, and wrote off as another ruse. She’d driven Olaf, pointing out landmarks the whole way, because she’d thought –

Kit was not foolish enough to think she’d get married. But Olaf was important to her, and she was foolish enough to think he’d stay important, and that when Lemony inevitably married Beatrice and they took the house, Olaf would be there too.

They crept in through the fence. Olaf chased her around the maple trees. Kit took him into the house through the font doors and showed him what her grandparents built. And he understood what the Snicket mansion meant, in the way he had to understand what the Count’s mansion meant. Some time later, Kit realized he had not.

Olaf’s memory was shit, except where it mattered. Except in the things she wanted him to forget. He’d remember where this house was and it was only a matter of time before he – before anyone – got their hands on the Baudelaires.)

Kit hoisted herself up into the passageway. She tugged the hatch closed behind her, then felt around in the black for the dip in the center. Her fingers kept slipping, shaking, pushing into metal that wasn’t right, nicking her nails, her heart thudding faster and faster in her chest and rising to a crash in her ears – where was it? There. She found the button and jammed her thumb into it. The metal hissed as it sealed from the inside. It wasn’t enough, Kit knew. Nothing would ever be enough now. But it would have to do.

She ran along the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall. It came to an abrupt end, and Kit had her hand ready to pull open the trap door into the office when her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and then did it again. Once more. She let the trap door fall open and climbed into the Baudelaire mansion.

The office was dark, as expected. Bertrand kept his desk by the windows, because of course he would. Not because Kit’s grandfather had, but because Bertrand would obviously like the view. The bookcases still lined the walls, but the books must surely be different. Kit wondered what he kept there, but there was no time to get into it. She could see the strip of light hovering under the door. It was poetry, probably. He probably kept poetry. Fairy tales he read to his children. The chair at his desk was different than the one her grandfather had there, perfect for sitting in and telling stories. She turned and faced the wall.

The floorboard was in the far left corner, at the front of the room. Kit moved slowly, quietly, barely breathing. Bertrand had covered the whole floor with a thick, heavy carpet, so at least that was in her favor. She bent down, tugging the corner of the carpet up, and lifted the single loose floorboard.

(She always wound up doing this, she thought, in a voice that sounded stunningly like Lemony’s, wry as he ever was. Sneaking into someplace to steal something important. At least now she had experience.)

There it was. Just as it had always been, another secret waiting for its time. The small, jeweled box with the complicated lock with the code her grandfather had taught all three of them. Kit tucked it inside her jacket and replaced the floorboard.

It hit her like a shot, her breath catching in her throat. The sewer hatch locked only from the inside. She couldn’t go back that way. She whirled around, clutching the lump in her jacket to her chest. The best way to leave – the closest way out – that was through the library, two rooms down, through the passageway in the wall and up to the hidden attic. But that meant leaving the room. Standing in the hallway. Walking to the library, unseen.

(She did not have experience. That voice sounded like Jacques, if Jacques had ever been so straightforward in his disappointment. She had to get out of this house before she kept thinking.)

Kit waited. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything from here in the office. She went through the map of the ground floor in her head, the foyer at the front, into the parlor, the living room to the left, the kitchen to the back, the dining room to the right – the hallway behind the kitchen, with the office, the billiard room, the library. The left wall in the library, where the hidden door was. Conceivably, it was easy. Wasn’t it?

She turned the door handle and left the office.

The hallway was half-lit from the living room at the end of the hall. Now she could hear the phonograph, playing a jazz record she didn’t recognize. Beatrice and Bertrand had to be in there, and it was right across from the library. Unless they were in the library. Unless they were – Kit gave herself a shake. She wouldn’t know anything until she moved. She just had to move. She just had to move. Kit just had to move.

She couldn’t see the green floors. Beatrice and Bertrand had rugs everywhere, in elegant red and ivory. Kit tiptoed over it, hesitating. Paintings hung in groups down the hallway, flowers and little portraits and framed children’s drawings, scribbles of the garden hung with the same care as the art. They must be Violet’s. The jazz record kept going. Kit’s grandmother had liked oil paintings of flowers. She’d had a few in the hallway herself in her time.

(Katherine, Bernadette Snicket had said.

No, Kit insisted. How old was she then? Four? Just Kit. And her grandmother had looked pleased, like Kit had passed a test. Everything was a test and always had been, tests she’d completed perfectly, and why did it hurt? How far had Kit gone down the hall? The box sat against her ribs like another heart, heavy. Everything ached, especially her jaw, clenched shut like her life depended on it. And it did. This life around her she wasn’t a part of anymore, this family, this safety, Kit’s life existing outside of this place, everything depended on Kit, on her walking out of here alone, back to her apartment. The whole series of events spooled out in front of her as a nightmare unraveling. Was she crying? Why was she crying?)

Kit took another step, then another. The library was one foot away on the right, a mile away, mere inches, an eternity. The passthrough to the living room on her left gaped open.

Bertrand hummed a bar of the jazz record. And then –

“What’ve you got there?”

Kit froze.

“I knew I left it somewhere in here – ha! That book I was looking for, for Violet and Klaus.”

“You really want to do the cob, don’t you?” The smile was clear in his voice, and Kit pictured Bertrand leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his chin, gazing at Beatrice and bursting with delight.

“I absolutely do! I get to do a fake death scene and everything. How many kids books are going to give me that kind of opportunity, Bertrand?”

They were alone. Their voices were far enough into the room that they shouldn’t see her at the doorway. They joked like she remembered, exactly like she remembered. Did they joke like that with their children? Would they have joked like that with Lemony, here, like they used to? With her? Would Olaf have – would her grandparents – wasn’t Kit supposed to be here too, not because it was hers, that wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was –

Kit held her breath and didn’t let it out until she’d slipped into the library, until she’d rushed to the wall, until she’d nearly slammed her hand into the door hidden in the dark wallpaper, until she was safe in the narrow passageway. She wanted to run, to keep running. But they’d hear her in the wall. She took it step by step with her chest burning, traveling up two floors to the hidden attic. There was the little window in the roof, waiting for Kit to wiggle her way out. She did. The climb over the roof and down the trellis was harder, with her whole body trembling, but she made it.

She stumbled through the garden, racing over the brick path back to the road, to the fence – she shoved her heels into the ironwork, scrambling over it, the tip of a bar slicing into her calf and her palms. She slipped on the way down the other side and her hip met the sidewalk, pain skittering through her leg and up her side. Get up. Get up, Kit. And Kit did, back to her car across the street, into the driver’s side.

Kit took long and deep breaths. In and out, until her head was back on straight, with the plan set right in her thoughts, as it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. She set the box down gently on the passenger seat. She did not look at the Baudelaire mansion. She would patch herself up later, when she had time. She took another breath and put the key in the ignition.

She had to go back home.

#asoue #woevember #no you do NOT see my unformated dashes shhhhhhhh i am so tired okay :) i'm not fixing them i'm going to bed :)#uh. this fic is a Time. in many ways. like.................#kit snicket and the terrible horrible no good very bad evening of Situations. by lulu vandelay #where is this in canon????? uhhh. tentatively violet and klaus are like toddlers i think. yeah?#i struggled with the title. frantically scrambled for a new one bc my original one. look i thought it was tonally too creepy. i think that #was what was freaking me out about it.#AT. 1:56 IN THE GODDAMN MORNING #the next day 2:23 pm update -- changed some words/smoothed some things/left a lot of the passive voice bc i think it's needed here

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