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 [ SUDDEN JOY ], tag: lily/emily!
nicolai phillip mulciber
Posted: Nov 19 2011, 03:19 AM


Unregistered









Bet you never worry, never even feel a frightNicolai had never, once, thought that he would have seen this day. He never thought, for one singular moment, that he would have been so willing to agree to this activity or be so ready to accept whatever responsibility had to offer in the matter. When he walked into the apartment, when he had kissed the temple of the redheaded woman with an unconscious movement, one that he placed no thought into as it was so naturally integrated into the movement that she seemed to welcome, he had never thought that he would have been subjected to this. Chinese water torture? This may have been comparable.She had been so vibrant, so bubbly, so sweet when she entered the door in her woolen concoction that he seemed to appreciate with every glimpse, if only because he was slowly starting to realize that, perhaps, different knits really did have different “moods,” as a fine knit day was completely indicative of a mood that was totally different than a chunk knit. Perhaps, when he sat across from her at the lunch table with the quill and crossword in hand (she was a regular lexicon for clues such as “love, to Hans;” Liebe, for people like him who didn’t know many languages other than his dibbling and dabbling in French and other romantic languages, for absolutely obvious reasons) and noted that she picked the 8-guage cream instead of the 5-gauge beige, he could ascertain whether or not she was feeling stressed or comfortable; perhaps, he had not gotten to realize that different knits held different personalities, but that Emily seemed to be the epitome of sweet, naïve subtlety of not wanting to burden other people while being clumsy, while gushing about her favorite sort of bread, while biting her bottom lip that was always a peachy sort of pink, that her sweaters were just an extension of that.Who would have known that the kiss on his highly-boned cheek that she placed with a sweet nervousness would have been a precursor to his absolute nightmare, and, what more, that he’d agree to partake. They had made small talk, mostly, about work, what they had been up to between the time of their last meeting and then, joking about how England was absolutely turning into an ice cube before their very eyes, how snow would be coming early this year, how they shared a love for hot chocolate, how absolutely ghastly the Cresswell situation was, and how lovely she looked that afternoon. He had sat across from her on the couch, hands folded across his knees as she turned a slight shade of pink when she caught him starring, turning darker when he smiled back, excused herself when it seemed like the pressure to be pretty, to be darling, to be endearing, to be herself, became too much. The lean form of the Mulciber stood and followed her into the kitchen as she was rattling something off about how she needed to start cooking lunch or she’d starve them, how the wine needed to start breathing or it’d clash terribly with the rest of the meal and some other rubbish that he had stopped listening to as he leaned lightly against the dark frame of the doorway, angling his head as he watched her pitter-patter around the kitchen.Who would have known that a simple question out of kindness, out of the goodness of his pristinely shaped heart, would have lead him to this?“Is there any way I can help you, Emily?”Who would have known.“No, no, you have to put more of your wrist in it, Nic.”Kneading, Kneading. Nicolai Mulciber, who had barely made 50 meals for himself in his whole life, was now reduced to kneading dough, like he read about once in a jibberish novel about the servitude and grace of houseelves (though he was awfully fond of the one he kept at home, one that he had taken from his parents and one that had been there since he was a child, as he could hardly be asked to part from him as he knew precisely how to make sandwiches the way they should have been made) and how they had to get it just right or the quality checkers of the establishments they worked at blew gaskets. There had never been a singular moment that the hoity toity man sat down, looked at his life and said “I want to make this for myself” when there were so many avenues that could have been traversed that would end in someone else doing it for him. And now? He was kneading dough, because he was possibly infatuated with a woman. He had done a lot of crazy things for his lawlessly romantic splint in his heart, but this? This was something else entirely. This was manual labor. Nicolai Mulciber was doing something that he had largely regarded as a task that was wholly beneath him and…and….He wasn’t…entirely…minding it.He would have utterly died if he saw himself where he was now, a year ago. With his fingers and hands and general epidermis completely submerged in something gooey and sticky and, thank Merlin he had remembered to roll up his sleeves. Did flour come out from under fingernails? Pants? He was certain that a few powdery drops had landed on the dark woolen blend and instead of fretting completely, he was standing in the kitchen of his maybe something, hopefully something, laughing at her ridiculous jokes, at their pleasantries, and not totally minding that he was reduced to something as barbaric as making…whatever they were making, by hand. Nicolai was trying painfully to do it right, to not show the strain in his mouth when he smiled at the notion of getting dirty (a germaphobe since he was a child, as you could believe, save for the year he was on Quidditch team before he found the Gryffindor’s to be entirely too gross to touch, nonetheless have them touch him) and swallowed lightly when he realized she was hesitant.Really, he couldn’t have minded her no matter what she said. There was simply something about her that had him completely, utterly, transfixed. Perhaps it was her simplicity, how she blushed so deeply, how her smile stretched through her face, how her hair had that soft wave that he had snuck his fingers between a few times, or the way she was so nervous around anything that could have been decidedly “relationship-y.” Emily Wellbeloved, who knew that there was something so incredibly incredible about her? Truthfully, Nicolai hadn’t until, well, relatively recently. Even there, as he squished the weird dough between his fingertips, he tilted his blonde head in her direction and was just a little bit captivated by the way she scrunched her nose when she was looking in a recipe book, “Emily. How long, precisely, am I supposed to do this?” he inquired lightly, for once in his life, his hands embodying the epitome of clumsiness with the task that he almost felt embarrassed by the notion (until he realized that shame was something not within his vernacular), “and what, pray tell, are we making? You’ve kept it a secret and I’m terribly curious.”Famous-sounding words make your head feel lighttag: lily/emily. words: 1285. template/graphic: mine, if you steal it i will find and destroy you.
emily jean wellbeloved
Posted: Nov 20 2011, 08:59 PM


23 | little wars, small victories.
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Group: Civilian Admin
Posts: 306
Member No.: 507
Joined: 23-November 10



( we got too much time to kill, like pigeons on a windowsill. )
user posted image user posted image
( we're made up of blood and rust looking for someone to trust. )
When Emily thought about it later, she couldn't believe her luck.

Because here she was - nervous, mild-mannered, soft-spoken Emily, Emily who had never been in a relationship before Emily, Emily whose face flushed at the slightest provocation - here she was, having lovely, pleasant conversation on a lovely, pleasant afternoon with someone who was quite more than lovely and pleasant. She was here, in her own apartment, with Nicolai Mulciber, and they were cooking lunch. Together. Together, after weeks of lunches and crossword puzzles and even the occasional dinner, he was sitting on the purple sofa in the sitting room and they were talking and he said how lovely she looked even though she was wearing a thick white sweater and jeans and her hair was a mess. (That said, they were the skinny jeans she had stolen from Olive - and really, she had been trying, trying very hard, to wear things like dresses and tights and flats, to wear little cardigans and jackets instead of thick sweaters, to color coordinate her outfits so she looked better, nicer, more noticeable - something that she had done… for him? Or maybe for Sloane Rackharrow, she didn't quite know.)

Her face had turned a deep shade of red when he said this, and so, feeling awkward and unable to reconcile everything that she was feeling, she stood up and made her way to the kitchen, the safest place she knew. Her mouth kept moving without conscious direction, prattling something about how they had to start cooking now, and then, a few minutes later, she had him kneading the bread. But clearly he didn't take cooking to be as entertaining or as liberating as she did. Flour dust settled on his pants, slipped underneath his fingernails, little details that Emily had always liked but would have put the fastidious Nicolai in tears. She watched him struggle with the bread for a few more minutes, and then, biting her lip to keep herself from laughing, said, "Until it's dry, but, oh gosh, here, let me do it." Emily moved next to him, so that her wrist brushed his, so that her hips were at an uncomfortable, precariously close distance, and began to knead the dough herself. "It's really gooey right now, but once we knead it out it'll get dry and you'll know when to stop. But, see, you don't want to squish it, you want to roll it. Like clay. It's kind of an intuitive thing, i guess," she said with a nervous laugh. She reached across him for the jar of flour and sprinkled some more across the bread, then continued to knead.

After a moment, she said, "See? It's getting dry already."

And what, pray tell, are we making? You've kept it a secret and I'm terribly curious?"

She sprinkled more flour on top. "Well," she began in an exaggerated voice, "if you must know, this is the batter for focaccia bread, which is my favorite kind of bread, and then, while the dough rises, we're going to throw together a spinach and artichoke spread for it" - she pointed to a small infantry of ingredients lined up on the opposite counter - "and then this morning I made that lobster bisque I was telling you about so we'll just have to heat that up again." She pointed to the silver soup pot resting on the back burner of the stove. "And I think the dough's ready," she added, giving it one more knead.

Emily glanced down at the flour that had settled on their arms and pants, and then took the dough and placed it on the far counter, throwing a towel over it so that it could rise. Although she was trying to convey the impression of having thrown together the dish and simply giving it a try, the truth was that she had practiced this lunch three times before. And she was positive, absolutely positive, that it would work. "So after about twenty minutes it can go in the oven, and in the meantime we can make the dip." She offered him her best smile. Even though Emily usually cooked by herself, made too much food that mostly went to waste, usually made things because it was the one thing she knew was safe, she had to say that she liked cooking with someone else. Really, she liked the idea that the lunch they'd be sharing was something they'd both worked on together - a team effort.

She brushed flour off her pants - because, after all, these were Olive's skinny jeans that she'd altered because Olive was a normal height and Emily was an Amazon woman, really - and then made her way to the counter that held the rest of the ingredients. "So, I think it takes a fourth of a cup of these cheeses," she said, pointing to some wrapped cheeses on the counter, "and then I'll peel this garlic clove, and if you can measure out the basil and the garlic salt and put them in this bowl…" For a few minutes they lapsed into silence as they measured and mixed and stirred - Emily began to drain and chop the artichokes, then Nicolai measured the mayonnaise, and so on. She took the mixing bowl in the crook of her arm and began to stir the spread together, then folded the spinach and the artichoke inside. "I love spinach, it's a bit of a dirty pleasure of mine." Then she thought back to the first dinner - first date? she didn't know - they had had and added, "But I suppose it's not like haggis."

She looked at his hands for a while, and something ticked away in her chest but she didn't know what it was. They were the hands of someone not used to cooking - coated in flour dust, they made an incongruous picture. "So, when you think all that's ready, we can put it in the oven to bake and melt, and then we just have to wait for the dough to rise." Emily leaned against the counter and ran a hand through her hair. "I do hope this isn't too out of your element. Or, at the very least, you're enjoying it at least a little bit." She smiled, and then felt her face flush again. You're talking too much, Emily, a voice told her.

Sometimes, Emily was rubbish at hiding what she felt.

& you light up my night.
1085. template by me.
graphics by now that you know / caution 2.0
i hope this is alright! it's not my best post, i'm afraid, but it's there?

nicolai phillip mulciber
Posted: Nov 24 2011, 04:53 AM


Unregistered









Bet you never worry, never even feel a frightHis long fingers, which were must more accustomed to handling quills gently dabbed in ink, to pluck buttons of pearlized hue through delicately tailored holes, and to place hair in a proper and right position, were clumsy in their grabbing of dough. Knead, he reminded himself, but it was hard when the sticky substance was already so thoroughly engrained into the space between his fingers, that his ability (or inability) to knead was ruined. The long fingers felt awkward, for the first time in his life, and he clenched his jaw slightly when he realized that he wasn’t perfect at something, for the first time in his life. It was a hard pill to swallow, one that he wanted to avoid choking on while in front of Emily; while he had once told her about how he was absolutely horrendous at potions in school, while he had told her (another time, telling two imperfections in one sitting was absolutely too much to ask) that he could absolutely not stand germs, this was something that was completely new to him and he found it utterly unsettling. Attempting to swallow his pride, he laughed as he continued the motion, the blonde locks moving side to side slightly until there was a beam of light, until he was sure that he heard angles singing – it touched him.Literally.Emily brushed up against him, barely touching the hairs on his hand, the cloth upon his side, as if afraid that he would burn her in some way, as if she needed to move so gingerly as to hope that he wouldn’t run off like a skittish raccoon. Something deep beneath his skin, felt warmer at the interaction, and when his finely boned cheeks turned to look at her, he couldn’t help but smile. Busily, she chatted beneath her breath, nervously repaired what he had messed up, and he momentarily forgot himself. Gently, they worked together (sort of, he took it as a time to stepp back and let her deal with it) and he tried to learn from her (he even peppered flour over the dough once), trying to understand how and why he would ever use this information again, but kept it tucked away because, who knew, it could serve as purpose, such as when he was served something at a restaurant, he could maybe appreciate the work that went into it, but more likely, he would keep it because if he did, it’d stand a chance of tickling her later, to let her know that he was, indeed, paying with rapt attention. “I suppose,” he started, no longer looking at the bread, as it might as well have been forgotten, but at her, again, because the more she spoke within her element, the more charming she seemed to become, “practice makes perfect.”When she sassed, was that really sass coming out of her mouth?, he could only smile further, until his teeth were showing with the projected amusement at the tone in her voice. It was such an authoritative lilt to it, one that made him look around at the ingredients that she mentioned and made him think about the plan she had concocted. It all seemed so well planned and thought out, but so easy for her to come up with an idea that was utterly different from anything he had ever heard of or thought of, before. “Well, Emily, if you must know,” he mimicked the choice of words and the emphasis that she had placed on them, “I find this all very intriguing; you have me completely fascinated.” Lightly, he nudged her with the side of his arm that was in close proximity, grinning. “At any rate, it sounds delicious.”If she wanted it to seem effortless, tossing the towel lightly over the bread (why? he had absolutely no idea) and flicking her head so minutely that the a few tendrils of fire red hair managed to escape to loop around her cheek in a gentle sweep, it was working. When she began dusting the flour off of her jeans (new?), he took account of the state of his own dress that he had been trying to ignore for his sanity. If he focused so completely on Emily, he wouldn’t notice the obnoxious splattering of flour that marred the clean seams of even the most casual of his wear. Gently, he patted off the dark fabric of his pants and followed up with rolling his sleeves a few extra centimeters on his toned forearms, avoiding as much damage that could have been done, because the near fatal encounter with the flour and the bread was something too close for comfort. Nicolai was sure to listen to the instructions that she was giving, hoping that she didn’t notice that he really didn’t have too many issues with measuring as he had claimed occurred in potions, he was a man that dealt primarily with numbers, and that he might have overdramatized the class in order to make her smile, to laugh at how human everyone could be…even if it was a humbling experience that he, personally, hated. Still, he measured the ingredients, squinting lightly to get the proportions just right until she had run out of things for him to measure. Coincidentally, it was then that she began talking – no – rambling. “I love spinach, it's a bit of a dirty pleasure of mine. But I suppose it's not like haggis.”A dark eyebrow arched at the word choice, but out of amusement more than anything. “Truthfully, I would be worried if your spinach tasted like a sheep’s pluck.” Lightly, he joked as he crossed his arms upon his chest and leaned up against the counter, watching as she folded the ingredients together (that technique was folding, right? There was a small difference between folding and mixing that he was unfamiliar with, yet he knew it was there.) and wondered where he slightly anxious ticks came from, those moments where he’d see her eyes glaze and a slow pink appear on her chest that the scoopnecks she occasionally wore now were eager to show. “Though, I don’t think we should wait for my assurance that we’re ready – really, I think you’re far more equipped to deem that.” Unless you were asking him how to make finger sandwiches, the type that had cucumber and soft cheese in them, for he could make those flawlessly.Dark blue eyes had found the elegant curve of her collarbone before she spoke, his eyes then catching how her fingers trailed through her hair and left remnants of white behind, suppressing the urge to reach over and try to shake it loose by having his fingers follow the path. His attention was momentarily lost from her speech, the detail of the strands distracting him until he narrowed back in on the conversation, inwardly sighing at the small display of uncomfortableness that she still held around him, of that instability in his presence that unnerved her. Instead of vocalizing this, he smiled. “While I cannot promise that I am a gourmand, I can assure you that any time I spend around you, I am enjoying myself.” For another moment, he forgot about how he had brought the flour from his hands onto the sleeves of his shirt, or about the residual powder from the ordeal on his pants, but the thought of infatuation or, at least, butterflies, was one to mask over things in his life that may have been trivial, yet normally, he would have created quite a fuss about. Funny, how that worked.Famous-sounding words make your head feel lighttag: lily/emily. words: 1270. template/graphic: mine, if you steal it i will find and destroy you.
emily jean wellbeloved
Posted: Dec 2 2011, 04:28 PM


23 | little wars, small victories.
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Group: Civilian Admin
Posts: 306
Member No.: 507
Joined: 23-November 10



( we got too much time to kill, like pigeons on a windowsill. )
user posted image user posted image
( we're made up of blood and rust looking for someone to trust. )
I can assure you that any time I spend around you, I am enjoying myself.

Emily smiled back at him nervously. "Oh, that's good to hear," she said hurriedly, and then quickly turned to the cupboard before she could say anything stupid. She reached a slender arm up to the cupboard knob (being tall was sometimes advantageous, she had to say) and then threw it open, eyes looking over the stacks of plates and cups and bowls she kept there. She put one hand on a speckled bowl and then bounced on her feet for a second before looking back at him. "I'm having a nice time too."

Then she pulled the speckled bowl from the cupboard and set - more like dropped - it on the table. "Well, I think I'll just put it all in a nicer bowl and then we can put it in the oven with the bread, once the dough rises." Emily looked at the speckled bowl with admiration and began to scoop the ingredients from one bowl to the other. "My sister June painted this bowl. She's a bit of an artist, see. More than a bit of an artist, really. A lovely one. And I even have one of her paintings in my room, the colors swirl in the prettiest way, I always wish I had her talents. But really I'm no artist myself, so it must have skipped a few sisters, I mean, I can't mix two colors together to save my life. I tried once, and then I decided I had best…"

Oh, she was talking too much.

Emily stopped - she was prattling on about something that wasn't interesting to him, she off her rocker, frightfully dull. She put a hand to her mouth, embarrassed, then set the spatula on the edge of the sink. Ducking under the open cupboard door, Emily then began to collect two plates, two bowls, two glasses, holding them as best she could. "I'm talking too much. I'm boring you to death and the table's not even set." She slipped past the edge of the counter and began to set everything on the table. "I think just… two spoons and two knives will do fine." Emily smiled at him as best she could. "Would you mind handing them to me? They're just in the top drawer by where you are. And then, oh, the napkins. They're… oh, they're in the middle drawer by the calendar."

She glanced around herself for a moment. The bread steadily rose under the towel, the speckled bowl continued to hold the spinach spread, the oven clicked as it waited for the bread and the spinach. But then she looked at Nicolai, holding the napkins and cutlery, and she felt a distinct change in the air, a shift in the very fabric of the apartment. A pause filled with something, and she didn't know what it was.

"But I think this'll be splendid, I do hope you'll like it? I guess it's better than what the ministry serves, maybe?"

Like usual, Emily decided to solve the problem by opening her mouth, which never, ever opened this much when she was around anybody else, ever.

Emily didn't actually know if the food at the ministry cafeteria was good or not, seeing that every day she usually brought her own lunch, but she was going to wager that it wasn't perfect. (Emily's lunch was always the same, a coronation chicken sandwich on a kaiser roll, with three slices of pita bread and a little dash of hummus, and it was always the same because coronation chicken was the best kind of chicken in the world). They began to set the table. Emily continued to talk. "I've never actually had it," she said, "because I bring the same lunch, you know, but it always sort of looks dull in color, and this'll be pretty, at the very least, because lobster bisque is always a pretty color, and it's like… haven't you had a meal where it tastes wonderful but it looks completely unappetizing? Or sloppy? I always hate that. Even though that's what always happens to me. Like, oh, once I'd been baking a cake for my sister May - well, May and June and August since they're triplets, but I was baking them each a cake - and I flubbed up the icing so the little scalloped edges were all droopy and, I mean, the cake tasted fine, but the decoration was so wrong and then the little roses didn't stay and they sort of melted into little pink pools on the cake and it looked so sloppy and awful. But it tasted fine, just looked terrible, and oh, oh, oh, piss off, I've done it again, haven't I?"

Her face turned redder than her hair; she turned back into the kitchen and pulled the towel over the dough, which had risen appropriately, in the time it took Emily to make a complete fool of herself. "I do this to you every day, don't I? And I never have anything interesting to say, either."

She bent down and pulled out the drawer under the oven. A mess of muffin tins, cupcake tins, smaller muffin tins, large baking sheets, small baking sheets, cooling racks, and the like blinked up at her. Emily began to sift through the mess - it occurred to her that a summoning charm would do the trick, but her wand was in her bedroom. Instead, she searched for the proper baking sheets by hand, meaning that a rather dissonant sound emanated through the kitchen. Upon finding it, she yanked them out and then slammed the drawer shut with too much force. "So the bread will take… twenty minutes to cook, and it's… 12:07 now, so that means 12:27. And oh, then the spinach spread," she added. She placed the bread and the speckled dish on their respective baking sheets and slid them into the oven. "You'll have to let me know when it's time. I'm always forgetting. I don't have a good watch, I guess!"

She leaned against the counter, trying her best to will her face back to its usual pale shade; when that didn't work, she hoisted herself up onto the counter and became very interested in a loose thread on her sweater. She swung her legs back and forth - a nervous habit of hers - so her black flats kept swinging and hitting the bottom cupboards and drawers. Oh, piss off, Emily, she said to herself. You're ruining everything.

& you light up my night.
1110. template by me.
graphics by now that you know / caution 2.0
when i said emily wouldn't shut up i was not kidding
nicolai phillip mulciber
Posted: Dec 13 2011, 03:27 AM


Unregistered









Bet you never worry, never even feel a frightIt was peculiar, the effect that posture had on the way someone was noticed. Nicolai had always walked, perhaps a little too straight, with his head tilted a tad too high, through his life. Alana Flint, for her small, slight frame, had never once struck him as someone who was petite, as she walked with her head as high as she possibly could and commanded a presence no matter the area that she was surrounded by; there was something uneasy to swallow about her – though, the same could be said for her husband, not an entirely bone-crushing presence in portraits, as the ambiance he strolled about with was positively mood-downing, and naturally, the subsequent logic applied to their children. It was in the way someone walked, gesticulated. As much as it pained Nicolai to admit as much, it had very little to do with the way someone dressed down at the core (though, of course, the minute the hand-tailored suit…not by his hand, mind you, was pressed against the sturdy bone and muscle, the image was sharpened and tinted into a side of perfection), but the way they felt about themselves. Strange, because, it had taken him approximately three months to realize how tall Emily was, and he found it quite the shame.Anyone, but specifically, someone like her, should have stood a little more tall. Long limbs, slender, porcelain face and flaming hair – considering the questionable inclination of Weasley was nowhere to be seen, she should have had her shoulders square and back, the slight raising of collarbone appearing above the hem of the sweater she usually wore, perhaps the pearlized white that made her looked utterly wintery, but in the way that reminded him of warm fires versus the appearance of instantaneous frigidness ala her sister Dahlia whenever she walked into the room, or slid across the table the marginal amounts of time that she dropped in on the lunch Nicolai was sharing with Emily, not that he minded – correction, not that he would let Emily know that he cared. Anyway, Emily should have been capitalizing on the way her eyes twinkled because, really, he didn’t think that other people paid as close attention to beauty and lived vapidly enough to notice the beauty that she seemingly didn’t know that she had. Obviously not, he reminded himself, as she had confessed over that note that she had never been taken out on a date, later confessing that she and men were two things that simply did not happen. Though, he considered thoughtfully, that was really part of her charm, that she really hadn’t the faintest idea that she was so lovely. There was time to work on her posture. “Fantastic,” he responded to her rush of words that told him that she was having a good time, though his eyebrow quirked at how she seemed unsure of herself, even in that. He was about to comment on how she jittered, but then she was off, and Merlin, how she could talk. He walked towards her, slightly, leaning next to her place at the counter, crossing his arms against his chest as he tilted his blonde cranium in her direction as she hurriedly placed ingredients in the spotted bowl that had something to do with her sister, knitting his eyebrows together before laughing at her apparent distraught nature, that she couldn’t paint or swirl colors to be aesthetically pleasing, “that you’d best what? Emily, though you may not be a painter, you are plenty gifted at a plethora of other things.” He looked around the kitchen briefly before settling upon the bowl before her, “cooking. Languages.” Being quaint, but not in a tacky way, in the kind that people pay money to try to appear demure, but fail miserably. Being lovely, and not knowing it – though, on second though, that should hardly be a strength for anyone and yet, his eyes scanned her profile lightly, about to bring up a hand to graze over her cheek before she turned and ducked under the cabinets, before prattling off again about how terribly uninteresting she was for whatever reason she thought it viable. And yet, she should practically be paid for it.There was a concealed roll of his eyes as he followed her, gently closing the overhanging cabinets with a gentle snap, though he figured for now he would stay quiet and let her rant about this or that because she was clearly off in her own little world where she was Quasimodo sans charming anecdotes. Turning around, he leaned again against the counter and put his hands lightly on his hips as she ran around to set the table, to make everything lovely for the two of them; again, he’d let her. It was sweet. When she addressed him, he dutifully propelled himself from the counter to grab what she requested, gently palming the napkins, the spoons, the knives – especially the knives, and gently waved off the offer to take the materials and instead set forth to help her make the table presentable – looking to the place she had set for herself, first, as truthfully, it was something he hadn’t experience in ever doing. “Yes, yes. I’m quite certain that it will be smashing. After my first year at the office, I’ve never looked back from personal catering. The cafeteria may be fit for Scorpious Malfoy, however, I’d never.” Smiling, his jaw clenched slightly again when she went on another tangent, his eyebrows arching at the sheer stamina she had to talk about the most inconsequential things. Cake? Something about her siblings, she had about ten and the details surrounding them were still quite hazy, but he mentally shrugged it off as she talked mostly to herself, slamming around the kitchen nervously. Merlin, she practically ran away from him.It clearly wasn’t something he said.Still, Nic brought a hand up to run along the back of his neck, sighing lightly as the clanking continued and she continued on about the bread. “Consider it noted.” When she popped onto the counter, he went back into the kitchen and stopped in front of her, noting the pink of her face, the way it battled for red-dominance with her hair, the way she looked as if she was going to faint…or puke. He really preferred the prior, because then at the very least, he could pretend to be the knight in shining armor and fan her back to life and evoke some sort of sentimental deep, lovely feeling. Slowly, he brought up his hands to cup her face, smiling at the heat radiated out, unlike what he had really experienced before, and looked at her levelly. “Emily. Please, relax. I can assure you that there is nothing in the least to be worried about, so please, while this is absolutely endearing, don’t have a panic attack at my expense. My conscious could hardly take it. Please?” Maybe if he used the magic word, it’d count. They had twenty minutes, right? He was smooth enough to calm her down before the bread burned, or, so he hoped.Famous-sounding words make your head feel lighttag: lily/emily. words: 1190. template/graphic: mine, if you steal it i will find and destroy you.
emily jean wellbeloved
Posted: Dec 24 2011, 08:48 PM


23 | little wars, small victories.
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( we got too much time to kill, like pigeons on a windowsill. )
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( we're made up of blood and rust looking for someone to trust. )
Emily had several, rather unpleasant memories from school tucked away in the back of her mind, crisp and clear memories of stern professors instructing her to "use her words." "Speak up, Miss Wellbeloved." "How on earth are you going to pass your exams if you can't talk?" She'd always been the quiet Wellbeloved, the unassuming one, the one who never really had anything… important to say. And then she stood within three feet of Nicolai Mulciber and suddenly she couldn't stop talking. Her stomach flipped in knots and her heart beat faster than it ever had - a different sort of beating than, say, the day she'd flipped over a man's dead body, or the day she had to speak Italian for the first time. This was nervous and frightened but somehow happy. Thrilled. Exhilarated. Any of the adjectives would work. It was somewhat akin to the feeling she'd had in her sixth year when she was head over heels for Russell Dawlish, her partner in defense against the dark arts, but no matter how she tried, no matter what she told herself, it didn't go away.

It didn't go away.

He brought his hands to her face.

It wouldn't go away.

They were nice hands. Soft. Dry. She thought of Russell Dawlish; his hands were always sweaty. Nicolai's weren't a thing like his.

My conscious could hardly take it. Please?

Emily took a deep breath, and then another. "I'll try, I'm sorry," she said.

Shit.

"And - and I'm sorry - for saying sorry - all the time."

Her stomach kept turning over. Her face did not get any less red. "I just…I don't want to be poor company. I mean, you didn't have to come over today."

You won't get anywhere if you can't use your voice, one of her teachers had said. This was her fifth year. Career advice. Emily had stumbled something about how her mother had taught her French and then, because she'd picked up French so easily, Spanish, and she'd taught herself Portuguese and was working on German. Her head of house had raised a thinly plucked eyebrow. And all of that means… what, exactly, Miss Wellbeloved? Emily's face had grown red. You won't get anywhere if you can't use your voice. Then she'd cleared her throat. Mice do not get jobs at the ministry, she added before handing Emily a pamphlet about ministry interpreting.

She thought of Dahlia, headstrong, independent, fierce, confident Dahlia, Dahlia who somehow had all the answers and all the cards in her hand. Dahlia who had everything figured out. Dahlia would have known how to fix the situation. She'd have some witty remark, supremely placed, something sharp and biting and caustic but just soft enough to defuse the tension. Emily was not so quick on her feet. Emily was woefully inarticulate when it came to impromptu. Emily was going to have to muddle through it and try not to embarrass herself or start to cry or faint or vomit or any of those options. She tied her fingers into a knot and then untied them - only to fiddle with her fingers again. "It's just… I don't want to bore you, not when you've been… when you've been so nice to me."

What would Dahlia do?

Look him in the eyes, a voice in her head said.

So she forced herself to look at him, as best as she could, trying so hard for her eyes to meet his, and she said, before she even knew what she was saying, "You've been so nice to me, and I don't want to be a bother, not when, not when… I like you very much, Nicolai."

And I hope you do too, she thought to herself, but her teeth clamped down hard on her lip before she could say that, too, walk into some other blunder, say something else so stupid.

She was in her sixth year again, and Russell Dawlish was walking down the hallways with Rosemary Merrythought, and he'd simply been telling her that her hair looked nice because he felt bad for her and wanted to copy her notes for the end of term exam, and he hadn't liked her at all. Wasn't this going to end the same way? Hadn't he just taken her out because she'd told him she'd never been on a date before? Because no man had ever taken much interest in her? Because she was going to be a spinster, living at home with several dozen cats, when everybody else had found somebody, she was going to be alone. Wasn't that the reason for everything?

"I like you very much," she said, repeating herself more to her than to anyone else, and as she did so, a little voice in the back of her mind told her no.

A little voice in her head was telling her he had taken her out, he had had lunch with her, he was cooking with her, because he liked her. Not because he felt sorry for her. Because he saw something in her - some elusive quality that Emily didn't find in herself, because Emily was a cesspool of self loathing, but he found it anyways and didn't want to let it go.

And couldn't it be Emily's, if only she used her voice?

& you light up my night.
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merry christmas, shan! c:
nicolai phillip mulciber
Posted: Dec 27 2011, 12:30 AM


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Bet you never worry, never even feel a frightNicolai had always been a romantic sort—openly so. He enjoyed pretty things, such as silk ties, the curve of expensive crystal glasses with inlaid carvings that had been hand done, the shine of shoes that caught the reflections of those that walked by when he walked around his work, and lovely women. The moment a pretty woman smiled in his direction, the moment she closed her eyes and he could spy the way her eyelashes laid against the curve beneath, the moment she laughed and the sound tickled his ears while the gleam of her teeth caught the light, his heart would pulse extra hard. After all, Nicolai had been in love more often than most people and had since lost count with the women he had been with and felt the inclination of “this could be it,” because he stopped counting. No matter the beauty of the female form, there was not a singular instance in which the infatuation had lasted longer than four months and it hurt his heart to brush the lock of hair behind the shell of their ear or sweep his thumb upon their cheeks to say goodbye. He never forgot their eyes, their laugh or their smile, but somewhere along the line, the spark faded from lust and love to adoration, and Nicolai being the spoiled boy that he was, simply could not settle for someone that he simply liked to spend time around. He would never be content to settle with someone who was simply a good person—where was the completed feeling that he felt when he was first with them?That joyous feeling he had when they had shared their first kiss or when they first held hands upon the table, sharing stories that made each other laugh and made Nicolai forget about how much he hated dirt beneath his fingernails or that the woman to their left with the large breasts and buck teeth was unbelievably distracting to his gnat-length attention span.Not that, that woman deserved love any less. Quite the contrary, every woman deserved to be loved or at least feel a cheap Chinatown knockoff of the emotion in their life. At least once. And, if Nicolai could help it, to the few selected that had passed his innate qualifications that he looked for in a mate, he would aspire to do just that—transpire the feelings that they inspired within him. Love did silly, nice things to people. It gave them reasons to sleep in late, to smile more often and, hell, to some people, a reason to live. Nicolai, despite being a man who often fell in love, or became infatuated, depending on the season, the girl, and how he felt when he rolled out of bed in the morning, was not one of them. Yes, he was quite in love with love, the very idea of it compelled him to keep trying until he found it and felt like it was it, but he had a life. He was a man who dealt with money and people, a job tailored for him like his work slacks and jacket; he invested, he smiled, he was a story teller and was faced with countless people who would bend over backwards to make him smile.It was a perfect job and fulfilled the more selfish side of him, as not all of him could be donated to bringing joy to joyless women who wanted to save ducks from magical ointment spills or starving artists who liked him because he footed the bill to a nice meal and a glass or whine, and his other means needed to be met. It was hard being selfish and simultaneously so giving to others—it was taxing and there were not enough people patting his back for such charity. Even when he was being a very nice patron to organizations who did save small animals from the unfortunate tragedies of the sometimes clumsy wizarding world, or to knit hats for homeless people (he was proud to say that he supplied enough wool for ten whole hats in the past year); it may have been true that his ulterior motive in such donations were to brag about them to family members, pen them in fancy letters on his resume or casually slip them into the conversation while getting to know someone especially fetching, although he would like to point out that he also did it out of the kindness of his overly sentimental heart.Sloane Rackharrow, his cousin, had once flicked him on the back of his skull when she sniffed out the budding relationship between the blonde haired man and his orange haired lovely. “Another act of charity, hm? You’re so painfully sweet.” That hadn’t been it. It had never been that. Maybe, just maybe, at first, he had viewed it as doing a bit of a service, of taking her out to dinner and finding that to be that. That wasn’t how it kept up. That might have been his intention, but he had been taken by surprise; he had seen her eyes sparkle across the table, over the langoustine and the following sorbet, and there was that slow spreading of that feeling he craved so thoroughly. Was she that fabled one? Maybe, perhaps not, perchance so. That aside, not even he would bet upon the future, there was something so beautifully, refreshingly enchanting, sweet and unsuspecting about Emily. Some would have viewed the way she voiced her feelings as vulnerable, as unsure of where she stood, but it made something in him flutter, and how could it be otherwise?“I like you very much.”Such a simple phrase. He knew it meant everything, though, and just like that he had a feeling that he felt the same. There was a slow curling of a smile, a re-analysis of a face that he had already come to know – blush and all. “Emily.” Nicolai’s voice was even, licking his lips before the words spilled evenly from them, “I like you, too. Very much,” he mirrored, an eyebrow arching, “it is why I came. I wanted to ask you to the Gala, you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?” There was a prod towards her family, a bit of a chuckle, “and I’d like very much if you said you’d attend with me.”Famous-sounding words make your head feel lighttag: lily/emily. words: 1166. template/graphic: mine, if you steal it i will find and destroy you.
emily jean wellbeloved
Posted: Jan 16 2012, 09:21 AM


23 | little wars, small victories.
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Group: Civilian Admin
Posts: 306
Member No.: 507
Joined: 23-November 10



( we got too much time to kill, like pigeons on a windowsill. )
user posted image user posted image
( we're made up of blood and rust looking for someone to trust. )
Emily was more romantic than it looked. In school she had read thick biographies of all the great historical romances, even the ones between the muggles, and sometimes they made her cry. She had sometimes caught the passing glance of somebody she worked with and spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming. She read trashy French romance novels with impossibly buff men and curvy women on the corners, and she sobbed when the leads didn't get together at the end. She still hoped that her good friend Callie ended up marrying her fiancee, and she still hoped that August and the girl he fancied would have something together someday. Emily was a supporter of love, never one of those girls who thought love didn't exist, or that love was a stupid little chemical reaction, a little firing (or misfiring) of the brain.

But Emily believed in love without ever having actually been in love herself - unless you counted Russell Dawlish, and Emily didn't. Really, you could take it a step further to say that Emily believed in love, but not for herself. She did not think she was the kind of person that got to fall in love, mostly because falling in love implied that there was someone who loved you back, who was there to catch you on your great fall of love. With that in mind, then, she had kept quiet and resigned herself to a life of being the Wellbeloved family spinster - because she was positive Dahlia would marry someday, and so would her next eldest sister, and the triplets, too, and she'd become the exotic foreign aunt who brought all the best gifts - with a dozen cats and a passport full to the brim with stamps.

Nobody had ever told Emily these things: it was something she'd assumed all her life, just as she assumed that she was mediocre and assumed she was entirely unassuming.

I like you, too. Very much.

Her face flushed.

He wasn't feeling sorry for her.

He genuinely liked her.

Was that really what she was hearing?

I'd like very much if you said you'd attend with me.

She had almost, almost forgotten about the gala until then - the culminating event of the year. Without a donor to sponsor the event this year, her mother had done backbends to organize the event for Christmas Eve, and unfortunately, Emily couldn't extend her stay in Vienna until Boxing Day, when the whole thing would be over with. So then she had begged to stay at home, or if that couldn't work, work in the kitchens making the refreshments. "Mum, please," she'd said. "I don't have a date. I'll never have a date. Do you remember how embarrassing last year was?"

Her mother pulled her eyeglasses from her nose and set them on the table. "So you can go by yourself," she said, and the look on her face meant that she was no longer accepting discussion. Emily, in a show of disrespect that hardly ever surfaced, let out a long, exaggerated sigh and flounced from the room, upset with both her mother and herself.

"Of course I know about the gala," she said, face still red. "Mum's been planning it since July." Then a small, slow smile slid across her face - still the timid, nervous ones she usually gave him, but much more radiant, in a way - and she reached out for his hand, setting hers on top of his. "I would love that." Her voice was small - a mouse voice. She tried to stand up straighter, to use her voice. "That would be… that would be so nice."

Her hand was smaller than his. "That would be wonderful." A bird flapped its wings outside. "Oh, you haven't any idea how wonderful that would be."

Oh, Emily was a supporter of love: a true believer, if you will. She believed in happy endings. She believed in love stories and romance novels and poetry all the same. And she was quite possibly beginning to think that if she were falling, if she had already fallen in love, somebody was going to catch her if she didn't ruin everything. Or somebody had caught her already.

Somebody had caught her already, and she was looking at him now.

"I'll have to find a dress, you know," she added. "A fancy dress. I don't have any fancy dresses. I mean, I can't wear a sweater to the gala." Then she laughed a little. "Well, if I did wear a sweater to the gala, would you mind?"

& you light up my night.
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graphics by now that you know / caution 2.0
ouch, this is very short and very late and i apologize!
nicolai phillip mulciber
Posted: Jan 24 2012, 02:52 AM


Unregistered









Bet you never worry, never even feel a frightNicolai Phillip Mulciber had been doing something peculiar as he watched her pale skin, which had never quite left the shade of pink since he entered the room, turn into a regular shade of magenta. He watched as her eyes shifted just so slight, just ever so slightly, as if conveying that her mind was going over the delicate curvature of the words that he said to her. He could nearly feel the palpitations of her heart (or, perhaps it was his?), and if she had been wearing earrings, she would have been worrying them, but instead she was looking at him as if he were some sort of alien, as if he was something entirely new. Emily’s legs had stopped nervously shifting against the cabinet, and has she began speaking – the smile was first – he let go of the breath he was holding, the strange action that rarely occurred when one was the Eros to the mortal, and rarely the other way, and felt a slow, deliberate warmth spread upwards through his ribcage and into his lungs. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought that she as the orchestrator of his happiness, in that moment; if she said no, if she had found him to not be up to what she wanted, something that had never occurred, as he even wooed Ada Yaxley into a civilized date and still laughed unbelievably easy with her to this day, Nicolai was not entirely sure what he would have done with himself.And yet…And yet, there was something in the edge of her smile, something that hadn’t been there before – he would have known, you see, as he had taken and penned into various sheets of paper that her simple, slight mannerisms and learning their meaning had become one of his most beloved of hobbies, just as determining what sort of plague drifted along her mind when she wore the dark blue cabled sweater that hung low and was worn beyond what normally would be fashionable, his standards had always been a smidge too high, just like the angle of his head as he walked around the Ministry, or how happy she could have been when she wore the pearl studs in her ears, drawing attention to the rounded shell and the smile that would follow soon after when someone noticed, when someone complimented – that held him in that moment. Elation followed when she said yes, no, no she didn’t just say yes, she said something entirely more pleasing, entirely more encompassing,“I would love that. That would be… that would be so nice.”And he had believed her. Perhaps he had been with too many women, perhaps he had frivolously treated them to this or that as doting had always been a rather pleasing occurrence, just to see the way their eyes lit up and their mouths formed small “o”s before blooming into grins that made the sun feel dimmer, the world seem smaller, yet, perhaps, when they had said they loved this or that, he hadn’t truly believed them. When Emily said that she would love to go with him, he realized that he wouldn’t have just liked her to say yes, but loved that she did. Her hand found the top of his, slightly chilled to the touch despite how warm her cheeks looked, and his free hand found the smooth planes and light angles of the hand and covered it, using his large hands to curl around the width reassuringly. A senseless act, as he was almost sure that the softened gaze of his blue eyes told her just what hers told him. The blonde felt his heart race slightly as she kept talking, her excitement spreading through him with it’s own centrifugal force, the small words, the eagerness with how she spoke and how freely she gave her happy smile to him, made everything cozy and otherwise refreshing. He could have cared less about the bread he had slaved over, about the dip that had the tips of his fingers still smelling vaguely of onions and garlic, because in that moment, making the redhead in front of him smile was the best thing that could have possibly happened.One of his hands moved to lace with hers, the free one reaching back up to her face, and helping him to smile when he found that, yes, her cheek was as heated as he ascertained. “I’m quite sure I have an idea of how wonderful it would be, Emily. With you as my date, I hazard to see how it could be anything else.” The pad of his thumb ran over the curve of her cheek lightly and his eyes followed the action. “Therefore, we’ll consider how lucky each of us is as completely equal and lovely in its complimentary nature.” With a matter-of-fact air, he took another long sweep of her features. In all of his years of courting women (he never would have forgotten the hand of the dark haired Indian girl he held in Herbology in third year, or the way she giggled to her friends that a boy like liked her), this was one of the best moments he would ever remember, but that was because Emily was no ordinary woman and would never quite be. The more she didn’t realize her potential, it seemed, the more sensational she became. With that thought in mind, wondering how in Merlin’s name he had been able to resist up until this point, Nicolai leaned in and placed his lips gingerly against hers – as if afraid that she would flutter off like a frightened bird if he moved too suddenly, too quickly. It couldn’t have been more than a chaste touch, really, before he pulled away and smiled at the way her hair smelled like the lightest of fragranced shampoo, or, how, up close her skin seemed to be more dazzling when heated with a blush – better than any overly primed damsel could have dreamed of. There was a chuckle, an arch of his eyebrow as he pulled back. “No. I wouldn’t mind the slightest, although strange it is for me to imagine it; after all, if you’re comfortable, if you’re happy, who should say that you’re wrong?” His full, dark pink lips spread a bit more, now, into a large grin with the shadows of teeth beneath, “however, citing your attire on our first date and what is before me right now, I can say, with full confidence, that you would be the belle of the gala no matter what you donned.” With that, his grin bloomed into a smile.Famous-sounding words make your head feel lighttag: lily/emily. words: 1114. template/graphic: mine, if you steal it i will find and destroy you.
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