Faster - translation

losthitsu:

Short Uk/Can story found by panoramiccc originally from here.

In the morning his hair shines a bright hue of gold flecked with orange, green, and blue all together and his eyes are lavender like small little flowers that grow on the sides of the country and always give such a calming feeling. Matthew is the boy next door.

And Arthur is the misanthropic poet on the other side who used to work in a detective office until a certain case that brought him out of the investigation business for good, so he’s retired at the age of 35, Arthur is blonde and not necessarily tall he has green eyes that are grey under a blue hue and black at twilight.

Matthew is the boy who doesn’t tuck in his shirt but tucks in his dress shirt, is the boy who stuffs in his scarf half inside his trench coat to make it puffy and chic, he’s also the boy who leans on the gate of his house and waits for men in hockey gear, football jerseys, and a particular one who occasionally hands him a pipe and a bag of greens.

Matthew walks and talks with snide passive aggressive comments but it’s camouflaged in his gentle voice, he’s keen and smart, Arthur doesn’t understand why he waits for such strange figures.

His father wears Christian Dior and shows up at the doorsteps with fabrics with strange patterns that range from Floral to Metal Spikes. He’s a fashion designer and sometimes doesn’t show up at the door steps for days sometimes.

Arthur admits to a small infatuation because Matthew is a perfect example, a perfect epitome for a perfect poem.

A Little Chapter Preview

A/N: This is a little chapter preview of an England/fem!Canada fic I’ve been working on… just to clear things up, PK is India.

It had been a week since the World Meeting and it seemed like Arthur, who had shut himself in a little room two steps above the attic of his house, couldn’t do anything right. The bloody potion he was working on refused to cooperate with him and he needed to finish it soon, preferably before his next magic meeting with Norway and Iceland. He had just came back from a meeting at Parliament, his dark grey suit jacket draped over a chair and his tie removed, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat.

He was usually highly skilled at this—potion making wasn’t really a far cry from cooking, only he produced much better results—but he had to proceed with caution with this particular potion. If there was even the slightest deviation, the whole thing could come back to bite him in the ass. All magic, black or white, came with a price after all. But the potion was still a sickly acid green when he needed it to be blood red and his fairy friends, who usually lent a helping hand, were nowhere to be found.

He snatched a jar of Epsom salt from the wall of ingredients behind him and poured a liberal amount into the cauldron. The potion bubbled and smoked before giving way to a deep shade of plum.

Ha, result! Now we’re getting somewhere…  

As he continued to work diligently—a dash of ground heliotrope root, an owl feather, a spoonful of crushed opal—his thoughts turned to America and… ah yes, Canada. Warmth rushed through him, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection. The one with violet eyes and maple leaf shaped-barrettes in her hair.

And people kept thinking he didn’t know who Canada was.

They were idiots, the lot of them, especially his bastard brothers, he groused as he flipped through an ancient potions text. Forgetting someone’s name was completely different from forgetting a person. He was so used to remembering people by the distinct way they looked—Alfred with Nantucket and his bomber jacket, Francis the frog with his long hair and extravagant clothes, and far too many others to recount—that he sometimes didn’t bother learning their human names.

UK/fem!Canada fairytale!AU

A/N: Hope you guys don’t mind me inundating you with my crappy writing. This is part of a one-shot I’m working on based on Rumpelstiltskin… see if you can guess who is who.

Her pulse is thrumming and she is sure that she has bitten her lip clean through, but Maddie eventually hears the telltale click. Her victory is short lived as there is resistance when she tries to push the door open. A barricade, most definitely. The king must have thought that she would try to escape.

He is not nearly as foolish as people make him out to be.

Damn it! She pounds a hand against the door, panic surging inside her. She contemplates her sad lack of brute strength and what it would take to break down the door. She is about to ram herself against it when—

“Just what the bloody hell are you doing?”

Maddie lets out an undignified yelp at the sound of this strange new voice and whirls around, her back hitting the door.

There is a man dressed in green sitting at the spinning wheel, running oddly elegant calloused fingers over the wooden frame. His sandy hair is a mess, jawline sharp and nose crooked, and his eyebrows are monstrous—but there a dark gracefulness to his long lean form and his preternatural eyes are green as poison. He is alive with fire and magic and she can already tell that he is not human.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” His tone is impatient, but not unkind. “Spit it out.”

She takes deep breaths, in and out, struggling to calm down, but her voice is shaky when she asks, “W-What do you want?”

“What do I want?”

He is half amused by this, his smile revealing dimples and knife-like teeth. In his experience, humans are prone to ask insipid first questions. Who are you? How did you get in here? Can you really do magic? But he has never been asked this particular one. At least the girl is straight to the point.

“Oh, I want a great many things, poppet,” he purrs, low and velvety. His accent is unfamiliar, but distinctly upper class and his smile only widens as Maddie cautiously ventures toward him. “But for now, I’ll settle for knowing why that wanker who calls himself a king threw you in here.”

Maddie stumbles over her words, but she soon tells him the tale of her misfortune. There is a look of utter disgust at the mention of Francis—he seems to have a disdain for anything French judging by the way he calls Francis ‘frog’ and ‘wine guzzling bastard’ and he openly insults the king at every given chance, but he nods in understanding when she says she will be dead at sunrise.

“I want to go home,” she confesses. She has no idea why she is telling this to a complete stranger, but she is tired of feeling useless. “I wish there was something I could do, but what choice do I have?”

Silence falls between them. The room is cold as ice and her slow breathing comes out in puffs of white. It is nothing compared to winters in the village and she has her cloak to keep her warm, but there is a deep chill in her bones at what waits for her at dawn.

“What if,” he says haltingly, “I told you I could spin all this to gold for you?”

She tips her head to the side. Surely it cannot be that easy. “What’s your price?”

“My, but you are a clever one. That all depends on what you’re willing to give.”

There is a thoughtful expression on her face before she reaches into the patchwork pocket haphazardly sewn on her skirt and pulls something out. She holds it out to him and he sees that it is a diamond necklace.

There had been a storm that plagued both sea and countryside and Francis had gone to see if his ship had survived. Before he left, he asks the girls in the village what he could bring back for them. They ask for rich silks and precious jewels, but Maddie simply asks for a rosebush because she has wanted red roses for her garden for as long as she can remember. He brings back the necklace instead. It is an exquisite gift, but it is the same as the others Francis so freely gave to the other girls and he has forgotten that she asked for in the first place.

It is the first time Francis has disappointed her.

“Are you sure?”

She rubs the back of her neck. “I just don’t like diamonds.” She is sheepish and self-conscious and she much prefers the colours of opals and amethysts to the cold beauty of a girl’s best friend.

“You’re a fool.” He snatches the necklace and pockets it. He scowls when he sees the dilapidated state of the spinning wheel. “Right then…”

“You know…” Maddie is unable to hide a smile at how grumpy he looks. “I think I might be able keep the spinning wheel together.”

It is beyond repair, she thinks as she pushes her glasses back up, but she is no stranger to keeping things from falling apart, remembering the way she would sew the pages of old books back together the best she could so that they would last for another year. She looks over the spinning wheel with a critical eye and reaches for the necessary tools.

“At least until you’re finished, that is,” she says in afterthought.

There is a strange look on his face as she steadies the wheel. “You don’t have to fix the bloody thing.”

She looks up at him in the middle of putting the spindle back in its proper place. “And if I want to?”

He is quick to turn away, but the way the corner of his mouth quirks up betrays him.