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skywarpie · 1 year

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New Blood

AO3 link

will contain chapters if i can make myself write enough

Rating: mature for eventual violence and language

Medieval/Renaissance AU because I can. Fight me.

Summary: The Emeritus family has immense power and wealth which they fought like hell to achieve, not afraid to kill those in their way. Copia is the youngest and his father’s least favorite son. Soon to become a Cardinal and enter the family business he learns there may be more to the name Emeritus than he thinks.

Background Info:

The Emeritus line along with their works and influences both political and religiously are strongly based on the Medici line, who were influential in all these areas, essentially ruling Florence with an iron-fist. Under their control, Florence prospered, becoming the most important city-state in Italy and reputedly the most beautiful city in all of Europe. Although not noble themselves, the Medici family had ties all throughout Europe, producing 2 queens. All of this was possible because they held one of the most powerful economic systems in Europe. The Medici family also produced 4 different Popes during their dynasty and I thought that seemed to be rather fitting for this situation.

Copia is depicted as having rickets in this fic. There is some harsh language directed at him from Nihil from time to time.

Rickets was a disease that ran wild through the Medici children, due to lack of vitamin D and other nutrients.

His family isn’t of noble blood. They probably won’t ever be. All that they’ve gained has been from literally clawing and biting their way to the top. The empire, his family’s, is built on blood. Mostly from those that got in the way, but there’s some familial blood mixed in there too. All loose ends have to be taken care of, regardless of relation. It was his first lesson when he was young. Do not cross family.

Wealth and power do not come cheap. The Emeritus family is one of the oldest in Italy, easily being able to claim their relations all the way back to Roman senators. Well, at least they claim so. He’s not so sure how true that really is. What he can be sure of though is that his family rules Florence with an iron fist…well, at least his father and brothers do. His father had bribed his two eldest sons’ way to the title of Anti-Pope. Now he was banking on adding a third notch on that totem with his last eldest brother. Copia himself isn’t really involved with any of the family business past the paperwork revolving around their ever growing bank. That’s fine with him. Copia doesn’t think he has the stomach for playing dirty and killing people that get in the way.

Copia exhales through his nose. His eyes are glued on the massive painting of one of his ancestors, long gone, that decorates the main hall. He’s stared at this painting a thousand times. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, or if he even is looking for something. His eyes lock onto the mixed matched eyes that mirror his own. It’s really the only thing to even show their relation to one another. A family blessing, his mother had called it. But was it? Was any of this?

“Ah, there you are.” A melodic voice snaps him from his haze. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Have you no idea what today is?” Her voice is terse but not cruel. Not like his father’s.

“Sorry mama.” Copia smiles shyly. As a young man in his late twenties, the title is something that should have been replaced with a more formal address. But he isn’t sure what else he would call her. She’s his mama and she always will be, even if it does irk Nihil.

Imperator returns the smile, coming to a halt at his side. Her elaborate dress covers the floor around her, the jewels on it catching the light of the candles and making it sparkle. Her golden hair that is slowly beginning to gray at the roots is tied elaborate upon her head, loosely covered with a veil. She’s his father’s fourth and final wife. Copia isn’t entirely sure what happened to her predecessors but he doesn’t feel the need to dig into that anytime soon.

She looks between her son and the portrait. “Has he said anything?”

“If he has then I must be losing my hearing.” It’s meant as a joke, really it is, but the smile that they both share is sad, hardly reaching their eyes. Copia isn’t the healthiest. From a young age an issue had been spotted. As an infant he had cried nonstop, always acting as if he were in pain. The issue had been solidified as he grew, his legs bowing and forcing him to use a cane decades before a man of his age should have to. Thus all of this had resulted in Copia being a sickly child, seeming to always have some illness or broken limb. Unlike his mother, his father had been entirely insensitive to the matter, calling him a mouthful of names. He assumed that to be the reason for his father’s dislike of him.

“Well,” she clears her throat and loops her arm with his. “I doubt he has anything interesting to say.” She sniffs. “He looks to be a rather sourpuss, if you ask me.” Imperator gives a sly grin and Copia catches himself chuckling.

“Si, I suppose he does.” He looks at the painting a moment longer. Was he like me? I could understand why he’d be unhappy.

“Come.” She pats his arm. “We are to be late to dinner if we stand here any longer. You know how your father can get if he must wait for something.”

He nods. Yes, he did know. It wasn’t pretty.

The pair share small conversations as they walk to the dining hall. Copia’s condition makes it rather difficult for him to move at breakneck speeds. Something his mother understands and accommodates. Babys, Nihil would call it. But that’s why Imperator is his favorite parent and not Nihil.

As they enter the hall, a flurry of ghouls move about the large room. Placing several dishes upon the large table, others pouring Cabernet, the Emeritus family favored wine. A myriad of others stood aside, ready to attend to what ever need may arise.

“I should have known you were taking so long because of him.” Nihil’s voice grated on Copia’s ears as he pulled the chair out for his mother before moving to seat himself, a ghoul taking his cane afterward to sit against a wall out of the way.

“It’s called patience, dear. Perhaps you would do well to learn it someday.” Her face split into a sharp smile with malicious intent.

This seemed to be enough to make the old man shut up. Thank Satanas.

“I think that would actually kill him.” Terzo’s voice finally adds to the mix. Copia glances across the table at his brother. Unlike his eldest brothers that were decades older than him, Terzo was the closest in age, and Copia was silently thankful his brother still lived with them. It gave Nihil someone else to yell about.

“I die and this family falls into ruin.” Nihil growls, followed by a coughing fit.

“I think it may actually benefit us.” Terzo swirls the wine in his glass before taking a swig. “Hell knows it would be entirely less stressful with you around.”

Nihil makes to respond but his coughing fit ends just as the first dish is served and the food seems to be enough to make him shut up.

For a long while there is silence. It’s tense but Copia would rather have that than yelling.

“Fratellino, you are ready for your first summoning tomorrow, si?”

Copia chews the inside of his cheek. He nods. “I think so.”

“Think so.” Nihil scowls from the head of the table. “It is either yes or no. How hard is that? Your legs may not –”

“Eccellente!” Terzo’s voice cuts Nihil off and Copia silently thanks him. “You will do well. I know it.” He punctuates this by glaring in Nihil’s direction for a split second. “I have no doubt you will succeed.”

Copia wants to respond but he’s not sure how to accept the compliment. Instead he nods and continues eating.

Dinner continues, falling into small conversation here and there, just enough to get them through the ordeal. Copia can’t thank Satan enough when it finally ends. He excuses himself and makes his way to the library in hopes to calm his ever growing nerves.

—----

“You have been in here for hours.”

Copia rubs at his left eye, smearing the black make-up that decorates it. A quick glance out the window and he sees that he in fact has been in here for hours. It’s long past dark, and the wick of his candle has nearly burned out.

“Mi dispiace. I got a little distracted.” He closes his book and tucks it under his arm as he rises from the armchair. He snuffs out the flame on the candle with his fingers and grabs his cane.

Imperator frowns, hands on her hips. “This is about tomorrow?”

It’s actually about dinner but, sure, whatever, that also weighs on his tired mind.

Copia nods as he and Imperator exit the room, the large door shutting loudly behind them.

“You have nothing to worry about.” She cups his cheek, removing the smeared black paint that stretches across his cheek to a sideburn. “”You will do fine.”

His lips form a thing line. “But what if –”

“There is no but. You will do fine. This I know.” She folds her arms across her chest, making no room for arguing.

So it’s not open for discussion then. He’s not sure what he expected. Imperator says a few more things but Copia’s mind is thousands of miles away. Finally he bids her good night and is finally within his own rooms.

Sighing, he places the book on the small ornate nightstand beside his bed. He makes quick work of removing his eye makeup and changing from his Cardinal outfit into his night clothes.

Copia tries to sleep, he really does. But instead he spends the night lying on his back staring up at the carved and painted ceiling. He thinks if he were not born into this family he’d like to be a painter. He has the eye for it. But he was born into this family and he will never be a painter. His future is set in stone. He will perform his first ritual tomorrow, gain the Cardinal title and then continue working the family books, because that’s all he’s ever going to amount to. A pathetic book keeper that the family doesn’t want milling about to tarnish their pristine image.

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currentlyfckingurmom · 10 months

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Her Song part 22

"Oh," I breathe.

"Is that all you have to say? I just flew five hours to see you and that's all you're going to say?" she laughs.

"Flo, I just need a minute to process this."

"Take all the time you need. I can wait a little longer. You're well worth the wait." She glances down to my lips and my breath hitches.

"Okay, time's up," I say. I step closer to her and grab her waist, pulling her body towards mine. She gasps at the sudden contact, and I search her eyes for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you gonna kiss me or not?" she asks breathlessly.

"I'm enjoying the view," I respond cheekily. I feel her hand run lightly up my arm and over my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her hand finally comes to rest on the base of my neck, and she begins to pull my head closer to hers.

We lean in and I can feel her breath fanning across my lips. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, I'm almost certain she can hear it.

A loud thump interrupts our moment and scares us so bad that we jump away from each other before our lips can meet. With furrowed eyebrows, I look towards the living room to find the source of the noise.

"Syd?" I call out as I walk towards the couch. I hear Flo following behind me, but I'm more worried about Sydney's lack of answer. "Syd," I repeat.

I walk around to the front of the couch, and see her laying on the floor, holding her head. I kneel next to her and pull her hands away from her face. "Syd, what's wrong? Talk to me please." I'm panicking but I don't let her see it, because I know I can't. I'm her mother; I have to be strong when she's hurt.

"I f-fell of the...I fell off the c- the couch," she stutters, seeming disoriented. "M-mom, my head...it hurt- it hurts."

My heart sinks. I think I forget how to breathe. I freeze. For just a moment, I freeze. But then I jump into action.

"Okay, come on, babe. Get up," I tell her. I help her stand off the floor, but it's like one side of her body isn't functioning correctly. Her left leg gives out and she begins to fall to the floor, but I catch her and pick her up.

"Y/N..." Florence begins. The look in her eyes says everything she can't. This is serious. Emergency room type of serious.

"I know." I grab my car keys off the counter. "You don't have to come. I know you probably have stuff you need to do-"

"I'm coming," she declares, leaving no room for argument. I nod and we make our way to the car. Syd falls asleep in the few minutes I'm carrying her. Florence sits in the backseat with Syd and I get in the driver's seat.

My grip on the wheel turns my knuckles white. My jaw is clenched so hard it might break. I look in the rearview mirror and Syd is leaning against Flo's side. Flo is holding her hand and rubbing her head, humming softly. The sight eases me a little bit, but not nearly enough.

We get to the hospital faster than we should have. Traffic laws be damned. As I grab Syd out of the backseat, I hand Flo a baseball cap so maybe she won't get recognized. "Thank you," she mutters.

We walk into the emergency room, Sydney on my hip and Flo walking on the other side of me. It's a blur as I speak to the nurse at the reception desk. The concerned look on his face doesn't go unnoticed by me. Something is wrong. Something has been wrong. I should've brought her here sooner.

We're stuck in the waiting room for hours. Sydney is laying across a chair, sleeping with her head on my lap. At some point, Florence grabs my shaking hand and softly rubs circles with her thumb. We don't exchange any words. What is there to say?

After two hours of waiting, we're brought to a bed in the ER. A doctor eventually comes in and does a brief checkup. Most of everything we talk about is like a dull buzz in the back of my mind. I can't stop looking at Syd. She just looks so tired.

Nausea, vomiting, fever, headaches, weakness in one side of the body, difficult speaking, sleepiness. The doctor pages the on-call neurologist. I can't breathe.

The neurologist shows up after half an hour and does a checkup. We tell him everything we told the first doctor.

Sydney gets admitted and we're brought to a room in the pediatric wing.

Florence never lets go of my hand. I'm more grateful for her steady hand in mine than she could ever imagine.

We sit in silence in the hospital room for almost an hour. I think I might get sick, but I don't. I watch Syd's sleeping form in the hospital bed, and Florence rubs small circles on my hand. I try to focus on that. On her. It helps, but not enough.

Eventually, Syd is brought to radiology for an MRI. When the neurologist comes back to the hospital room, his face is carefully neutral. It instantly puts me on edge.

Florence and I stand hand-in-hand in the hall as he talks to me. She offered to give me privacy, but I need her to keep me upright. I go pale as he explains what they found on the scans. A tumor. A brain tumor. Glioblastoma. Rare, but the most common brain tumor in adults. Aggressive. Needs to be caught early. Did we catch it early enough?

Eventually I interrupt his calm explanation. "What are the chances of survival?" My tone is quiet, calm, cold. It doesn't shake. The doctor sighs.

"You have to understand that this is a very difficult kind of brain cancer to treat. The tumor isn't in a defined area, so it's hard to identify the borders-"

"Just tell me. Don't sugarcoat it," I request evenly.

"The average 5-year survival rate in pediatric cases is 20%."

I don't say a damn thing. I look at the wall next to us. There's a chip in the paint. It's yellow and ugly against the soft baby blue color.

"I'll give you some time before we discuss treatment options," he says before he walks away. Florence gently turns me away from the wall to face her. She cups my face in her hands as tears softly drip down my cheeks. She wipes them with her thumbs without saying a word.

She pulls me against her body and I bury my head in the crook of her neck. Her strong arms wrap around me and rub my shaking body to calm the sobs. She doesn't tell me that everything will be okay. And I'm so thankful for that.

#florence pugh x reader #florence pugh

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littlemissfasd · 5 months

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Unedited. (Also published on wattpad)

Florence had been arrested, technically she took the fall for her stupid friends who decided to play a game of armed robbery. They made her sign god knows how many files before they shoved her into a cell, the faint outline of a woman can be seen.

"What are you in here for.." the voice asks, i jump slightly as my back hits the wall.

"Scared the fuck out of me." I mumble.

"Sorry darlin' didn't mean to, so..you gonna answer my question?" She asks taking a step into the light. She had a scar cutting through one eyebrow, her hair was short but half of it was shoved into a bun. She has her name threaded into her jumpsuit 'Ellie williams'

"You first." I challenge, why are you doing this? She could kill me within seconds. I shake those thoughts away and clear my throat.

"Murder. Dont worry..she deserved it." My eyes widen a little, okay really shouldn't joke about her killing me anymore. The smile that was plastered on her face gave out an eerie feeling, like she wasnt even phased at what she had done. "Your turn." She says, this time theres a small smirk on her face.

"Uh armed robbery." I nod slowly, her eyes squint slightly almost saying she doesn't believe it. Cant say i blame her when im wearing a skirt and a low cut shirt.

"So..who'd you kill?" I ask without hesitation. She chuckles slightly before shrugging "someone who deserved it." I nod "Fair enough.." i look around the cell.

Not that there was much to look at, concrete walls, concrete floors, two metal bed frames with paper thin mattresses.

"So.." she starts taking a few steps towards me "you got a girlfriend?" I'm confused by the sudden question, not that my confusion stops me from answering it. Fucking blabbermouth.

"Uh..i dont know? I guess ive never tried." I admit, its true. I am not against the idea it's just i've never been with anyone properly.

"I could show you." She says in a quiet tone, i chuckle slightly. "Oh yeah? How would you do that?" I question.

She looks around, thinking for a second before answering. "I could pin you up against that wall and.." she trails off not finishing her sentence. "And what.." will you ever learn to shut up?!

"Kiss you.." she murmured taking a step towards me, her faces moves towards mine. I swear i can feel her breath on my face. "Why would you do that?" I ask, my eyes flicker slightly but i quickly stop that and focus on her eyes. "Because your pretty."

Was she flirting? Was she just trying to build a relationship so i wouldn't expect her to kill me? I mean i can see the knife hidden in her back pocket.

"So are you but you did just admit to killing someone."

Her fave turns cold as she takes a step back sitting on the end of the metal bed frame. Now you've done it. "What did you say?" She asks coldly. "I said..you told me that you killed someone.." i repeat. She smirks and nods "i mean she deserved it. Its just a little murder." She stood back up with that same sinister smile creeping back onto her face. She creeps towards me once more and i just watch her.

"So what did she do?" I ask, DO YOU WANT TO DIE?! Shut up. She shrugs "its a secret. I will tell you though..i enjoyed every single moment of it."

No surprise there.

She smirked at my lack of reaction, bringing a joint to her lips and taking a few puffs of it. "Your are pretty though..wouldn't mind having some fun with you." She comments.

"Im assuming a little fun ends in me in a coffin?" I say, slightly amused.

"Who knows, who knows." Her hands travels up the side of my thigh, she giggles seeing my reaction. "So i have a fifty fifty chance to live or die." Her hand traces around my back finding its way under my shirt "That is very distracting." I whisper.

"I meant what i said..i wouldn't mind having some fun with you."

I roll my eyes "what are you doing ellie." I ask, blankly. She pushes me firmly against the wall, making sure I couldn't get away from her. "What? Are you going to kill me with the knife in your pocket?" I ask, a small smirk appearing on my face.

"Oh so you did see it." She says with almost a proud expression, i nod "im not blind."

"But you are dumb..challenging a murderer." She made a valid point but it wasn't as if i cared. She moved my long hair away from my neck, leaning in and attaching her lips to my skin. My head tilts to the side allowing her better access, i shouldn't do this. But she's so..addictive.

A small breathy moan leaves my mouth as her teeth nips my skin "oh so you do enjoy this." She says, placing the cold blade of the knife to my bare back "never said I didn't." I say, i shiver slightly at the cold but hold no other emotion.

"You play a dangerous game..i know exactly where to put this knife so that you wont make a sound" she says. In a cold tone, holding her serious face.

"So do it." I suggest. Her faces changes, to one i cant explain.

"You really do get off on this huh." Her laugh yet again cold and sinister. "Maybe i just have a knife kink." I say, she nods slowly taking my sentence into consideration.

"I mean maybe. That's definitely a possibility." Her free hand travels up, landing on my neck. "Your knife is considerably blunt, and the tip is damaged." I say, without a second thought. "Correct." Is all she says before slicing through the back of my bra. Her hand drops from my neck and pulls my shirt over my head, i dont try to stop her. My bra hangs by only the straps and she smiles at the sight "lets..remove this. Shall we.?" Using the knife, putting the blade carefully under the strap she pushes it down my arm on both sides.

"Pretty girl." She says kicking my bra across the floor. I shudder feeling the tip of the knife trail across my bare breast.

"You are so..easy." She mumbles. I chuckle "says the one who is literally undressing me." I comment.

"Good point." Her head drops, taking my nipple into her mouth forcing a low gasp to leave my mouth. "This is..wrong." I whisper "Yet you're not stopping me?" She challenges when she releases my nipple from her mouth.

"Look at this pretty skirt." She compliments, unzipping the front of it forcing it to fall to the floor, leaving me in my underwear "oh..you really are enjoying this." She smirks seeing the pool of liquid forming in my underwear. She drops the knife onto the floor, i flinch slightly at the loud noise, she drops to her knees. Kissing up my legs, parting them slightly so she can get to my inner thighs "please." I beg, my hair intertwining my fingers through her hair.

"Sh sh..patience my love." I roll my eyes at her response, her fingers pull my underwear down in a swift movement. Her finger slides through my soaked folds as she looks up at me with a smirk "How long before you kill me?" I ask, she looks amused by the question "i'd say..ten minutes." I swallow but nod "best make it the best 10 minutes of my life then aye?" She says nothing instead she forces two fingers deep inside me causing a loud gasp to leave my mouth.

"God you're so tight." She mumbles, moving her fingers at a slow pace "Ellie.." i moan, my grip on her hair tightens feeling her mouth take my clit inside.

"Oh my god!" I moan, slamming my hand over my mouth remembering inmates can hear us right now. She removes her mouth, grabbing my hand away from my hand "let me hear you, love." She says as an almost warning, i nod not being able to get my words out as her fingers continue to move at a fast pace.

She takes my clit back into her mouth, humming against me forcing vibrations through my body "fuck!" I yell, my hips unintentionally grinding against her face. My release hits hard and suddenly, she takes my juices into her mouth happily.

"Good girl. One more for me." I don't even process what she says before the pace of her fingers continue "oh el~" my eyes roll into the back of my head as her fingers curl inside me, hitting that one spot "im~ im close." I whimper, she nods simply adding her thumb to my clit "oh- to..too much." I pant, she clearly doesn't care and continues to pleasure me. "Fuck! Ellie please" i beg, im not sure what im begging for. Liquid seeps from me down her fingers as a smirk crawls onto her fave as she places her fingers into her mouth.

With her free hand she guides me to her bed, i know whats coming. I cant fight her.

"Times up, pretty girl."

#tlou hbo #tlou2 #ellie williams #ellie x reader #smut

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rufusrant · 2 years

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Florence + the Machine - How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful: Album Review

Because I went the whole of Florence's birth month without dropping my irrelevant and unwarranted opinions on her ovure, I'm doing it now. Yay!

As usual, I'm reviewing the deluxe version of the album, along with all separate tracks that were released on other versions, so expect to see the Target-exclusive tracks. Demos however are omitted.

I originally also wanted to make the connections to Dante's Purgatory and the companion film for this album, The Odyssey, but realised halfway that I'd actually mistaken Purgatory for Inferno and had to scrap that because I WILL review music but not a poem I have never read. So instead, I shall only be reviewing this album for its music.

How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful: try saying that 5 times fast

#1: Ship To Wreck

This song has one of the most Florence-esque yet absolutely modern hot-mess origin stories ever: the gist is that Florence held a party, got drunk at the bar where they'd moved the party, covered Daft Punk’s Get Lucky in supreme party girl fashion, went home and then broke everything while water covered her floors. It’s more detailed in her interview with Ellen here.

The second this song started, I got the feeling of being plunged underwater. This is Hurricane Drunk’s older sister after a ferocious bender. It’s so infectious, swirling with self-destruction and stormy guitars and absolute RAGE. The glockenspiel is like air bubbles from where we gasp as we sink. As an opening song, it’s perfect in tone, placement, and as an introduction to the album: we can’t leave the water yet. We can’t stop a shipwreck while it’s happening. 9/10.

#2: What Kind Of Man

I LOVE when Florence goes extra rock. Here is a complete flash-bang where we’re pulled out from the water and immediately tossed into the inferno. The brass orchestration and Florence’s howling, angry vocals take the cake, and those lyrics are the cherries: about a man whose kiss sparks two decades of devotion but just can’t seem to make up his mind (OH.) about his and Florence’s relationship. There is no tender longing present; this is about all the old hurt that comes hurtling to the surface from the partners we’ve stayed just a tad too long with and are, somehow, still staying with. And I fuckin hear you, Florence. 10/10.

#3: How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful

Does Florence refer to the sky or her old love, the ocean? I like to think it’s both: this song depicts that rowdy, journeying feeling of going through a sudden/unexpected transitory period so well. The strings that blaze as she sings the song’s title just rip one through my heart, and the brass instruments return from the previous track, but are utilised for a more subtle, gentler sound. It’s nothing short of grand — but for me, the softer tone of this rather breaks the rock momentum Florence has been building for the last two tracks. 6/10.

#4: Queen Of Peace

Crashing back into fantasy and metaphor after some hard reality bites, we’re pulled back a little into the grandeur of Ceremonials with the grand production and full orchestra to make a modern medieval ballad, but it’s unmistakably a new era of Florence with the way she carries her voice like how a lonely queen looks over a dead field after the battle has ceased. This song is about a triumph, but a deeply bittersweet one at that. And I truly love it for that, because its the truth: what is a triumph without a hard-fought struggle beforehand? 9.5/10.

#5: Various Storms & Saints

I genuinely like the lyrics, but this melody… I always forget about this song as whole. Oops. That much I can say. It stays relatively downtempo and subdued the whole time. Florence’s vocals are the best part and she utilises the powers of her voice only when absolutely necessary, but this song just lacks the “big, almighty sound” that makes up all of the hits, so I’m sorry to say that this is more of a miss for me. 4.5/10.

#6: Delilah

I fucking can’t. This song destroyed me. That is to say: I love this.

Drawing from the bibical tale of Samson and Delilah, Florence crafts an agonising, intense, total curb-stomper about feeling betrayed and yet being on the verge of breaking free. And it slaps so hard. The percussion combined with Florence’s high-strung, burning vocals make the song such a catchy, swinging, forceful cry. The video for this on The Odyssey is also my favourite of them all, with that heart-rending opening monologue, references to Pre-Raphelite art, and how the visual language of the story is employed. 10/10.

#7: Long & Lost

The most sombre song on this album. It’s also definitely a breather after the freedom scream that Delilah demands. Though it’s fittingly about retreating into some self-doubt, I quite like how this actually feels like a meditation of sorts; a glimpse into Florence’s head and heart as she ponders if going back to where she was is worth it, and laments that maybe it really is already too late. I think it’s rather beautiful, with an even more softened melody to accompany Florence’s dreamily mournful vocals. 7/10.

#8: Caught

Calling this a “livelier” song feels like a bit of a misnomer. Florence’s voice feels lighter and more active in this, but it’s ultimately still a song on the understated side about feeling torn between two extremes: being able to finally move on and holding onto something that hurts. I love how Florence name-drops Persephone, notable for being torn between two very different landscapes, to illustrate her point. The production on this track is one of my favourites — the minimalism applied to this is a sonic treat, and the focus given to Florence’s delivery is top-notch. 8/10.

#9: Third Eye

My personal favourite. This is genuinely one of the most cathartic and life-affirming songs I’ve ever heard. It’s got all sorts of upbeat vibes, spirituality, and an amazing outro that’s practically a mantra. But what I think really makes this song so powerful is how it's styled like a religious hymn— but instead of looking towards God, Florence actually implores us to draw strength and change from within ourselves, to forgive ourselves and love ourselves. God is great, no doubt, but maybe God has been within ourselves all along. 10/10.

#10: St Jude

Not gonna lie, this is where the album starkly loses momentum for me. Again. Why is such a solemn track right after the glorious Third Eye???

Of all things, Florence seems to turn back and contemplate her failed relationship once again — but that’s about it for its cons. I think the lyrics for these are great and Florence’s voice does some truly beautiful things, but its odd placement just makes it tank from its full potential. 5/10.

#11: Mother

This took me completely by surprise. I felt annihilated by the end of this. Not only does the album regain its streak with this one track, this song is also truly lyrically stellar and Florence’s voice kicks back into full rock gear straight on. The shifting tides of the instrumentals just score her so perfectly, it feels like we’re being pulled back into the Ceremonial waters for just an utterly rug-pulled-from-under-feet moment. It’s the epitome of that HUGE sound I’ve craved so much— and fittingly, it’s rather a despairing song once you actually read the lyrics. But hey, getting out of such deep water isn’t as smooth a task as it may sound. 10/10.

#12: Hiding

That pre-chorus is so catchy. In fact, this whole song is a proper dance number. So is Delilah but this is more lighthearted, arguably just as powerful AND it manages to retain all the refrains of a poem. It’s a song about being in denial and yet also acknowledging you’re in denial. It's so lively and is probably the song most likely to be played at a club (hell yeah the return of the tambourine), until you hear Florence’s outro at the end. Fuck. 8.5/10.

#13: Make Up Your Mind

What a heart-thrummer. The soft harp makes an unexpected but very welcome return on this absolute neck-breaker of a song, with Florence painting herself as an executioner ready to cut off her relationship— or is she?

I love how this song incorporates the vulnerability of love and yet the utter ruthlessness that ultimately gets born when love morphs into resentment. When Florence demands that her lover lets her live or lets her love them it almost seems that even that’s lose-lose, with all the trimmings of a medieval scene with that unique, desperate and divine Florence-esqueness. Of course I fucking dig it. 9/10.

#14: Which Witch

Florence embraces the idea of martyrdom— specifically, being martyred by love. It’s such a tight, soaring, jumpy song about getting trialled for witchcraft/love, being miles away but having your love on your mind, getting tired of crawling all the way, and hurting from this so much that burning at the stake is seen as a reprieve. That’s a LOT. But Florence fuckin KILLS it.

I love this song and think it’s genuinely an amazing song on its own, but am really conflicted about its placement as the album closer — because here Florence ultimately decides to continue her relationship, the very thing that’s been dragging her back into the water throughout the album. I think my thoughts on this change from day to day. When I’m feeling particularly mournful I think it's a perfect closer: it's better to hold onto any form of love than to never love at all. But when I’m not… it’s a gut punch, like it or not. Moving on is an emotional task that we all eventually have to undertake but may not succeed at. However, the duality of this very idea, I think, is what really draws me to this song. It’s okay to not fully move on. But it’s equally just as okay to hold out hope that one day, just maybe, you might. 10/10.

EXCLUSIVE EDITION TRACKS

#15: As Far As I Could Get

This is the PERFECT combination of Florence’s two song styles: epically full of grand, godly metaphors and modern everyday settings out of a contemporary novel. Florence talks about escaping the bustle of Los Angeles and manages to mix reverent nature and a gospel voice with the spectacle of passing by a Disney castle and the Pirates of the Caribbean ride so fuckingly well. I’m incensed that this isn’t on the standard album— perhaps because I find myself relating so much to this right now, but also because it’s a legit banger about actually being determined to escape and move on, being right in the middle of this arduous process, and still feeling that you haven’t gotten far enough yet. 10/10.

#16: Pure Feeling

…I feel so guilty about this. Florence conveys this great, wholesome message of how she loves the world and of how she learnt to during her year off with some lyrics that really lay bare this humbling, warm feeling. But I must admit that the effect’s rather lost on me when paired with the way the melody sounds. Florence also sounds like she’s on the verge of gasping — and not in the good way. 4/10.

#17: Conductor

The lyrics for this are so beautifully poetic. Florence calls back to the standard album’s laments about a lover’s crippling indecision and how she herself turns to songwriting to channel her emotions — much like how conductors conduct both music and electricity. We love a double meaning!

I love the strength of her voice here and the simpler no-frills arrangements of piano and strings that accompany her. I really wish that this could’ve made it onto the standard album too, but in a way I can also see why it didn’t. (Though I don’t really stand for that, it's thematically perfect and has a great Florence vocal, C’MON TARGET WTF) 7.5/10.

#18: Only Love Can Break Your Heart

A Neil Young cover. I’m a fan of the original song as well, and really feel that she did this one so much justice. It exudes a grace and a longing that just extrudes so much more prominently than the original. Florence’s vocals are so clear and carry the tune so delightfully that it loses none of its original melancholy and instead garners so much pure, pure beauty. 7/10.

Overview: What an album. It feels like a lightning strike, and that's already in the simplest of terms. I feel this album as a whole is about learning to let go and change for the better, even if we can’t fully bring ourselves to yet. But my favourite description of this album comes from Florence herself:

“Ceremonials was so fixated on death and water, and the idea of escape or transcendence through death, but the new album became about trying to learn how to live, and how to love in the world rather than trying to escape from it. Which is frightening because I'm not hiding behind anything but it felt like something I had to do."

Which brings us to F+TM's new logo for this era:

A search on Reddit proved that these two triangles are the alchemical symbols for air and water respectively — so this album is literally about the air above water. About rising above the surface. About being free of all that drags you down.

Ceremonials may be the masterful album that says your grief and pain are valid and it’s okay to feel the way you feel, but How Big How Blue How Beautiful is the imperative follow-up that says: I want to heal. I will heal. 9.5/10.

Stream How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful on Spotify!

#florence + the machine #hbhbhb #how big how blue how beautiful #florence welch #album review

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sheshopelesse · 1 year

Text

Tagged, sort of, by @sineala

RULES: go to spotify, go to your On Repeat playlist (it’s curated for you), put it on shuffle, write down the first 10 songs.

Let's do this.

Scuffle, Dessa. I love the stutter-step rhythm of this one. It's early Dessa, and lacks a lot of the polish of her more recent stuff, but I'm incredibly here for it. Also, "You just spread those broken wings / You spread those busted wings / You fucking walk."

February, Barnaby Bright. Okay, mood shift? I think of this as a definitional spring song, even though I've been told it's definitely about winter. Sounds like some propaganda from someone who didn't grow up in Chicago. "February, February reminds me that winter's behind me"

Win It All, The Orion Experience. Possibly this whole thing is going to be mood whiplash. This is a hockey song! Maybe it wasn't intended to be, but that's what it is now. It's also upbeat and catchy af, as you'd hope from The Orion Experience. "When the world pushes you down (You get back up) / And when it knocks you around (You get back up) / And now you fight a little harder (You get back up)"

Make Out, Julia Nunes. This is also hockey! Less obviously, though. Came across this song bc it was in a vid on twitter. Now it's unfortunately adorable forever and there's nothing I can do about it.

Electric Bones, Findlay. I'm a sucker for a song with a good, thumping, driving beat. Does it make you want to walk faster, and in time, while feeling a little predatory? That's my kinda song. "We're going nowhere, nowhere seems to me to be the right way to go / As if that's not enough, I am not yours, I'm not even my own"

Missing, London Grammar. Quintessential London Grammar. Longing and angry and sort of...celestial about it. "I worry that one day you'll go missing / And who will notice when you're gone?"

Girls Against God, Florence + the Machine. Oof, been feeling real mentally healthy this month, huh. This is pretty much the only song that can chase the vibes from Missing, but it replaces them with the same feelings, only bigger. "When I decided to wage holy war / It looked very much like staring at my bedroom floor"

Jackrabbit, San Fermin. Big, brassy, and triumphant in an unexpected way. Sometimes running away from something is running towards something else etc etc "Run for the hills, honey, run for the hills, honey / Run for the hills, don't look back"

Landsailor, Vienna Teng. Look, I'm a fanvid girlie from way back. Of course I have Vienna Teng on my frequent listens list. "Oh I am altered now for good / Shield these eyes no more"

This Song Has No Title, Elton John. Hah, okay, this is a funny one. From a Good Omens playlist I made back when I dabbled in that fandom. Ngl, it stands up. "And each day I learn just a little bit more / I don't know why but I do know what for / If we're all going somewhere, let's get there soon"

And that's some songs! Like Sine before me, I'm not much on tagging particular people, but if you see this and feel so inspired, consider yourself tagged by me. I love collecting new music.

#jams #fuck it i do memes now

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cha-melodius · 2 years

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38 - "Everyone thinks we’re already dating, but we’re just best friends- oh wait" for napollya? if that sounds as fun to you as it does to me? :D

(It's been more than three months, but I am still writing these lol! Thank you for the prompt, anon! It just seemed ripe for an outside observer, so you get a brand new OC. It actually switches between an outsider POV and Napoleon POV, and runs just under 5k. I hope you enjoy it!)

That's What Other People Do

Read it on AO3

“McHenry! My office!” her boss calls out, his voice carrying easily across the desks that fill this corner of the Federal Building’s 14th floor.

Robin sighs and grabs her glasses from where she’d thrown them amongst the files littering her desk in a fit of pique. The summons could feasibly be about anything, but she has no doubt that Wilston wants an update on the Case From Hell. Good thing she has absolutely nothing new to report. If this goes on too much longer he’ll pull it from her, and then she’ll have to endure idiotic comments from the Andys about how it was too much for her to handle and maybe she’d like to return to the secretarial pool. Never mind that she has a PhD and didn’t come out of the secretarial pool to begin with.

Right. Just get this over with, and she can go back to pouring through shipping manifests for clues that don’t exist.

Wilston waves at her to close the door when she gets into his office, which isn’t a good sign. Then again he’s perfectly happy to chew people out at maximum volume with it open, so it’s hard to guess what might happen.

“About the Caraglio case,” he starts, predictably.

“I have a good feeling about this batch of manifests, sir,” Robin jumps in, trying to come up with a way to make a whole lot of nothing sound exciting. “There’s a company—”

“This is a lot bigger than White Collar Division,” Wilston continues, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “I just got off the phone with UNCLE.”

“Sorry, uncle who?”

“Not a who,” he grunts. “United Network Command for Law Enforcement. Don’t worry,” he adds, with something that she’d think was humor if she didn’t know better, “I’d never heard of them until ten minutes ago. They’re a multinational intelligence agency.”

Robin blinks at him, utterly confused. “What, like Interpol?”

“To be honest with you, I was not read in to the details,” Wilston says, sounding unmistakably disgruntled about that fact. “But yes and no. They’re made up of agents with official designations from their home intelligence orgs, all working together. Apparently the most recent print that showed up has ties to a case they’ve been working.”

“So they’re taking my case? Can they do that?” Robin asks as a heavy, cold weight settles in her gut.

“No,” he answers firmly. “They want to collaborate. You’re going to be working with two of their best agents, I’m told. Agent Illya Kuryakin, KGB,”—Robin’s brain stutters to a halt at this, but her shock is somehow quickly outdone as Wilston continues—“and Agent Napoleon Solo, CIA.”

For a long moment, Robin just gapes at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Wilston to explain that it’s all a joke. Which is absurd, given her boss’s aforementioned lack of a sense of humor. “Let me get this straight: you’re trying to tell me that I’m supposed to work with an actual KGB agent and one of the most prolific art thieves in the past twenty years?”

Most people, even in White Collar Division, might not have recognized the name, but Robin is well aware of who Napoleon Solo is. How could she not, when he was the one who’d stolen the print she’d been studying in Florence, while she was in the middle of studying it? She had her own suspicions that he’s still active, even, though on a much smaller scale. She hadn’t brought it to Wilston or anyone else because she wasn’t sure yet, but she was working up to it. And now, this.

“He’s on some kind of work release with the CIA. Has been for ten years,” Wilston says dismissively, ignoring the whole KGB thing entirely.

“Last I heard we’re still in a cold war. Does Counter Intelligence know about this?”

“No. No one except you, me, and the Director. And it stays that way, is that clear? No one else can know anything about this operation. If anyone asks, you’re no longer working the case.”

“But sir—”

“Is that clear, McHenry?” he repeats forcefully.

Robin swallows hard and nods.

~~~

They find their new FBI contact chain smoking under a bridge, staring out at the Hudson.

“I think she might smoke the whole pack if we do not go soon, Cowboy,” Illya remarks, his voice pitched low.

They’ve been watching her for the last five minutes. Not because they’re worried about the meet, or intentionally trying to psych her out, but because you learn a lot watching someone who’s waiting for you. Like how Agent Robin McHenry was apparently a woman. Napoleon’s pretty sure there aren’t very many of them in the FBI’s White Collar Division, and wonders how she managed to get looped onto this case. She doesn’t look particularly young or particularly old, but it’s a little hard to tell at this distance. As they watch, she shakes another cigarette out of the pack and uses the smoldering remnants of her previous one to light it before she flicks the butt off into the river.

“Think she’s nervous?” Napoleon guesses.

Illya hums uncertainly. “Maybe. How much did they tell her about us?”

“Dunno. One way to find out, though.”

She clocks them pretty quickly as they approach, by the way her shoulders tense, though she doesn’t turn to look at them until they’re standing right next to her. Up close, her brown hair is shot through with the occasional streak of grey, but the lack of lines on her face suggests that they’re premature, and also that she doesn’t care about her appearance enough to dye it. She’s wearing a sensible, if poorly tailored, grey pants suit, which is pretty much what Napoleon would expect from a Fed.

“Agent McHenry?” he says mildly, extending a hand toward her.

McHenry stares down at it for a minute with an expression that borders on disdain, then takes another drag on her cigarette. “It’s doctor.”

“What?” “It’s Dr. McHenry,” she says. “The ‘Doctor’ supersedes ‘Agent’.”

Napoleon blinks at her. She still hasn’t taken his hand, so he drops it and tucks it into his pocket. “Ok,” he replies gamely. “Well, Dr. McHenry, this is Agent Kuryakin, and I’m Agent—”

“I know who you are,” she interrupts. “Quite familiar with your mug shot.”

“Ah,” Napoleon says, his smile going tight.

“You stole a Marcantonio print I was studying.”

“Sorry?” “In Florence. 1953,” she explains. She briefly stares at the shrinking butt of her cigarette as if trying to decide whether to light another. “I was analyzing it for my research, and overnight it disappeared. That theft was attributed to you. You stole it.”

Napoleon remembers that job. It had been a pretty easy one; the archive’s security had been next to nonexistent. He’d stolen some other stuff too, made a tidy sum, then had thoroughly enjoyed himself on the Amalfi coast for a month. He clears his throat and carefully replies, “Allegedly. That was never proven. But if I had stolen it, and that disrupted your studies, then I would be sorry about that. Hypothetically, that is.”

McHenry snorts in what almost seems to be amusement, then turns her piercing gaze on Illya, who’s been watching the whole exchange. Napoleon can see that he’s certainly amused, and will no doubt be giving Napoleon endless shit about it later, though to anyone else his face looks as stony as ever.

“You’re actually a KGB agent,” McHenry prompts, not quite a question, as she squints up at him.

Illya quirks an eyebrow at her. “Last time I checked.”

“How do I know this isn’t part of some elaborate plot to infiltrate the FBI?”

“If I wanted to infiltrate FBI, I would not start with White Collar,” Illya returns coolly, which is probably not the best tack to take. Napoleon watches as McHenry’s lips narrow into a hard line.

“What Peril here means to say is that we’ve no interest in the FBI, specifically. We may officially be KGB and CIA, but our mandate and orders come from UNCLE, which has no interest in governments squabbling with each other,” Napoleon tells her. “We’ve been partners for the past two years. Surely that must mean something.”

“This, coming from a convicted art thief,” she says, clearly unconvinced, but now eyeing them with some other evaluating look that he can’t quite interpret.

Not for the first time, Napoleon wishes Gaby was around for this one. Something tells him that their third partner would have a better chance of gaining the trust of the FBI agent, but she’d gone off to London following a tenuous but time-sensitive lead on a different case, so they’d have to get by without her.

“Look, you’re obviously a deeply mistrustful person, and I respect that,” Napoleon sighs. “But can we please move past this and get to the saving the world part? Those missile plans aren’t going to find themselves.”

That, at least, breaks through the defensive exterior; McHenry’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open for a moment before she tries to collect herself. “What do you mean, missile plans?”

~~~

Solo and Kuryakin aren’t anything like she expected.

On the surface, the two of them seem like they’d never work as partners, beyond the obvious problem that they’re supposed to be on different sides of the Cold War. Solo talks, a lot, all smooth charm and winning smiles. She can see why it took the authorities so long to nail him down, because the man can probably talk his way out of nearly anything. Kuryakin, though, is the icy, silent type, at least at first. Not that he ever really relaxes fully, but after a couple of days his constant guard lowers a bit. Still, she’s not sure she’d have ever come around to trusting him if she hadn’t seen him when he’s around Solo.

Two days after their first contact by the river, Robin is supposed to meet them at a diner in Hoboken. Why here, she has no idea, and she doesn’t ask. She’s quickly learned that, although they’re pretty open when it comes to the case itself, any other questions about UNCLE or their histories is shut down quickly. When she arrives, she’s surprised to see Kuryakin sitting alone in a booth and no sign of Solo anywhere nearby. He looks up as she slides in opposite him and offers a nod of acknowledgement, but nothing else.

“Where’s Solo?” she asks, grabbing the menu just for something to do. She doesn’t assume they’re actually eating.

“Late,” Kuryakin grunts, somehow encapsulating fondness and exasperation in the single syllable. It’s a tone she’s become familiar with over the past two days.

A waitress stops by, and Kuryakin surprises her again by ordering the almost painfully American combination of a cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake. She hasn’t actually looked at the menu, but she stammers out an order for a tuna melt and a coke, and wonders what the hell is actually going on today.

Solo, it turns out, is very late, but Kuryakin gives her an update on their progress; they’d checked out several of the shipping companies she’d suspected of being the transport for the forged—and apparently secretly encoded—Caraglio prints, though without much success. The CIA agent still hasn’t arrived by the time their food does, and after hesitating a moment Robin digs in, because she’s actually pretty hungry. For his part, Kuryakin eats a few fries and drinks the milkshake, but the burger remains untouched.

The answer to that puzzle comes a few minutes later, when Solo finally slides into the booth next to him. Kuryakin wordlessly pushes the plate of food over to him, and Solo grabs the burger with no shortage of enthusiasm.

“You know me so well, Peril,” Solo says to him before taking a huge bite. He briefly looks, somewhat bizarrely, like a chipmunk.

“I know you are somehow always hungry,” Kuryakin returns. “And you get as excited about greasy diner food as gourmet restaurant.”

Solo swallows and grins broadly. “Sometimes there’s nothing better than greasy diner food. If I’m gonna have to go to Jersey for this mission, I might as well indulge. Gimme some of your milkshake, would you?”

Kuryakin lets out a put-upon sigh, but his mouth is unmistakably tugging up at the corners as he slides the half empty glass over toward his partner.

Robin chews slowly as she watches them continue to banter about the food as if she wasn’t there at all. Kuryakin stretches an arm out along the back of the booth behind Solo’s shoulders, and when Solo finally polishes off the burger he settles back against it, almost but not quite tucked against Kuryakin’s side, looking immensely satisfied.

“So did Peril bring you up to speed?” Solo asks her eventually, his eyebrows arcing upward with the question. It had taken her a bit to get used to the cutesy nicknames, but by now she can actually keep a straight face when Kuryakin calls him ‘Cowboy.’

“Yeah,” she answers with a bob of her head. “Sounds like not much has panned out, though?”

“That’s not entirely true anymore,” Solo says with a sly grin.

Kuryakin frowns. “What have you done, Cowboy?”

“I met up with an old contact of mine. That’s why I was late. Skittish guy. But if someone was going to know where the counterfeit Caraglios were coming in from, it would be him.”

“You went to a meeting without telling anyone?” Kuryakin hisses, his frown somehow getting even deeper.

“I was fine,” Solo insists. “I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d just overreact. Like you’re doing now. You worry too much, Peril.”

“I do not—”

“You got something from him, though?” Robin jumps in, before they can get any farther. “A lead?”

“I did,” Solo confirms, sitting forward again.

He quickly runs through what he’d learned, his words rapid with excitement at the—admittedly substantial—lead, and even Kuryakin eventually gets over his disgruntlement as they start talking about the next steps. For the first time in weeks, Robin feels like this case actually getting somewhere, which she has to reluctantly admit is down in large part to the fact that she’s working with an art thief. Her PhD advisor would have a heart attack if he knew, but they wouldn’t have gotten that lead without Solo’s contact.

The conversation falls into a lull as the waitress stops by with coffee, which Solo gratefully accepts before pointing back at Kuryakin and adding, “Oh, and he’ll have a slice of apple pie.”

“Cowboy—” he starts to protest.

“A la mode,” Solo finishes with a grin, ignoring him.

“You did not have to do that,” Kuryakin grumbles as she walks away.

Solo just grabs his cup of coffee and settles back against Kuryakin’s arm again, and this time Kuryakin’s hand slides onto his shoulder. It’s not that unusual a sight, really; she’s noticed that Kuryakin is fairly handsy around him. Nothing too overt, but here and there a hand pressed to Solo’s lower back, or resting on his knee. The kind of casual affection that makes her want to warn them to be more careful, which is stupid. Obviously they know better than anyone the danger of what they have. How could they not?

“But Peril,” Napoleon is saying, a teasing lilt to his words, “I consider it my solemn duty to make sure you’re hopelessly addicted to this disgustingly extravagant American lifestyle, so that you’d never dream of leaving us. Ordering you delicious pie is a burden, to be sure, but one I will happily bear.”

Robin can’t help but think, based on the impossibly soft way that Kuryakin is currently looking at him, that Solo doesn’t really need to try that hard.

~~~

Like these things so often do, once they have a substantial lead, the rest falls together pretty quickly. The tip from his contact had paid off, and if everything went well they’d soon be taking possession of the last of the forged Caraglio prints. The shipment isn’t due to arrive for another hour, but they still need to be watching in case something changes. The waiting around part of this job, Napoleon thinks, never gets any more fun.

They’ve already been there for several hours—Napoleon and Robin in a nondescript sedan while Illya is perched in a sniper’s nest on the top floor of a nearby building—so they’re starting to run out of conversational topics. It had been surprisingly easy to talk to Robin; once she’d gotten over the whole art thief thing, they had a decent amount in common. Napoleon’s pretty sure he’s never been able to have that in-depth of a discussion of early Italian Renaissance printmaking techniques with anyone, though that shouldn’t really be a surprise given her background. It was funny to think about how he’d very nearly run into her in Florence, all those years before, and how their paths had brought them here. He’d even ended up telling her about getting caught, and how he ended up working for the CIA.

“God, I’d love to convince you to switch to the FBI,” she sighs. “Someone with your expertise would be invaluable in White Collar Division.”

Napoleon laughs softly at that. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think it’d be a cold day in Hell before art crimes would consider making a full agent of an art thief. Besides,” he adds as his gaze sweeps out the window to the building where he knows Illya sits, “I’m pretty happy where I am.”

He can feel Robin watching him, but he can’t quite pull his eyes away. Illya is probably up there in that weird meditative state he gets into, where he can just sit for hours and do nothing and not go insane out of boredom.

“How long have you been together?” she asks after a stretch of silence.

“Oh, like I said, UNCLE’s been around for about two years now…” he starts, not really paying attention.

“No, I mean, like, the two of you. Together. Since the beginning?”

Napoleon’s face snaps toward her, then, and he can feel his jaw fall open but he can’t really seem to close it. “We’re not— that is— we’re not,” he manages eventually. “We’re just partners. Work partners. Best friends, now, I guess.”

“You guess?” Robin echoes, her brow creasing in confusion.

“Yeah, yeah. Yes,” Napoleon confirms, perhaps a little too vehemently. “He’s my best friend. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’?” he repeats. “What, ‘oh’? What does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she says, putting up a hand. “I misread things.”

“Right, well, I can be pretty affectionate with my friends, is all,” Napoleon blurts, and Christ why does he not shut up? Clearly she was going to let the matter go, but now he’s thinking about it—that deep well of feelings that he works so hard to ignore—and if she’d seen it on his face in knowing him less than a week, then… then that could be a problem.

Except then she shrugs and says, “Not just you.”

“What?” he croaks, his voice just barely above a whisper.

But she doesn’t say anything more, not immediately, just stares out the windshield with a frown on her face until finally she rounds on him. “Do you know, I actually wanted to warn you?” she says, nonsensically. “That day in the diner. I thought, ‘man, they should really be more careful.’ But I decided that saying something would be stupid, because you must know what you’re doing. You’d have to be idiots not to, and you clearly aren’t idiots.”

“Thanks?” he manages, more than a little flabbergasted.

“I’m revising that assessment,” she returns dryly. “Seriously, no one you work with has said anything to you about this?”

Napoleon doesn’t entirely know how to answer that, so he shrugs. “They’re used to it, I guess. It’s just how we are.”

“Jesus,” she swears under her breath.

“Look, as you yourself pointed out, relationships like that are dangerous, especially in our jobs, so—”

“The thing is,” she interrupts, “that dangerous part is already out there. The part where you look at each other like the other one hung the fucking moon? Like you’re very deeply in love? I hate to break it to you, but that one’s already escaped from Pandora’s Box. So if you’re holding yourselves back from being together because you’re worried about the danger, let me be the first to tell you that that ship has sailed. I see it, your enemies are gonna see it, and I guarantee you that your colleagues see it too, they’re just too polite to say anything.”

“You haven’t met our friend Gaby,” Napoleon counters, and that thought is oddly comforting. They’ve been working together for two years now, and there’s no way Gaby would have resisted giving them shit about it if there was anything actually to tease them about. “I guess I can appreciate the concern,” he continues, “but I can also guarantee you that whatever you think you’re seeing isn’t really there. Yes, we’re close. Which is why I’m certain that there’s absolutely no way that Illya feels that way about me.”

He realizes too late what he just implicitly confessed in using Illya’s lack of feelings as an excuse instead of his own, and clenches his jaw as he very resolutely does not meet Robin’s eyes. Fine, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter if she knows, because this case is almost over and it’s unlikely that they’ll have reason to work with the FBI again.

“Or you could kiss him and find out for sure,” Robin murmurs next to him, and when Napoleon gives in and looks over at her she’s staring out the windshield with a smirk on her face. Then she shrugs. “Just a suggestion. Oh, I think our shipment’s here.”

Napoleon thinks he’s never been happier to walk headfirst into potentially life-threatening situation, so long as it gets him out of this conversation.

The final bust goes off without a hitch. They seize the fake prints—and the last of the missile plans encoded therein—before the men at the handoff hardly know what is happening. Taking the shadowy organization ultimately behind the whole setup is a much, much larger, ongoing operation, but for now, UNCLE is happy that no one’s getting next-gen weapons plans, and the FBI White Collar Division is happy that very high quality forgeries are off the market. It’s a win all around.

Napoleon is also able to completely, blissfully forget about the conversation in the sedan for nearly a full day, what with all the wrapping up loose ends and paperwork to keep him busy. It’s not until the next evening, when Illya automatically shows up at his place for dinner even though neither of them mentioned such a thing at any point, that Robin’s words come slamming back into his head.

Having let himself into Napoleon’s apartment with the key he’s had ever since Napoleon complained about him always picking the lock—so, less than a month into their partnership—Illya finds him in the kitchen chopping up vegetables. He’s already discarded his jacket and brought a tumbler with him along with the decanter of Scotch from the bar in the other room, and he tops up Napoleon’s own dwindling glass before pouring his own. It’s not a surprise that he then steps close, his body only inches from Napoleon’s as he peers idly down at what Napoleon is doing, nor that the hand that’s not holding his drink ends up resting almost possessively on Napoleon’s hip. It’s not unusual, which should say something right there, but for the first time Napoleon lets himself consider all of it and what it might mean.

Illya is talking about something to do with a mission—Napoleon hadn’t really been listening, honestly—when Napoleon sets his knife down and turns slightly to better face him. Illya’s hand falls away from his hip as he moves, which he immediately regrets before he reminds himself that he really, really shouldn’t.

“Peril, what are we doing?”

Illya frowns, his brow furrowing as he stares down at him. “Having… dinner?” he ventures.

“I mean what is this?” Napoleon says, making a small gesture between them. Not that he has much room to do so, because Illya is still standing so damned close.

“I am not following, Cowboy. How much have you had to drink?” Illya asks, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

Napoleon huffs. “Not nearly enough for this conversation,” he mutters under his breath before looking back up at Illya. “It’s just something Robin said. She thought we were… together. A couple.”

Illya freezes, an expression on his face like he just got caught, which is… really something. Napoleon’s heart is pretty much thundering in his chest right now, and he feels stretched to a breaking point, torn between his considerable ability to read people and what he was so sure he knew about his partner.

“That is…” Illya starts. Napoleon waits for him to say something like ridiculous. Absurd. The most idiotic idea he’s ever heard. Instead, Illya forces a tight smile and doesn’t finish the sentence. “Did— did she say why?”

“Something about the way we look at each other,” Napoleon answers. For some reason, the more flustered Illya gets, the more clear-headed he feels. He carefully slips a hand onto Illya’s waist, waiting for Illya to flinch or pull away, but it doesn’t come. “I told her she was seeing things, but now I’m not so sure. So I thought I’d get your perspective on the matter.”

The tips of Illya’s ears are red, and there is a steady flush climbing up his neck. “Cowboy, I—”

Napoleon decides he’s heard enough. He closes the narrow gap between them, reaching up to press their mouths together, and Illya immediately surges against him. What starts out as a gentle movement of lips rapidly deepens into something involving tongues and teeth when Illya’s other hand comes up to cup his jaw, tipping his head to better fit their mouths together. Napoleon feels consumed by it, on fire, like everything that had built between them over the past two years was so much tinder that someone had casually tossed a lit match into. The hand is back on his hip, gripping tightly as Illya tries to tug him even closer, and Napoleon’s fingers dig into the softness of Illya’s waist in response, dragging a low moan from his partner’s throat.

“I think she’s onto something,” Napoleon gasps when they finally part, unable to keep himself from grinning like an idiot. “Or did you have something else you wanted to add?”

“Shut up, Cowboy,” Illya growls, then captures his mouth in another kiss.

They don’t get around to dinner until much, much later.

~~~

Robin has to admit that after all of the excitement in the past week, the day-to-day at White Collar leaves something to be desired. At least with the Caraglio case she always had something big to work on, but now that it’s closed she’s stuck with check fraud and some idiot who tried to forge a shitload of buffalo nickels as if that would actually net him a profit.

Then, one day she comes in and there’s large, flat folio sitting on her desk. She looks around, but everyone is apparently absorbed in their work for once. It’s possible that it’s related to some kind of new case, but that seems highly unlikely. Evidence doesn’t just get deposited in their laps.

“Cartwright,” she calls, drawing the attention of the idiot at the next desk. “What is this?”

“Fuck if I know,” Cartwright grunts. “It was there when I came in. You get a secret admirer in all that time off, McHenry?”

Robin narrowly resists telling him to fuck off. Not being able to tell anyone that she helped avert an international crisis sucks. She looks back down at the folio, taking in the high quality leather and the fine stitching. It’s nice. Much nicer than what she usually sees around the division. As she turns it over, she notices a card tucked into a small pocket and fishes it out, turning it over to find a short handwritten note on one side.

R, Took your suggestion. Thought you might appreciate this small token of my gratitude. If you ever get tired of catching art thieves and decide you want to work with one instead, UNCLE is always recruiting. NS

She frowns down at the note for a minute. She doesn’t even remember what she might have suggested to Napoleon Solo, or why he’d be grateful for it. But honestly, it’s the second part of the note that has her baffled. Her, work for UNCLE? Honestly, it’s not the worst idea she’s heard, not by a long shot. It’s more surprising that they’d be interested in her; they’re all spies, and she’s just an art historian with a badge.

Her thoughts are still on the note as she tugs at the ties holding the folio closed, so it takes her a moment to realize what she’s looking at.

She blinks. Takes off her glasses to rub her eyes. Puts them back on and blinks again.

“Holy shit,” she blurts.

Within the leather folio, carefully wrapped in delicate paper, is the very Marcantonio print that disappeared during her studies, all those years ago.

#napollya #napoleon x illya #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #tmfu #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#the man from uncle #tmfu fic #napollya fic #my fic

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jayyadelaidee · 2 months

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Unedited 🤺