#percy.

SO GLAD YOU ASKED.

lucy heartfilia

erza scarlet

juvia lockster

Her eyes danced with a mix of joy and the slight haze of her high, making everything around her seem almost ethereal. She watched as the streetlights blurred into soft halos of light, and the shadows seemed to move and twist into shapes of their own. She reached out to touch the air, convinced she could feel the shimmering edges of her hallucinations.

Turning a corner, lost in her dreamy state, Céleste collided abruptly with someone. The impact was more forceful than expected, causing her to stumble back, almost losing her balance. Looking up, her vision still hazy, she reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing through the stranger's hair.

The texture surprised her, feeling far too real. She blinked in confusion, her mind struggling to comprehend. "You feel so real." she whispered softly, her touch lingering on the stranger, unsure if he was a figment of her imagination or a genuine presence in her surreal night.

She had learned through whispers and gossip, a tactic often overlooked by many, that the few who had been sent from court but not to Dover during the King’s absence, consisted of three esteemed council men and an almost unknown, Lady Percy. Through inquiry she had mapped the House of Percy through tongue and ear, listening to the rumours that surrounded this ambitious, over-reaching family that seemed to extend their fingers to wrap finally around the King’s own ankles. 

Well, what did she expect? They were hedonists diverted from the one true faith, broken by the desire and lust of their previous King and the mother of the current. She had heard, whether it was true or not, that the parents had always been ones to sup at the feet of their masters, to breed their children into making further claims in the higher echelons of society. She had heard it as: one daughter for the King, a son for his table and another for reservation in case the first yet died. But, what did Héléne herself know of family? She was an orphan adopted by a step-father, with dead siblings for all but one who lived in the battlefields of Italy. She wasn’t one to judge on that front, but the faith and the ambition was quite enough for Héléne to draw her battle lines. 

Ever since the ascension that had come with the marriage to his most desired and unquenchable Anne Boleyn, Thomas had seen himself the attraction of many welcome eyes upon the grounds of Hampton Court. Of course, during the time of the late King, he had also entertained such wandering gazes with the call of sweetened poems or knowing glances — the attention itself was far from uncomfortable to he who had craved the spotlight in the same way a dramatic child did the eye of a parent. Between his love making or various writings across the known globe, Thomas had set aside hours upon hours for dramatic readings of sweet-hearted sonnets, his language then fluttering between welcomed ears with a smile in place for compliments laced with honey — and, gluttonous for their approval, the poet bowed for his crowd with the cry of gratitude, his hand suppressed against the broad expanse of his chest as he soaked it all in.

But, he was not simply a thespian willing his way towards stardom, but a high-ranking member of court. And as such, he had not only a role to play but a reputation to uphold — as the stepfather to a King, to a Princess and then the husband to an infamous woman, Thomas was pushed to up heave his love for adoration in place of serious remarks and well meaning nods of his head. As men came to him for the first time in his life to ask for the approval of a gift sent to the King’s quarters or to the Dowager’s reception rooms, Thomas found himself just beyond the comfort of well-stroked paths — but, that had been how Thomas had always preferred it, to tickle the fringes of life was all but a joy to a man often thrown to the gasping mouths of wolves.